by Amy Marie
“Do you have a job?”
Shame coats me so thickly, it’s hard to breathe. I’ve supported myself since I was far too young to do so—but now? Somehow, I’ve allowed this asshole to pull up all my stakes. To force me to become wholly dependent on him. “I’ve worked all my life, until recently.” I look up at the ceiling, willing back the tears yet again trying to fall.
When I think I can proceed dry-eyed, I look back at him. “I worked off base, at Fountain City Bar and Grille, for several years. I started as a server and worked my way up into management and training. I helped with the payroll, too.
Until Jason—Specialist Vanzandt—arranged an entry level job for me at the Commissary and insisted I needed to work on base. He said I didn’t need my own car anymore, that he could sell it and I could borrow his if I needed to go off base. Then he decided it would look better for his career if I didn’t work.” I drop my gaze and shrug. “So I had to quit.”
Captain Cole stays quiet until I look back up, and he’s studying me carefully. Voice soft, he asks haltingly, “Ma’am...did your husband...was he violent?”
“Violent? No. He never touched me like that.” I pause, considering. “Full of anger, yes. And in hindsight, he was controlling, and he isolated me.” I huff a derisive breath. “Fat lot of good my psychology classes have done me so far.”
“So you’re a student?”
I cover my face with my hands in utter humiliation, shaking my head. “No, he made me quit that as well. I lost all my scholarships. And now I won’t qualify for the military spouse funding at Columbus State. At least I have the GI Bill benefits he signed over to me—which I now realize is my divorce settlement.”
“I know a few places where I could put in a good word for a job if you want to work. But for now, let’s get you moved. I don’t have any other inspections or meetings scheduled today, so I’m going to take a little time and help you get started.”
“So after that, you kinda know the rest. I usually skip over Jason and the divorce when I’m talking to people—that’s what I did at group that first time. It’s a lot easier to explain to new people that my roommate moved unexpectedly. I had to scramble to find a new one, and Philip and I met during that process. I don’t bother with anything more unless I develop a close relationship, really let them in.”
I give a wry grin. “And as I’ve admitted, I haven’t really allowed anyone to get close for a very long time. It always seemed more prudent to protect myself. If I didn’t let anyone in, I wouldn’t get hurt.”
Clint looks at me, eyes soft. “I’m certainly in no place to judge you for that. Sometimes you do what you have to in order to survive. Your coping mechanism was isolation and throwing yourself into making a life for your son. Mine was bourbon and avoidance. Neither was healthy long term. But we made our choices then, and we’re making different ones now.”
“Yeah. I keep beating myself up for it. As a therapist, I should have known better. I should have done better. I should have made better choices. You’re right—those were the choices I made then, and I can’t take them back. But in order to move on, to make better choices, I can’t keep attaching myself to them. That whole thing was a coping mechanism. And I have to let it go.”
“There you go, darlin’. Let it go. It’s in the past. It can’t hold you back any longer unless you let it.” He holds his cup up in toast and I clink mine against it.
I can’t hold back my smile. “So who’s the therapist here, anyway?”
He smiles broadly. “I may mess up, but I learn quickly from my mistakes. This old dog can still learn new tricks.”
My eyes drift to his broad shoulders and chest, and down to his strong thighs and calves. He hasn’t skipped leg day, that’s for sure! He has worked hard for his firm body, and I appreciate it. “I certainly don’t see an old dog here.” I realize what I just said before I lick my lips or do something just as blatant to telegraph my interest. I flush and my eyes dart back up to his twinkling eyes—and dear sweet Lord, his dimple just popped.
I think my ovaries tried to twitch in response. Don’t even think about it—y’all are permanently retired!
I clear my throat, trying to regain control. “So I told the story in group how he proposed because he was being promoted and stationed in Germany. There were military actions going on, but also a lot of peacekeeping missions in Europe, Africa, and the Middle East. The base housing there was hopping, especially as they began reorganizing bases and hospitals in the area. Philip seemed to catch the eye of his superiors and rose through the ranks pretty quickly. We were in Germany four years before moving back Stateside to Fort Lewis, near Tacoma, Washington. I think they combined it with McChord Air Force Base later on, but it was separate when we were there. I finally got to use my GI Bill benefits there—Philip wanted me to focus on school and not bother working, which was hard for me. He finally told me to think of completing my education as a job. As investing in our future.”
My throat tightens a little—“our future” was cut so dismally short.
I swallow and force myself to continue. “I finished my bachelor’s in psychology at Saint Martin’s, which was founded by the Benedictines. I liked their focus on service, and I arrived in time to catch part of their centennial celebration. I would have loved to continue there, but the master’s program I needed for my certification was at nearby Pacific Lutheran. I was able to dial in more specifically on marriage and family therapy, so I really enjoyed the range of classes and experiences the two degrees gave me.”
I take a deep breath before plunging ahead. “I had just finished my master’s when Philip got his orders to Fort Campbell. We were so excited to be near his family since mine was gone by then. My father died shortly after we settled in Germany, and my mother died when we were in Washington. They both died on the west coast—Dad in Washington and Mom in northern California. She gave up the RV after he passed, I guess because it was too much work to maintain it without him. She had to find a job, and apparently she went full-native with the hippie crowd.”
I shake my head and chuckle. “She was working at some hot springs resort...that was clothing optional! Poor Philip. We didn’t realize the ‘clothing optional’ part until we drove onto the property to pick up her effects. That was a quick trip!”
Clint chuckles with me, and it gives me the boost I need to finish. “We were at Fort Campbell about two years. He was inspecting a construction site that had been damaged by storms the night before, and...well, it obviously wasn’t stable. I’ve never asked for details beyond whether the injuries would require that the funeral be closed casket. They said no. They also said that it was quick and he didn’t suffer. I’m not sure if I believe them, or if that was just something they told me to make me feel better, but I’d like to believe it was true for Philip’s sake.”
“I would, too. He sounds like a good man, and I’m glad he was in your life. Darlin’, you’ve already told the rest, how you moved away from the base and all that. No need to keep telling a difficult story. Besides, it’s late, and we both need some rest.”
I hate to think of him driving this late back to Glasgow. “I have the guestroom if you want to stay the night.” I flush. “I don’t mean...I...”
He cuts in as I trail off, chuckling. “No need to be embarrassed—I knew what you meant. But I’m good. It’s a short drive, and I’m awake and fully alert. I promise. I’m too old to let my ego push me into proving anything. If I had any question about whether I could make it home safely, I’d take you up on that offer.”
I reach over and squeeze his hand. “I’m glad to hear that.”
He takes my hands and pulls me up as he stands. He smiles before dropping my hands and grabbing an empty plate and cup. I grab the other ones and lead the way to the kitchen. I set mine in the sink and take his. “I’ll handle this,” I tell him as I shoo him out of the kitchen toward the door.
He wraps his arms loosely around my shoulders as we stand by the door. My arms w
ind their way around his waist automatically, seemingly without my permission. “It’s a little cool to say our goodbyes on the porch, so this’ll do. Thank you for saying yes, darlin’. I had a wonderful time with you.”
I beam up at him, happier than a woman who’s been through all I have has a right to be. I tighten my arms around him and drop my head to his chest. I feel...well, I feel. And somehow, just knowing that—not even identifying the emotions—is enough for now. “I had a wonderful time as well. Thank you for drawing me back into the land of the living.”
“Any time, darlin’. Any time. Now as much as I hate to leave, I need to say goodnight.”
“Kinda reminds me of a song,” I say softly as I smile up at him.
His voice drops into that same soft tone. “Yeah, it does. Makes me wish I could sing.” He leans down and gives me a quick, barely there kiss on my forehead. “Goodnight, darlin’. It’s too cool for you to come outside without a jacket, so please don’t stand on the porch and watch me leave in the cold. I’d worry about you catching cold.”
I nod in agreement, still a little speechless after the kiss. It was on the forehead, true, but it was a kiss.
From a man.
A good-looking man.
I’ll have to spend a little time sorting all of tonight’s events—and emotions—before I can possibly sleep. “Text me a safe arrival. I’ll worry if you don’t, and I’ll be awake for a bit anyway. You won’t wake me.”
“Alright, darlin’. I will.”
And with that, he opens the door and leaves me alone with my whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.
I wish I could talk this through with Philip. God, I miss that man.
Chapter 6
Clint
The week before St. Patrick’s Day
I was due for a dental cleaning, so I scheduled it first thing in the morning to keep from missing much work. But when I found out Roxie didn’t have any clients or meetings scheduled for today, I decided to take the whole day off and spend it together. Start the weekend a day early. Friday dawned clear and warm—well, warm for the beginning of March in Kentucky.
Perfect weather for what I had planned. My dentist was in Bowling Green, so it wasn’t long after my 7:00 am appointment before I was pulling into Roxie’s driveway. She was obviously watching for me, because she was on her porch and locking her front door by the time I put my car in park. She put a big soft-sided cooler in the back seat before I reached her to open her door.
I folded her in my arms, and it just felt like she belonged there. Christ.
Take it slow, Crawford.
She sighed contentedly as she curled into my chest, closing her eyes. After having decades of this kind of closeness every day, it’s one of the things I miss the most. Apparently, she does, too. I kiss the top of her head and murmur, “Mornin’, darlin’. Ready to go?”
I feel her smile and nod against my chest.
I give myself a moment longer to hold her, then I let go of her with one arm and reach for her door. I can’t resist one more kiss on top of her head as I release her to get in the car. I hate to let her go. How can something feel so right and so wrong at the same time?
And that’s why we need to take this slowly.
I drive south of town to Lost River Cave. This part of Kentucky has plenty of caves and caverns to explore, but this one is a small, manageable visit. We have a pretty (but not too strenuous) walk to the boat that takes us through the cave. The water is a little high, so when the boat takes us into the cave, we have to get close as we duck down into our seats. When we come back up, we never move apart. It’s cooler in here, so we use that as an excuse to stay snuggled together. Something is changing between us.
My heart breaks a little.
I take Roxie’s hand to steady her as we emerge from the boat, and I just never let go. The walls open up into an expansive natural room that was once used as a night club after Prohibition.
Roxie shivers and leans against me, staring wide-eyed at the tall cave ceiling and the chandelier above us. “It’s a bit cool in March, but with these naturally cool temperatures? I understand the appeal on hot, humid southern nights before air conditioning became common.” She rubs her hands on her arms briskly. “I imagine the locals found scandalous uses for the cave during Prohibition, as well!”
“It is bourbon country, after all.”
I can barely hear soft jazz standards coming from somewhere nearby, and it captures our imaginations. We both stay quiet, our fingers twined together, as we walk slowly back to the car.
“I love Chaney’s Dairy Barn! I used to take Alex to some of their movie nights when he was younger.” Roxie is animatedly laying out our picnic lunch. It’s early for lunch, but we had an early start today. Roxie doesn’t seem to mind.
I’m not sure how many people she was expecting, but we apparently have a crowd joining us any minute, if the portions are any indication. Granted, vegetables are heavily represented, but there is a lot of food.
“One of the boys had a birthday party here, I think.” I squint and think back. “Maybe...twenty-five or thirty years ago?” I nod, lost in thought as I start to walk toward the building.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll buy drinks while you finish setting up.”
She shakes her head and triumphantly holds up a smaller cooler, packed inside the large one. “I made something special for us.”
I smile as I walk back to her. It feels bittersweet to have a woman fuss over me again. My heart breaks just a bit more.
She opens individual containers of salad, topped with Greek olives and big chunks of cucumber, tomato, and feta. She pours a vinaigrette full of fresh herbs over the top and offers one to me. She has what looks vaguely like tacos...with bacon crumbled in them? And some of that corn and veggie mixture women always call “caviar,” served with tortilla chips.
She pours water from travel mugs full of a few huge ice cubes, like you would use for whiskey or bourbon. She carefully adds some cloudy syrup, then tops it off with club soda before handing it to me. “It’s called lemon fizz—like a sparkling lemonade.”
As I sip it, she explains the tacos. “What’s a southern picnic without fried chicken? But in an effort to be a little healthier, I fried it, thin sliced it, and added veggies to help with portion control. Put it in a flour tortilla, sprinkle bacon on them, and we have fried chicken BLT tacos!”
As I reach for one, she opens a container of what seems to be slightly scooped out potato halves—not the huge crumbly steakhouse style baked potatoes, but not the tiny ones. They’re that glossy texture. She opens a smaller container and scoops something thick and creamy with on top of each one—and is that English peas mixed in? Another small container reveals thin slices of smoked salmon.
She must see my confusion. “Instead of the usual potato salad, these jacket potatoes are topped with a mixture of goat cheese, crème fraîche, and capers topped with smoked salmon. It’s easier to make a small amount, and...” she hesitates, blushing. “I guess I wanted to make you something a little more elegant.”
“I really appreciate all this, darlin’. Makes me feel special.”
She licks a bit of the cream from her finger, and my body stirs a bit. Holy hell! My face goes hot, and I’m the one blushing now. Until panic hits, and I’m sure all the color drains from my face.
I am not ready for this.
Thankfully, she doesn’t see my inconvenient reaction. “Speaking of feeling special, that’s how I feel when you call me darlin’. Now I need to find a pet name for you. I’m thinking Muffin?” My eyes widen and she giggles. “Bug?” More giggles. “Cutie patootie? Princess?” By now, I’m laughing with her. “Shmoopsie-poo?” She almost can’t breathe by this point, waving her hand in front of herself.
“Maybe we don’t have to find the right one today at lunch,” I chuckle, grabbing one of the potatoes.
We both dig in to the food in earnest, the mood and our hearts light. Thinking back to
my moment of panic, my automatic reaction is to push it down and hide it. But I can’t live like that anymore. I clear my throat before speaking softly, nerves almost stealing my voice.
“In the interest of being open about my feelings and all that healthy therapy stuff,” I catch Roxie’s eye and grin to let her know I’m not insulting her life’s work. “I’m still kinda new to therapy. I’m definitely still processing my grief—probably always will be to some degree. But I think both of us are still grappling with the thought of to a new relationship. I know I am.” I reach over and squeeze her hand as she nods in agreement.
“It’s been a long time since either one of us has dated. I’m grateful that this happened organically—that I didn’t stumble into some confusing world of online dating or some meat market atmosphere. I don’t want us to get ahead of where we’re comfortable. Getting in a rush and touching on a raw nerve? A knee-jerk reaction out of pain could screw up our chances.”
“I’ve asked this before, but which one of us is the therapist?” Roxie smiles sweetly, and I feel myself relax. “Grief is an emotional minefield. So is dating. And combined? Then you add...” she blushes again, “intimacy, especially rushed? It can blow a couple apart. So I’m with you. I think we need to embrace the old-fashioned kind of dating.”
“I don’t think I’m built for casual sex. If we cross those lines, that automatically means a commitment in my mind. I want to take my time so if I commit, it’s for the right reasons. Like they say in carpentry, measure twice and cut once. Take our time to warm up to the whole idea of a relationship. Make sure we can open our hearts again. Does that make any sense?”
