“You loved him very much, didn't you?” He set the game board on the floor and slid closer.
“Yes.” She shifted her gaze to the chair across the room, the one that had been Jake's. “His memory is always with me.” A Shania Twain song came on the television, a love song that lent an intimacy to the moment. She looked at him again. “And you, Clay? What hearts have you broken?”
“Not many.” He chuckled and shifted so his back was against the sofa. Only a few inches separated them. “The LA girls I've met don't have hearts; just brains and beauty.”
“New Yorkers can be that way too.”
“I'm sure.” His laugh was slow and easy. “Actually, there was one girl, someone I met in high school.”
She studied him, the way his eyes didn't change when he talked about the girl. Whoever she was, Jamie guessed she no longer had a hold on Clay Miles. “Did you date her?”
“No. We were friends. In fact—” his light chuckle made her smile—“she married my brother.”
Jamie raised her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yep.” He sounded comfortable, as if whatever pain had been involved no longer hurt him.
“Did it make things hard between you and your brother?”
“No.” Clay looked straight ahead at the wall. “My brother's a nice guy. They're happy together; she belongs with him. Besides …”
She waited, but when he didn't finish his thought she had to know. “Besides what?”
He turned to her and searched her eyes. “She never made me feel like this.”
And there it was.
The admission they knew was coming. The special something that had been between them from the moment they met was now out in the open. Her pulse picked up speed. What was she supposed to do? How could she respond when she was blind as a bat in the ways of new love?
She looked down; her hands were trembling. “I … I've felt it since the ferryboat.” Her eyes met his again. “I thought it was just me.”
“It's not.” He took her hand, and worked his fingers between hers. “It's crazy; I haven't known you a week.” She understood the bafflement in his tone, felt it herself. “But I feel something with you I've never felt before.”
They were quiet for a while. Tim McGraw was singing something slow and pretty, and Jamie felt no need to talk. What would they say? Regardless of their feelings, he would go back to California in two weeks.
He spoke first. “I lay awake at night in the Holiday Inn wondering what I'm doing, what could come of this after only three weeks.” He gave her a crooked grin. “I guess that's why I brought it up.”
“Mmmm.” She gave the back of his hand a gentle squeeze. Her heart still tore along, but no longer at breakneck speed. She was nervous, not sure where the conversation was going or whether she could bare her heart enough to tell him her true thoughts—that she struggled with feeling guilty because of Jake, that he would've wanted her to move on. “I've done my share of wondering.”
Clay released her hand and put his arm around her, positioning her so she could rest her head on his shoulder. “When I pray about it, I feel God's hand on this—” he gestured to her and then back at himself—“whatever this is between us.” He held his breath for a moment. “I guess we need to let Him answer the other questions.”
“Exactly.” His statement was the perfect wrap-up for the night, a way to stop herself from overthinking the situation and let the night come to an end. She smiled at him, savoring the feel of her head on his shoulder. “Thanks for a great night.”
“Well …” He raised his brow in mock sarcasm. “We didn't get to wear the hats, but still …” His eyes danced. “It was a pretty good night.”
He stood, helped her to her feet, and walked with her to the front door. His hug didn't linger, didn't suggest anything more than the closeness he'd already admitted to. When he was gone, she stared out the window and watched his car pull away. She explored her feelings. No guilt. No shame.
Something was changing inside her.
Talking about their feelings had been a good thing. Neither of them was willing to rush ahead, to assume they should start a relationship simply because they shared a chemistry. In the meantime, they would enjoy the next two weeks and believe God had a plan for them. Whether that plan found them together.
Or apart.
NINETEEN
The next week passed in a blur, in which Jamie Bryan was Clay's single focus.
They met at St. Paul's every day Jamie worked and walked through Battery Park, stopping for a few silent moments at the giant globe that was once the courtyard between the Twin Towers. It had been damaged in the terrorist attacks but not destroyed, and now it was on display to commemorate the city's fighting spirit, its will to survive. They took a tour boat to Liberty Island and held hands as they walked along the base of the Statue of Liberty.
There were lunch dates, and dinners with Sierra, and once Clay wore the jester hat when they went bowling.
Now it was Sunday night, and Clay wanted to stop time.
He and Jamie had spent the day in Central Park with Sierra. The temperatures were in the thirties, so they bundled up in coats and hats and scarves, and Sierra convinced them to consider coming back later in the week for an hour of ice skating.
The city was taking on the look of Christmas. Lights were strung across much of the park's perimeter and preparations were being made for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, coming up a week from Thursday. Clay's flight was set for Saturday; five days later he'd be sitting around the Thanksgiving table with Laura and Eric and Josh, wondering if his time in New York was all some sort of marvelous dream.
Wondering how soon he could find his way back.
Time had flown by. In six days his training would be over, and he and Joe would be on a plane back to Los Angeles, ready to start his department training for his new position as detective. He should be excited, focused on the future, the fascinating cases he'd be working on and getting involved in his local church—as he'd planned before he left for New York.
Funny, the last thing he'd told himself was that he'd meet a girl at church. Who knew it would be a church in the heart of New York City?
He stretched out on his hotel bed and stared at a blank spot on the wall. It was just after nine o'clock; Sierra and Jamie had homework to focus on, so he'd made an early night of it. But the day had been amazing, full of the sweet glances and joined hands that had come to mark their time together.
He wanted to get back in his car and drive to Jamie's house so they wouldn't miss a minute of the time they had left. But this was good, this time apart. Even for a single evening. He needed time to think of a plan, a way to connect her world with his. The holidays were coming up, so maybe that was the answer.
Pictures played in his mind: Jamie and Sierra sitting around the table with Eric and Laura and Josh. Jamie would love all of them, but then what? Would she consider relocating if things between them continued? She had nothing concrete holding her in Staten Island—nothing except a lifetime of memories and her work at St. Paul's.
There was the possibility he could find a job in Manhattan with the NYPD, but that wasn't what he wanted. The weather was already near freezing, when back home it was still in the midseventies. Then there was the obvious—it would be close to impossible to start a life with Jamie in the place where she and her husband had shared a million memories, the place where he worked and died.
He exhaled and glanced at the nightstand. His cell phone was finished charging. Maybe he could call Eric and ask for advice, suggest the Thanksgiving idea and see what he thought. He picked up the phone, dialed the number, and waited.
Eric answered on the second ring, his voice upbeat. “Hey, it's my little brother! We thought you fell off the face of the earth.”
“Sort of.” Clay laughed. “I haven't had a free minute.”
“They have you working twenty-fours, huh? I thought for sure they'd give you a few hours off here and there to call h
ome.” Eric was enjoying the moment. “Laura and I were trying to guess what had happened to you, so I told her you probably met someone, fell in love, and decided to get a police job in New York.”
“Well …” Clay formed a stack of pillows behind his back and leaned into them. “I'm not getting a job in New York.”
Eric was silent for a moment. Then he uttered a single chuckle. “You telling me the other part's true?”
“I don't know.” He tried to picture his brother, face expectant, certain Clay was messing with him. “I think so.”
“Really?” This time Eric sounded excited. “You met someone? Hey, that's great! Where'd you meet her?”
“It was the strangest thing.” Clay laughed again and told Eric the story. “They had a gun in her ribs by the time we pulled our weapons on them.”
“Serious? That's amazing!” Eric paused. “So basically, you saved her life?”
“Pretty much.” He smiled. The room was cold, but he didn't mind. Any time he thought about Jamie he felt warm inside. “I've seen her every day since.”
“Every day?” Concern tinged Eric's tone. “What happens when you come back home?”
“We haven't talked about it really. Jamie's told me she has feelings for me, and I've told her the same thing. But that's as far as we've gone.” He let his head fall back against the headboard. “I'm thinking about inviting her for Thanksgiving dinner. She and her daughter could fly out and join us at your house.” He paused. “What do you think?”
The line was silent.
“Eric?” Clay checked his cell phone; he hadn't lost the call. “Hey, Eric, you there?”
“I'm here.” His voice held none of his previous excitement. “Her name's Jamie?”
“Yeah.” Clay forced a chuckle. What did his brother care about her name? “Anyway, I've spent a lot of time with her and her daughter. Even their cat. I'd love to invite them for Thanksgiving.”
“Definitely.” Eric's answer was quicker than before but his tone was still distracted. “Invite her; if she's got your attention we'd love to meet her.”
The conversation stalled after that. Clay promised to call again toward the end of the week—to let them know if Jamie and her daughter would be coming. Then he hung up and stared at the phone. What was Eric's deal? Was he hesitant about Jamie because Clay had only known her for a few weeks? Or because something at home had his attention?
It didn't matter.
What did matter was how he was going to convince Jamie to fly to LA for Thanksgiving. The plan was crazy because who did that? Who invited a woman across the country for dinner when they'd only known each other a few weeks? But it wasn't impossible. People found love at first sight all the time, didn't they? Besides, they weren't fresh out of college. They were adults; they knew enough about love to recognize it when it hit them square in the face.
Not that what they shared was love. Not yet. They still hadn't kissed, hadn't allowed their conversations to get deeper than that one night over backgammon. But they held hands, and he could read her eyes well enough to know she cared.
Would she come for Thanksgiving? Clay didn't know, but he was sure of one thing. If she and Sierra came for Thanksgiving, they would hit it off great with Eric and Laura and Josh. His brother was bound to make Jamie feel comfortable, a part of the family.
Clay would have to be patient. He would simply tell Jamie she was invited and let her make the decision about whether to come. He set the phone back down on the nightstand. She would come; he was sure of it.
He could hardly wait to tell Jamie about the idea.
Eric set the receiver on the base and stared at the phone. Jamie and her daughter? From Staten Island? Adrenaline had shot through his veins at the mention of the name, and now—now he wasn't sure what to do next.
“Who was on the phone?” Laura padded into the bedroom. She wore jeans and thick fuzzy slippers. She had a small pink gift bag in her hands.
“Clay.” He couldn't change his distant tone. Eric caught his wife's attention. “He met someone.”
“Is that so?” Laura's eyebrows lifted and she gave him a sly smile. “Good for him.” She watched him for a moment and her mouth relaxed. “What's wrong?”
“What's wrong?” He blinked and tried to focus on what she was saying.
“Yes, you look like someone died.” She took a few steps toward him. “Didn't you say Clay met someone?”
Eric stared at her, wondering if he should put his fears into words. Finally he did a quiet gulp. “Her name's Jamie.” He slowed his words down, so each one would have an impact. “She has a daughter and she lives on Staten Island.”
“So, she—” Laura stopped and the color drained from her cheeks. “What's her last name?”
“I didn't ask.”
“What about her daughter?”
“Didn't ask that either.”
She groaned and her shoulders slumped some. “Why not?”
“Because.” He shook his head. “I didn't want to know.”
“Eric …” Laura dropped to the edge of the bed. “Staten Island is a big place. Ten million people live in the New York City area. You don't think it's the same woman.”
He turned so he was facing her. “What if it is?”
“It isn't.”
“No, seriously, Laura. What if it's her?”
“I'm telling you, it's not.” She brought her voice back to an even level. “There must be a thousand women named Jamie living on Staten Island. Half of them probably have daughters.” Her eyes told him that she was flustered, but she smiled. “Forget about it. Clay would've told you if it was the same Jamie.”
Eric gripped his kneecaps and studied the wall for a moment. Then he found her eyes again. “Clay doesn't know her name; I only talked about her with you.” He shrugged. “It was too weird, the whole thing was something most people wouldn't believe in the first place.” His voice fell a notch. “God used my time with Jamie to save my life, Laura. I'm the man I am because of her husband. But that sort of thing doesn't exactly come up over lunch. Even with my brother.”
Laura stood and came around in front of him. This time she kept the pink gift bag in front of her. “You're worrying about nothing.” She stopped near his knees and smiled. “She lives on Staten Island, right?”
“Right.” Eric pictured her, working in the kitchen, making blueberry pancakes for Sierra, sitting across from him sharing coffee each morning.
“Did she work?”
“No.” Eric tried to focus on his wife, but the memories were strong. Jamie had plenty of money—an accident settlement she'd inherited when her parents died in a car accident when she was barely twenty years old. She'd shared that with him when he was recovering, one of many facts meant to trigger his memory. He shook his head. “She had money in the bank; she didn't need to work.”
Laura's smile faded. “She didn't?”
“No. Her husband didn't need to work either. Fighting fires in New York City was a family thing, something in his blood.”
“You never told me that.” She shifted her weight to one foot. Her voice was higher than before, threatened. “So Jamie had a lot of money.”
“Yes.” He hadn't talked much about his actual time with Jamie as much as he'd shared the ways of life and faith he'd learned from her husband's journal, from the pages of his Bible. What was he supposed to do if she'd made a connection with Clay? He smiled and tried to hide the pounding of his heart. “Where's this going?”
Laura hesitated. The doubts lifted and cleared from her expression. “What I'm saying is, if she didn't work, then why on earth would she head into the city on a weekday morning?”
Eric hadn't thought about that. He looked at the ground for a minute and stroked his chin. “You're right.” He found his wife's eyes again. “She would never have had to work, not with the money she had put away and the insurance settlement she would've gotten from her husband's death.” His heart rate slowed. This was good. Thinking things through helped.
His shoulders relaxed and he drew a calming breath. “If she decided to get a job—you know—just for fun, she never would've worked in the city; she hated that her husband worked there.”
“Okay.” Laura's tone was pleasant again. She was still standing in front of him, and she moved closer. “See? There's nothing to worry about.”
Eric looped his arms around her waist and smiled. “I guess I overreacted a little. Like you said, there are millions of people in and around the city.”
“Exactly.” She bent down and kissed the tip of his nose. “Enough talk about that, all right?” Her eyes danced as she straightened. She held the pink bag out to him. “I've got my own news.”
News? Wrapped up in a small pink gift bag? Eric felt his heart flip-flop as he took the package. “News?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“Go ahead.” Her eyes were suddenly damp. She sat down beside him and motioned to the bag. “Open it, Eric.”
He gulped. Was it what he thought it was? They'd tried to have another child ever since he came back home, after the terrorist attacks. Laura's doctor wasn't sure why she hadn't gotten pregnant, but in the next few months they were planning to look into some options that might help speed the process along. He met her eyes, looked deep into her heart, and he knew. Before he lifted the tissue and found the tiny pink pair of booties, he knew. “Are you …?”
She nodded. “Six weeks already.” Her eyes welled up and she massaged her throat, looking for the words. “I bought pink because I just know, Eric. I know she's a girl.”
Eric memorized her face, her expression, the look in her eyes. It was all worth it—the horrible injuries he'd received on September 11, the time with Jamie, his three months of recovery and learning to be a man of God. All of it led to this. “Laura …” In a slow rush they came together, holding each other, and Eric couldn't describe the feeling inside him. Warm and full and grateful beyond words. He whispered against her hair. “You think it's a girl?”
“I do.” She let out a happy cry. “God is so good. He had a plan all along.”
Indeed.
Eric held his wife and thought about the little girl they'd lost, the one Laura miscarried before Josh's birth. He'd known he had a daughter, even in the throes of amnesia. It was why he felt right fathering Jamie's daughter, Sierra, for three months. And it was one of the hardest things about realizing his real identity. He had a loving wife, a wonderful son.
The Tuesday Morning Collection Page 58
