A Love to Call Her Own (19 page)

“What is your name again, dear?” the old lady asked.

“Jessy. Short for Jessamine.”

“The state wildflower of South Carolina. Is that where you're from?”

“No, Miss Maudene, I grew up in Georgia.” She was a work in progress.

“My people are from South Carolina, down by Beaufort. They're good people.”

“Mine are from Atlanta, and they're everything you'd expect of the Old South: old money, old beliefs, old attitudes.” There were more than a few plantations in the Wilkes-Hamilton family histories, more than a few slaves and ugly secrets.

“When did you leave?”

“When I was eighteen. When did you?”

“When I was thirty-one, divorced, and looking for a new life in a new place. Haven't decided if I like it yet,” Miss Maudene said, then let out a great laugh. “I liked it good enough to pick out my own resting spot in the cemetery. You come to my funeral, Jessamine, and make sure my girl laughs and sings and doesn't shed a tear.”

A knot formed in Jessy's throat. Laughing, singing, maybe. Not shedding a tear? When you loved someone, tears were a nonnegotiable part of the whole funeral/burial thing. “I'll laugh and sing with her.”

Mama Maudene shook a crooked finger at her. “You didn't say anything about not crying.”

“I can't promise that, and you know it.”

The old lady laughed again, one that rippled through her entire body. “Oh, well, I got a lot of years left before we have to worry about it. I'm only seventy-eight years young.”

When Bennie came to help Mama Maudene out of her chair, Jessy took Maudene's arm, marveling at the fragility of the skin beneath her hands and the strength it covered. The woman had had some tough times in life, but Jessy would bet she'd handled them all with grace, because Miss Maudene was just surrounded by it.

And Jessy, who'd always thought people cluttered up her pictures, wanted to capture some of it in a photograph.

Lucy and Marti were last to leave, and they invited Jessy to join them for lunch. They weren't due at Carly's until two, and the feasting wouldn't start until sometime around five. Lucy, on day four of her diet, couldn't possibly wait that long.

Jessy turned them down. She had one more thing to do before the cookout, and it was the sort of thing, for her, best done alone. She picked up a few bits of trash, folded her camping chairs, and left them inside the door, then ran upstairs. The wreath was in the backseat of her car, and her camera was with her purse. Her clothes were respectable for a graveside visit—a blue sleeveless dress and sandals—and neither her hair nor her makeup required a touch-up.

Fort Murphy National Cemetery was busy, of course. A ceremony was taking place near the war memorials, and the various sections were dotted with people. An American flag fluttered on every grave, the image bringing a lump to her throat. Aaron had been so proud of that flag. He'd worn it on his uniform, hung it outside every day, had decals on his car. To him it stood for everything in the world worth standing for. Worth fighting and dying for. He'd loved that flag.

While she had remembered it for too long as merely the cover draping his casket.

She was patriotic, too, though not as wear-it-on-her-sleeve as Aaron had been. She believed there were principles worth fighting for. She believed there were definitely people worth dying for. She didn't think she'd ever had what it would take to sign up, to carry a gun, to run toward danger instead of away from it. Not everyone
was
cut out to be a hero.

But she'd signed on for her soldier. She'd married him, lived alone a good part of the time, supported, and encouraged him. She'd appreciated the benefits and hadn't minded the low pay, the moves, or the strength the Army forced her to develop.

And she'd always been waiting for him when he came home.

Just as she would have been waiting the last time. She hadn't talked to a lawyer yet. She hadn't filed any papers. If he'd survived the last two weeks on his rotation, he would have come home, like always, to her best welcome. Even though she wanted a divorce, she'd still loved him, just not with the intensity she should have. She would have been thankful for his safe return. She never would have diminished his homecoming in any way.

And who knew? Maybe she would have changed her mind about the divorce.

The part of her so well versed in blaming herself was skeptical. Part of her was intrigued by the idea.

She eased her car past others on the narrow road, pulling to the shoulder when she reached Aaron's section. Circling to the other side of the car, she hung her camera by its strap over her shoulder, lifted out the arrangement, and carried it the few yards to his grave. Pansy, her favorite florist, had made it for her, a woven basket filled with fine silk falls of wisteria, greenery, and a few flowers in matching shades. Jessy set it next to the stone, pulled a few tendrils up and around the dowel that held the miniature flag, and let a few dangle over the top of the stone.

Wisteria had bloomed in the live oaks outside their Savannah apartment when they were first married. How many mornings had she lain there, gazing out the window at the delicate petals, thinking she was the luckiest woman in the world?

She knelt to pull an errant piece of grass that had escaped the trimmer, then laid her hand on the marble, warm, solid. “You deserved to come home, Aaron,” she whispered. “You'd fought your battles. You'd done yourself proud. It shouldn't have been your time.”

But it had been. God, luck, fate, fortune, misfortune had taken him. They'd cheated the world out of a man it needed.

And they'd left her. For what?

She kneeled there until her feet began to tingle. She kissed her fingertips, then pressed them to the carving of his name, and for an instant, she felt…peaceful. It was a foreign sensation. Her life had always been chaotic—anger, rebellion, loneliness, emptiness, fear, hurt, happiness and uncertainty and no self-esteem and unbearable sadness. The moments of peace—of calm, serenity, the absence of fear and self-loathing and ugly thoughts—had been few and far between. She wished she could grab the feeling and hold on to it forever, but she couldn't.

She just had to learn to find it again.

Getting to her feet, she brushed bits of grass from her legs, then glanced to the south, to Sandra Smith's grave. Its flag wavered over a beautiful sunshine yellow bouquet. Dalton had brought her yellow flowers the day he and Jessy had met. Probably her favorite color. Jessy loved every color, just as long as it screamed,
Look at me! I'm gorgeous!

She walked between stones to Sandra's marker. “You were a braver woman than me,” she murmured. “I would have been way too afraid to do the things you did.”

“What's the saying? Bravery is being afraid and doing it anyway?”

The sound of Dalton's voice startled her. She looked over one shoulder, then the other, before spotting him leaning in the shade of a nearby tree. Her emotions were all good: surprise, pleasure, and simple happiness. Had she forgotten that simple could be wonderful?

He pushed away from the tree and came a few steps closer. “You would have done fine. And you would have come home.”

“She did her best to come home.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. After a moment, he gestured to her camera. “You take a lot of pictures in graveyards?”

“I used to, back home. Two-hundred-year-old gravestones always interested me.” She removed the lens cap, turned on the camera, and swept her free hand across the area. “I want to get shots of the flags.”

The symmetry of the marble markers and flapping colors drew her photographer's eye, and she began snapping, shifting, snapping again. “Did you know that at a lot of the old country cemeteries in the South, when people celebrated Decoration Day, they would put flowers on the graves, then spread a sheet or a tablecloth on the ground, have a picnic, and visit with their families and neighbors while the kids played?”

“I didn't know that. I prefer my picnics someplace a little less somber.”

She turned the camera to look at him but didn't take the shot. “I can't imagine you picnicking.”

“I haven't done it in a long time.”

She wasn't surprised. Neither had she. “What are your plans for today?” Kneeling once again, she lined up rows of markers in the viewfinder, waited for the breeze to still, then pressed the button. She took a couple more for good measure.

“I was planning to surprise you.”

Even the comment surprised her. She lowered the camera, then got to her feet. Had he intended to stop by her apartment with an invitation of some sorts? The surprise would have been on him, since she wouldn't be home until dark. “How?”

“You're going to a cookout this afternoon.”

“Yeah.” She'd probably mentioned it. She did tend to talk a lot.

“So am I.”

“At Carly and Dane's?” When he nodded, she thoughtfully turned her camera in another direction, focusing on flowers, trees, shadows, rippling flags. She knew Dalton and Dane were friends, but it still would have surprised her to walk into Carly's backyard and find him there. All the margarita girls would have been wondering who the handsome cowboy was, and she wouldn't have known how to act around him, and someone would have gotten suspicious and guessed…

Or she would have acted perfectly normal with him. Everyone would have realized they knew each other. Maybe she even would have said,
This is Dalton, my
—Friend? Boyfriend? The man she'd slept with first and was getting acquainted with now? The man who occupied an awful lot of her time and made her want more?

“I can skip it if it would make you uncomfortable.”

She looked at him again through the lens. His dark gaze was steady, searching, and this time she captured it. When had his face become so familiar that she could trace the lines etching it from memory? When had the yearning to do just that taken control of her fingers?

Deliberately she gripped the camera tighter. “Of course not. If you don't mind tagging along for a bit, we can go together and surprise everyone there.”

“I don't mind.”

He did literally tag along, walking with her to the next section, an older one with fewer flowers, lonelier graves. These troops' families didn't live locally, she guessed, or they'd passed on themselves, or they celebrated Memorial Day simply as a day off work, a time to go to the lake or hang out by the pool and socialize. It should have made her feel blue, but it didn't. The troops weren't in those plots, and distance couldn't diminish love. Eventually, everyone's grave went unvisited. It was the way of things.

“You have any other surprises?” she asked as she turned away to allow an elderly woman privacy at her loved one's grave.

“I'll be at the wedding Saturday.”

Dalton, Dane, friends. Of course he was invited to the wedding. Then the thought occurred to her: Would he ask her to go with him? Wouldn't that be a fabulous date, watching one of the people she loved best make her new love official before God and everybody? That was practically enough to make a woman swoon.

As if he'd read her mind, he said, “I have to be there early because I'm the best man, but I thought maybe afterward, we could go out to dinner. Since I'll be dressed up in a suit and tie for the first time in years, maybe someplace nice.”

She'd had cuter, funnier, smoother invitations but couldn't think of one she'd been more eager to accept. “Sure. I'll dress up extra nice, too.”

“Just your usual glamour will be enough. You don't want to steal attention from the bride.”

A smile curving her lips at the suggestion that she could outshine Carly on her wedding day, she began snapping pictures again and thinking of the addition she would make to her calendar when she got home tonight. Saturday was already marked in red as An Important Date.

Tonight she would write beneath that: A
Very
Important Date.

I
f she hadn't had desserts to carry, Lucy so could have walked to Carly's house for the celebration. After four morning walks with Joe—and three in the evening that she hadn't expected—she'd noticed at least a smidge more strength and endurance. It wasn't a race, he'd told her. The point was to eat better, live healthier, and exercise regularly. She wouldn't see huge results like a ten-pound loss in the first week—
you're breaking my heart,
she'd told him snidely—but she would get there.

She kept to herself that she had to get there quickly enough to get Ben's attention. They were definitely friends, but she wanted him to see her as so much more, and his time in Tallgrass was limited. He'd put his life on hold to come here, and once Patricia's immediate need had passed, he would return home. Would it be another twenty years before they saw each other again?

Could Lucy interest him enough during this short visit to bring him back?

Fingers and toes crossed, and all girlish crushes prayed,
Yes!

Carly and Dane had rented two big canvas canopies and set up one on each side of the yard to provide shade. Tables, stadium chairs, and lawn chairs were gathered underneath, while on the patio, two grills were in use, smoking briskets and chicken and pork.

“These men take their barbecuing seriously,” Leah Black, one of the semi-regulars in the club, remarked as she selected a bottle of pop from the galvanized tub filled with ice at one end of the patio. “Marco couldn't boil an egg, but give him tongs and charcoal, and he could turn out a five-star dinner from appetizer to dessert.”

“It must be in their chromosomes. Mike's steaks and burgers were the best, but if I gave him the same ingredients and stood him in front of a stove, he'd stare awhile, poke a few things, then look at me and go”—Lucy switched to a caveman imitation—“
Where fire? Smoke go away?
”

Lucy reached into the tub for a bottle of water and got pop instead. Setting her jaw, she put it back and found the water, telling herself it tasted every bit as good as her favorite pop. Yep, she was great at lying to herself on these issues of taste. Steamed was better than fried. Fish was better than a burger. She
loved
broccoli. The untruths went on.

She and Leah headed to the shaded area where the other club girls had gathered. Marti looked cool and beautiful as always. Bennie had dropped her grandmother off for a potluck with her church prayer group—
in air-conditioning
, Mama Maudene had said with a satisfied nod—and Ilena was radiant even if she couldn't get out of her chair without help. She'd accepted a boost after the parade from Carly and Lucy, but had warned the men to be prepared. After an evening of eating for two, she would need serious muscle to get her on her feet again.

Scanning the rest of the group, Lucy noticed the only one missing was Jessy, and at that moment, the side gate into the yard opened, and in she walked…followed by a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, well-tanned, Stetson-boots-and-all cowboy. Fia gave a low whistle, and the rest of the women turned to look.

“Oh, my,” Ilena said, her simple words and delicate voice saying it all.
Oh, my, indeed.

“Do you think they're together or they just happened to arrive at the same time?” Therese asked.

The cowboy chose that time to adjust the camera hanging over Jessy's shoulder, and his hand lingered long enough to make several of them chime in, “They're together.”

“Who is he?”

“It's Dane's best man, Dalton,” Carly said. “I didn't know he knew…”

“Hey, Dalton,” Bennie called. “Why didn't Carly know you knew Jessy?” Under different circumstances, it would have been Jessy asking the question, but Bennie was a good stand-in, with the same attitude.

If he was uncomfortable having the group's attention focused on him, it didn't show. Jessy's cheeks were red, but not his. That could be due to his tan and the brim of his hat. “Sorry, Carly. I'll get you a list of my distant relatives, neighbors, friends, and acquaintances.”

Carly flushed and poked Bennie in the ribs, but it didn't slow Bennie. “See that you do.”

The two continued to the tables where the food was laid out. Considering herself a nonperformer in the kitchen, Jessy always brought platters of beautiful fresh fruits and vegetables. That was probably all Lucy'd be able to eat, though Joe had reminded her of the magic word:
moderation.

After a few minutes, Dalton joined the guys at the grill—Dane, Keegan, and some of Dane's wounded warrior buddies—and Jessy had no choice but to join them. Every woman under the tent was watching her with an
uh-huh, let's get this discussion started
look.

Bennie took the plunge. “Anything you want to share with us, missy?”

Lucy watched Jessy clasp the camera, her security blanket, before gazing around the group. She almost pulled off the careless air she was trying for. “You know how I always complained about how much I hated my job? I got a new one. I'm the latest flea-comber, tick-puller, fur-bathing, poo-raking employee at the Tallgrass Animal Shelter.”

And, of course, everyone let her announcement distract them from the sexy cowboy, Lucy included. They all looked at her crisp linen dress, her leather sandals, her perfect manicure and pedicure and carefully tousled hair and exquisite makeup job, then exchanged glances before Marti asked the question on everyone's mind. “Do you even like dogs?”

“Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?”

“Because they shed and lick and get stinky and pee wherever they want,” Lucy replied. “They jump on you and your furniture and leave scratch marks on your wood floors and want to sleep in the middle of your bed, preferably breathing their brimstone breath in your face.”

“I didn't take one to raise,” Jessy said. “I'm just taking
care
of them. They're very sweet, and if any of you are looking for a pet, we have plenty to choose from. Adoption fees are seventy-five bucks, and the pet is neutered or spayed and up to date on his or her shots.”

“How about the cowboy?” Fia asked. “Is he up to date on his shots? Because…hot damn.”

Settling back in a chair, Lucy agreed. Dalton was worthy of a
hot damn
or two. Ben, on the other hand, was worthy of a whole chorus of them. She wished she could have invited him, wished she could have walked in with him, had all the girls stare wide-eyed at them and wonder where the hell she'd found him.

Someday.

After all, a woman had to dream, didn't she?

Clouds hung low in the sky Tuesday morning, dark and heavy, waiting to spill their rain. Ben stared at them all the way to Tulsa from the backseat of the family car the funeral home had provided for George's dignified transfer. Patricia sat a mile away from him, at the other passenger window, lost in thought, and Major Baxter, along with Lieutenant Graham, the chaplain, occupied one of the side seats.

It had rained the day of his father's funeral, making everything that much drearier, though Brianne hadn't minded.
It should rain on all funerals,
she'd commented.
The heavens weeping to share our sorrow.

It would be a damned gray world they lived in if it did.

Their first stop as they reached the Inner Dispersal Loop, which arced around downtown Tulsa, would be Ben's loft. He'd already showered and shaved, but he needed something more appropriate than jeans and a button-down. If she was able, Brianne was going to meet them there; if not, she'd assured him she would be at the funeral the next morning. He hadn't said anything yet to Patricia, in case Bree's plans didn't work out.

The driver stopped across the street from Ben's building in the Brady District. For the first time, Patricia seemed to notice she wasn't alone, looking at the building, then him. “You live here?”

“Yeah.”

“How unexpected.”

He didn't ask why. Hell, it still surprised him sometimes. But he liked the high ceilings, the recycled wood floors, and the ten-by-twelve-foot windows that made up most of the outside walls. He liked living on the third floor, a little above the city but not too much, and the restaurants within walking distance. Even the drive to his clinic or the hospital was minimal.

He crossed the street, entered the lobby, and took the stairs to his floor. It took him only a few minutes to change into a pale gray suit, knot a tie, and pack a few clothes to take back to Tallgrass. Depending on how things went, he figured he could return home on Thursday, maybe Friday, and then…

Would he go back? He would have to see Patricia again, at least from time to time to see how she was doing. He didn't know that he would ever forgive her, but he would see her.

And as a bonus, there was Lucy. If they'd met under different circumstances, they would have already had their first date, maybe the second. She was exactly what he liked in a woman: sweet, intelligent, generous, and kindhearted. He wanted to see what might develop between them.

When he reached the lobby again, suit bag thrown over his shoulder, he stopped short. Brianne had shown up, after all. She'd come from the office, wearing a navy skirt a few inches longer than she preferred, crisp white shirt, and loose, flowy navy print jacket with sleeves that barely reached her elbows. Her black hair was pulled back from her face in one of those braids he could never figure out, and the look in her eyes was a mix of excitement and nerves.

Then she stepped aside, and he saw Sara behind her. Her dress had flowers all over it, the colors subdued, short and tight but not inappropriately so. Her dark hair, highlighted golden, was short and could survive anything, she bragged, including Hurricanes Matthew, Lainie, and Eli.

“Don't you look somberly handsome?” Sara said, her mouth quirking, one brow lifting. “Is that the car?”

All three of them turned to look at the same time. “That's it.”

“Who's in there with her?”

“The casualty notification officer and the chaplain.”

“What about their family?” That came from Sara with another quirk.

“We're family, too,” Brianne was quick to point out.

“The others will be getting in later today—Aunt Joan, Uncle Ralph, some of their kids.”

They stood there a moment, looking at each other and outside, then Brianne, with a quiver in her voice, said, “We shouldn't keep her waiting.”

“Yeah. It's not like we've been waiting for twenty years,” Sara muttered.

Ben scowled at her behind Brianne's back, a silent threat that Sara accepted with a roll of her eyes.

Through the heavily tinted windows, they couldn't see Patricia's reaction when the three of them walked out together. They circled to the passenger side of the vehicle, and Ben opened the door, forcing his sisters to get in before him.

“Oh! Oh, my Lord!” Hands pressed to her mouth, Patricia was blinking rapidly as Brianne and Sara claimed the side seat opposite the two officers. She made a few squeaky sounds before finally lowering her hands. “Oh, you are more beautiful than I ever imagined.”

A flush colored Brianne's face, but Ben thought most of the heat probably came from the huge smile she was beaming. It troubled him that he hadn't given her a chance to have her own opinion about their mother. No kid should ever have had to hide the fact that she missed her mother, especially for twenty years.

“This is a wonderful surprise,” Patricia said, using one fingertip to wipe tears from her eyes. “Bree. Sara.”

Sara's voice matched the stiffness of her posture. “We're sorry about your loss.”

If the lack of warmth stung Patricia, Bree more than made up for it. She launched into the seat beside Patricia, enveloping her in a hug and murmuring, “I'm so sorry about George, Mama. I know how much you loved him.”

Sara gave Ben a
what-the-hell
look, and he just shrugged. At least he hadn't been the only one Brianne fooled.

The major leaned forward, offering her hand. “I'm Major Baxter, and this is Lieutenant Graham. We'll be assisting Patricia.”

Sara provided her name and Brianne's, who took barely a moment from Patricia to shake hands.

There was little conversation from there to Tulsa International Airport, though Sara's frequent glares left no doubt she had plenty to say. Ben stared out the window at people going about their everyday lives, preoccupied with work and family, not thinking that other people's lives had abruptly ended. Of course, they couldn't focus on death all the time; then what would be the point of living?

At the main gate into the Tulsa Air National Guard Base, the Patriot Guard were staged, most wearing denim and leather, motorcycles gleaming, flags on full display. Ahead were military personnel, presumably from Fort Murphy and the national guard, and a lot of law enforcement vehicles: Tulsa and Tallgrass Police, Tulsa County Sheriff, Oklahoma Highway Patrol.

Sara leaned closer to the major and grimly asked, “Are those protestors going to be here today?”

The possibility of a bunch of ultraconservative bigots disrupting the transfer hadn't occurred to Ben. Even before he'd gotten this personal connection, he'd wondered how the hell anyone could look in the mirror after intruding so hatefully on a family's grief and not be disgusted with himself. He bent forward, too, to hear the answer.

“They said they would, but there's been no sign of them,” Major Baxter said quietly. “If they are around, you probably won't see them. The Patriot Guard are very good at keeping them at a distance from the family.”

“Good, because I'd hate to kick someone's ass today—I didn't dress for it—but I could.” Sara's jaw jutted forward, reminding Ben of all the times she'd played the protector as a kid. She'd rarely gotten into an actual fight, but she'd held her own those few times. Ben would put his money on her today, especially with those deadly heels she wore.