by Toni Blake
“How do you know to do that?” she asked quietly around her smile as the crowd clapped.
“War Hero 101,” he said.
And she realized how often she forgot that Jeremy had once been a leader both in the military and his hometown. She didn’t see him that way, and was so glad he’d let that image go. She liked the guy underneath much better—even if he could be a smart-ass.
As the applause died down, Cami announced it was time to play golf and that the line for clubs and balls formed at the hut. And Tamra turned to Jeremy to say, “We really did do a great job on this place. Thank you for that. For helping me create something really nice.”
He met her gaze and she realized how much she missed looking into those eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said, “and thank you, too. For giving me the opportunity. It changed things for me, for the better, in a lot of ways.”
Tamra heard them both saying things that skirted the bigger picture—attributing things to the golf course that were really much more about them, their relationship.
“Will you be working on the Barefoot Bar?” she asked.
He nodded. “That’s the plan.”
“I guess you start with Sun Coast soon.”
“A week from Monday.”
She nodded.
And he said, “How are you, Mary? Are you okay?”
She drew in her breath. Because he was ditching the small talk so suddenly.
And then she lied. “I’m fine.” She wasn’t fine at all. She still felt empty inside, and like Jeremy had left a space in her heart no one else would ever fill. But she’d be damned if she’d let him know that. And that brand of not being open wasn’t about putting walls back up—it was just a little self-preservation. Two different things.
“And I’m sure you’re fine, too,” she added. Hoping it didn’t sound sarcastic because it wasn’t intended to be. Because if he didn’t love her, being without her shouldn’t be a loss.
“I’m okay,” he said with a quick nod. Just as she would have expected.
And then there seemed to be nothing more to say. People milled about now—heading for the hot dogs or the golf clubs—and standing there staring at each other got officially awkward.
So Jeremy hiked a thumb over his shoulder to say, “Well, I’d better go get in line for that face paint dog,” adding a small wink.
And she nodded. “I hope Captain forgives you.”
“He will. I bring him fish.”
And then he was walking away into the crowd.
Tamra watched him go, then stood there a moment catching her breath. She was in the process of deciding what to do next—go home and lick her wounds a little more or force herself to stay and try to have fun—when a shockingly handsome, shockingly muscular dark-haired man said, “Hi, my name is Alejandro.” It came with a thick accent, a rolled “r,” and a dash of dramatic flair. When she gave him a look that probably bordered on astonishment, he laughed and said, “But most people call me Alex.”
“I’m Tamra.” She was still confused, no matter what his name was, but tried to roll with it.
“I am new to Coral Cove,” he informed her.
She nodded.
“I am from Brazil,” he added.
“Ah,” she said.
“And I am pleased to find a lady who is both so lovely and so talented this soon after my arrival.”
Just then, Bethany came whisking up on high platform heels more appropriate for clubbing than miniature golfing. She wore a big smile and said, “I see you’ve met Alejandro. I told him you might be interested in showing him around Coral Cove. Isn’t it wonderful to have a handsome new man in town?” She ended with a sly wink.
And Tamra felt like she probably wasn’t ready for this. And she wasn’t sure Alex here was her type.
But she’d promised herself to be open. Better that than spend the next fifteen years pining over a man who didn’t really want her. So she said, “Welcome to Coral Cove,” then held out her hand.
Which he promptly took into his and kissed.
“He’s not going to trouble himself about you, that’s sure and certain.”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Chapter 25
JEREMY STOOD eating a hot dog, trying to look like he wanted to be here. The truth was, he felt a little more like he used to feel—like he’d prefer heading back to his room. This was too big a crowd, too many people. He was getting better about that, but he still didn’t like it.
Suddenly, a shot sounded. Jeremy’s heart nearly exploded in his chest as he scanned the area—only to realize a balloon had popped. Shit. He hated balloons. For this very reason.
When his heart slowed back to normal, he resumed eating his dog—as opposed to really getting one painted on his face.
Just then, though, as a family near him got their hot dogs and moved on, it cleared a visual path between him and Tamra—and the dude kissing her hand. What the fuck?
But he lowered his eyes so he wouldn’t be caught staring.
And what did he care anyway? If she wanted to let some he-man type kiss her hand, it was none of his business.
Even if the guy looked like kind of a clod.
And damn, she’d moved on pretty fast for somebody claiming to love him so much.
But whatever—he didn’t care.
Just then, Reece stepped up beside him. “Really nice job on the course, man.”
“Thanks,” Jeremy replied absently. Then, realizing he was still watching Tamra talk to the big muscle-bound dude even though he’d intended to look away, he said to Reece, “Who’s that?”
Reece followed his gaze and said, “New lifeguard.”
Maybe Jeremy looked puzzled because Reece added, “You didn’t want the job, remember? Town found a guy who did.”
“Huh,” he said.
“Name’s Alejandro. He’s from Brazil.”
Jeremy felt his brow knit. “Ali what? Handro? Like with an h? What the hell kind of name is that?”
Reece laughed. “I don’t think that’s how it’s spelled, but that’s how you say it. And guess it’s a Brazilian one, dude.”
So a Brazilian lifeguard was kissing Tamra’s hand? A big, burly one at that. A guy who’d taken a job he didn’t want. Ignore the irony in that, seriously.
It was her business who she hung out with, even if something about the guy rubbed him the wrong way—even at this distance. But he decided he’d had enough grand opening for today.
“I’m takin’ off,” he said to Reece.
“Not gonna play a round?” Reece asked, eyebrows raised. “I mean, you built the place.”
He could have—probably should have—given Reece any number of explanations for why he was leaving, but instead he just said, “No, man—gotta go.”
And as he started to walk away, Reece said, “It’s none of my business, but for what it’s worth, you’re starting to seem a lot more like . . . you used to.”
Jeremy stopped, looked back. “What do you mean?”
“Some people might call it moody,” Reece said. “A few might lean more toward . . . asshole-ish.”
Jeremy tipped back his head in understanding. He wished he cared more, but right now he didn’t. Right now he just needed to get away from this whole scene. So he walked off without another word.
He intended to head back to his room, but as he trudged down Coral Street, he found himself stepping inside the Hungry Fisherman instead. He wasn’t sure why, but that was where his feet led him.
The place was dead quiet inside, with no lights on, making it even darker than usual. Abner called over, “We’re not open yet, son,” and Jeremy spotted him in his usual booth. “Polly’s over at the big golf to-do, so we’re openin’ late today.”
“Mind if I just sit?” he asked.
Abner shook his head. He wore a multi-colored beanie, complete with propeller on top. “Nope—help yourself.”
Jeremy took his usual booth on the opposite side of the restauran
t. He actually didn’t mind them being closed as he was in the market for some solitude. Maybe that was why he’d come here—the dark, woody interior didn’t let in much of the bright Florida sunlight—and right now that suited him just fine. It made it easier to forget where he was. Normally he liked being at the beach, in a land of sun and sand, far from war and far from the hometown where he’d let people down. But right now he didn’t want to be here either for some reason.
Tamra’s here. Tamra’s here letting some guy kiss her hand.
But he pushed that thought away. It didn’t matter. He leaned his head back on the booth, shut his eyes, tried to be nowhere and feel nothing.
“You all right, Jeremy?”
He opened his eyes, surprised to find Abner had gotten up and walked over. Always surprising him, this guy.
“Fine,” Jeremy bit off.
“Don’t sound fine.”
“Just . . . tired,” he claimed.
“I’ll leave ya be,” Abner said—and Jeremy liked that about the man, that he knew when to leave well enough alone.
When he turned to go, though, his beanie fell off and hit the floor behind him. “Well, I’ll be dogged,” he said, then bent to pick it up.
And Jeremy still wasn’t much in the mood for talking, but he knew Abner a little now, and he’d always wondered the thing no one ever seemed to ask him, so he decided to ask. “Got a question for you, Abner,” he said. “Why do you wear all those hats? What’s that about?”
Abner tipped his head back, taking in the question, turning it over in his head for a minute before he replied. “Started when I was a boy. My father once told me a man who wears many hats can always make his way in the world. Bein’ just a little fella at the time, I misunderstood his meanin’ and took to wearin’ different hats around. Thought the very act of wearin’ ’em would made me smart or somethin’.”
Jeremy cocked his head slightly. “But you kept on wearing them even when you figured out there was more to it than that?”
The older man nodded. “Reckon what I found out pretty early on was . . . folks kinda steered clear of me when I was wearin’ a funny hat of some kind. Just thought I was odd, I guess. And thing was, I kinda didn’t mind that. I was always a keep-to-myself sort, ya see.”
Jeremy absorbed that and asked, “What about Polly?”
“Polly didn’t care nothin’ about me wearin’ hats. She just shoved her way right into my life whether I liked it or not. You mighta noticed she can be kinda pushy,” he said with a wink.
“Yep,” Jeremy said, letting only the hint of a grin sneak out.
“And truth was, I liked that about her,” Abner said. “Knew it made her the real thing, the one worth hangin’ on to. But the rest of the world . . . I didn’t care much about gettin’ to know ’em. What it boils down to is . . . you make yourself off-puttin’, it works—people leave ya alone. And that’s mostly what I still want—’cause it got to be a habit early for me, and habits can be hard to break.”
Thinking over the life Abner had created for himself, Jeremy asked, “Any regrets?”
“Mostly no,” Abner replied thoughtfully. “If I have any it’s that . . . I reckon it makes things a little hard on Polly. But she’s learned to get by well enough and don’t seem to mind. And . . . guess it can make life a little lonely at times when ya keep people out. Who knows, if I had it to do over, maybe I’d listen to my mother when she told me to take off those silly hats so other kids would play with me—maybe learn to not want to be left alone.” He stopped, shrugged. “I’m not an unhappy man—but sometimes I wonder if . . . well, if maybe life coulda been a little richer in ways . . . if I’d let it be.”
THE next morning Jeremy awoke to find he had a text message awaiting him, from his buddy, Marco. SORRY FOR THE SHORT NOTICE, BUT GONNA BE PASSING THROUGH YOUR AREA AROUND LUNCH TODAY. ANY CHANCE WE CAN MEET UP?
ABSOLUTELY. Jeremy might have been in the mood to hibernate a little, but for his military brothers, it was different—being with them didn’t require effort. They’d traveled the same road together, after all.
He met Marco at noon at the pier. When they spotted each other, they both broke into smiles and then did that guy hug thing that was mostly about slapping each other on the back.
“You look good, man,” Jeremy told his old friend. Marco had aged a little since Afghanistan—and it reminded Jeremy that years had begun to pass since then, putting that part of his life further and further in his past now—but his friend looked strong, healthy, fit.
“You, too, bud,” Marco said. “Hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you.” He laughed and Jeremy recalled that he’d texted Marco a selfie on request several months earlier when Jeremy had admitted he hadn’t shaved in a while. Jeremy laughed about it now, too.
“So on vacation with the family, huh?” Jeremy asked.
Marco nodded. “We’re hitting the beach at St. Pete for a couple days, then headed over to Disney. The girls have appointments to meet Mickey Mouse and princesses and all kinds of fun shit like that.” After more good-natured laughter, he added, “They’re killing time playing that little putt-putt course up in town right now.”
“I’ll have you know I built that little course,” Jeremy announced, realizing he truly took pride in it.
Even more so when Marco said, “No shit? Looked nice, man. Good for you. Good to see how much things have turned around for you.”
As they meandered out onto the pier past the few fishermen and sightseers there, it gave him a chance to tell his friend about his new job and how he felt like he’d gotten back on his feet here. And he took pride in that, too. He really cared about something again. And it was a damn good, solid feeling.
When they reached the end of the pier where it was quiet, empty, they both sat down on a bench looking out on the horizon. Sun sparkled on the water. And a part of Jeremy wanted to just keep on like they were, talking about how good life was for both of them these days.
But the thing was—Marco was the one other guy on the planet who’d been with him that horrible night Chuck had died. And even though he was doing a lot better about that, they’d never discussed it—ever—and now Jeremy wondered why. Maybe Marco had just wanted to let him off the hook by never mentioning it. But somehow it seemed important to . . . face the truth, accept it all the way, quit running. He might have run away from the golf course yesterday, but he suddenly didn’t want to run from this anymore. And if Marco was here, well . . . maybe God had dropped in his lap the way to quit running from it.
“I don’t want to take us both back to Helmand,” Jeremy said to his friend, “but . . . there’s something that’s always bothered me, something I maybe need to get square on.”
Next to him, Marco appeared tense, possibly troubled. “About Chuck.”
Jeremy let out a heavy breath. Clearly they were on the same wavelength if Marco went there that quick. “Yeah, man,” he murmured, not looking at his friend. In fact, he realized they were both staring out to sea.
And they stayed quiet for a long moment after that, until finally Jeremy said what he had to say. Maybe it was about true acceptance, or maybe he was seeking some kind of absolution from the man who’d seen it all go down—but whatever the reason, he had to. “I know it’s my fault he’s dead. I know I killed him.”
He crushed his eyes shut against the ugly words—even now, to say it out loud was so much harder than just knowing the truth in his head.
Only that was when Marco said, “What? You?”
Shit. Did this mean they weren’t on the same wavelength? Hell—that was going to make this harder. A lot harder. Now he turned to look at Marco, who met his gaze, and he swallowed past the lump in his throat as he said, “Yeah.” Then more quietly, “Me.”
Confusion reshaped Marco’s face, and Jeremy was starting to feel a little confused as well, when Marco told him, “I thought it was me.”
Jeremy’s jaw dropped. “Huh?”
“I thought it was me,”
Marco repeated. “When he walked through the door, I thought he was more Taliban and fired.”
Jeremy drew in his breath. “Me, too.” Then he blinked, trying to clear his head, make sense of this. Because . . . whoa. “Man,” he said softly, “are you telling me all this time I’ve been sure I was the one who did it when . . .”
“When all this time I’ve been sure it was me,” Marco said.
They both went silent then, withdrew their gazes from each other, and Jeremy bent over slightly, ran his hands through his hair.
He wasn’t sure what else to say. This reshaped his whole view of that night. He’d been so wrapped up in knowing he’d fired his gun in that direction that it had never crossed his mind that Marco had been firing, too, maybe also in the same direction.
Finally, Marco said, “To know you’ve been going through the same thing I have . . . it tears me up, dude.”
Jeremy just nodded. Because yeah, to learn his friend had endured this same exact suffering, even if he appeared to have handled it better outwardly, ripped at his soul. “I hate this, man—hate knowing you’ve felt that way, too. Because it’s . . . fucking torture. And . . .” He shook his head. “You probably didn’t even do it. You’ve probably been punishing yourself for nothing.”
“I could say the same about you,” Marco pointed out. And it made Jeremy flinch. He was just so used to thinking—knowing—he’d been the one to fire the fatal shot, that it was hard to change that in his head, even now, even if this made things different in some way.
“I’ve just had this ingrained in me so long,” he explained. “It’s like . . . a part of me now.”
“I know what you mean,” Marco agreed. “Only . . . now it’s a part of me, and you, that . . . that we don’t even know for sure is real. I mean, we couldn’t have both done it.”
“Actually, we could,” Jeremy pointed out. Then reminded Marco, “It all happened fast.”
Next to him, Marco nodded, pressed his lips together flat, looked off into the distance, clearly still weighing all this.
