A Summer to Remember (16 page)

And it couldn't hurt to show Fia what a totally normal, affectionate family he came from, could it?

It was nearly ten o'clock when Fia lowered herself onto the couch Thursday morning. She needed a shower, and even as short as it was, her hair had somehow twisted into a rat's nest. She hadn't gotten dressed since Tuesday night, still wearing the same shirt Jessy had helped her into then. She felt like crap warmed over, her muscles hurting, her head thick and cottony the way she used to get with a hangover, and emotionally she felt hungover, too.

Her stomach was unsettled, but warm tea with lemon and honey usually helped with that, and she had a cup on the coffee table. Her cell phone sat there, too, silent all morning except for a call from Ilena to check up on her. No more calls from Elliot. She should be grateful not to get calls that she shouldn't answer, but instead she just felt a little blue.

She curled on the couch, resting her head on the sofa arm, and drew a deep breath that smelled of Jessy. Her friend had spent the night on the sofa Tuesday, just a call or a groan away from the bed. Ilena had fussed over Fia in her sweet, loving mamacita way until the medication had kicked in, then Jessy had done it in her no-nonsense mushy-soft-but-not-gonna-admit-it way until the next afternoon.

You're lucky to have them,
Scott's voice whispered.

“I know.”

And they're lucky to have you.

She snorted and almost spilled her tea. “And what do I bring to the table, huh? I'm a mess.”

You're a mess they love. Besides, that's not who you are. It's what's going on with you right now. When you get the right doctor, the right diagnosis, you'll be the same smart, capable, independent, beautiful girl you've always been.

Her hand shaking, she wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve. She didn't want to cry. It turned her eyes and nose puffy and red and gave her a headache that wouldn't shake loose until tomorrow. “Scott, I can't…”
Can't talk about this. Can't talk to a spirit who's gone and never coming back. Can't even think about what seems like such slim reason to hope.

Can't, can't, can't,
he gently mocked.
You say that often enough, and people are going to believe it.
You're
going to believe it. Just remember, warrior girls don't give up. Ever.

Blindly she located a tissue and dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose. She knew people who needed a good cry now and then to stay balanced, but not her. Damn straight she was a warrior girl—maybe someday soon even a warrior woman, she thought with a wry smile—and nothing was going to change that. Not headaches, not muscle spasms, not tears, not crappy parents, not husbands who died too damn soon.

She was a survivor.

She'd finished the tea and was wondering if her stomach could handle a bit of food when a knock came at the door. Before she could do more than think about standing, the door opened a few inches and Lucy peeked in. “Hey, sweetie, can I come in?”

“Please.” Fia straightened herself a little bit and tugged the afghan from the back of the couch to cover up. “Oh, my gosh, you smell good.”

“Eau de fresh bread.” Lucy held up a bag in one hand. “Do you think we could bottle and sell it?”

“I'd buy it for sure.” Fresh bread, mixed, kneaded, and shaped by Elliot's talented hands. She would like to watch him bake a batch sometime. To see an incredibly sexy man working in a kitchen, putting his marvelous muscles into making marvelous foods…sigh…

“This other bag has a bowl of potato soup. I left out the bacon and the onions, so it might not taste as good as usual, but it's got lots of potatoes, cream, and cheese. Can I put your lunch together for you?”

Fia started to push the afghan away, to insist that she could do it herself, but Lucy gave her a chastising look. “Don't make me call Ilena over here. I've seen her feed John. She's like a drill sergeant. That boy eats no matter what kind of mood he's in.”

“Please,” Fia said, gesturing to the kitchen as she settled in again. “Do whatever you need.” She watched Lucy set the bags on the counter, locate dishes and napkins, fill a glass with iced tea, scoop a bit of margarine onto the bread plate. After setting up a TV tray, she brought the meal in and set it within easy reach for Fia.

She opted for a bite of bread first. It was a small brown loaf, buttery and yeasty and nutty and soft, and it dazzled her taste buds, both satisfying them and making them want more.

Lucy grinned as she broke off a larger piece. “Can you believe that gorgeous, sexy man can bake like that? You know how fast talk spreads in Tallgrass. Every single woman and foodie in town is making their way to Prairie Harts. I've seen the owners of two of the other bakeries taking home loaves of his bread.”

“I'm not surprised.” Fia wiped her fingers on a napkin, then took a bite of the warm soup. It wasn't as fabulous as Lucy's loaded potato soup, but it was still delicious and exactly what her stomach needed. After another bite, she hesitantly asked, “How is Elliot working out?”

“He's great. We couldn't have found a better baker if we'd put in a customized order for one.” Lucy moved from the couch to sit on the coffee table, facing Fia. “Though I do think he's wondering why you're not taking his calls. He asked both Patricia and me about you last night, and again this morning.”

Fia scooped up a chunk of potato, dripping cheddar, and slid it into her mouth. Finally she met Lucy's gaze. “You know why. He thinks I'm—I'm
normal
and can do all the things that all his other girlfriends have done, and I can't. I fell facedown on the damn floor Tuesday night and had to call Jessy and Ilena to get me into bed. Do you know how helpless I felt? How stupid and careless?”

“
Not
stupid or careless. People have health issues, Fia. Dane loses his balance and falls sometimes. And look at me. Can you imagine how I'm going to look in my beautiful wedding dress with bruises everywhere?” She extended her arms, showing black, blue, and purple from her knuckles all the way up to her sleeves.

“Dane had his leg amputated. You had a heart attack. Your medication causes that.”

“So we've got diagnoses. You don't—yet. But you know what? When you get a diagnosis, or even if they never figure it out, no one's going to love you any less. We didn't fall in love with your zero percent body fat or your agility or your strength, and I seriously doubt that's what Elliot's thinking about when he looks at you.”

Fia grudgingly admitted, “I don't look nearly as good as I did two years ago.”

“Two years ago I was so jealous of you. You were solid and strong and your muscles were sleek and impressive, and there I was, overweight and so out of shape that I hyperventilated at the thought of exercise.”

“But you lost that weight and you're in shape now and you're beautiful, and Joe
always
thought you were beautiful.”

Lucy's familiar new smile—the soft, wondrous, living-a-dream one—brightened her face. “He did, didn't he?”

Fia nodded.

“See?” The smile turned smug. “You don't have to be perfect for a man to fall in love with you. You think Elliot's perfect?”

“Yes.”
With a warming inside that didn't come from the food, Fia went on. “He's smart, funny, handsome, sexy, and talented. He has a gorgeous voice. He loves his family and his dog. He's sweet and kind and protective. He knows who he is, who he's always been, who he'll always be. He's satisfied with his life.”

“Yeah, you've got a good point—a bunch of 'em. So don't you think he's smart enough and responsible enough and grown-up enough to know who he wants to go out with?”

Fia polished off the last of the soup, then leaned back, feet tucked beneath her, and plucked a bite from the bread. “It's not fair of me to get involved with him without telling him what's wrong with me. But if I tell him what's wrong, things will change. He'll treat me differently, look at me differently,
feel
differently. He'll feel…obligated.”

Lucy's expression softened with sympathy that could be Fia's undoing. “And you can't bear the idea of someone feeling obligated to care for you.”

Slowly Fia shook her head. “My mother told me my whole life that I was a burden. She hated me for that, Lucy, and I promised myself when I left home that I would never be a burden to anyone else again.” She inhaled deeply, and even though her stomach was full, the aroma of the bread tempted her to take another bite. “I've enjoyed being with Elliot, just being a pretty woman going out with a great guy who's happy to see me. For the first time in ages, I feel like the real me.”

Damn, she missed the real Fia, the bold one who'd never met a situation she couldn't face head-on, who didn't care what other people thought of her, who saw what she wanted and went after it.

She popped the last bite of bread into her mouth, and Lucy stood, carrying the dishes to the kitchen, rinsing them in the sink, putting away the folding tray. “I've got to get back to the shop. Our special today is grilled cheese sandwiches on Elliot's brioche and potato soup, and I did as much as I could to get ahead of the crowd, but he and Patricia will be needing my help soon.” Bending, she hugged Fia tightly, then went to the door.

There, she turned back. “You can't just cut off contact with him, Fee. He doesn't deserve that. And a guy who makes you feel like the real you doesn't come along every day. That deserves a chance. And you know what?

“For most people, loving someone is about way more than just the issues. Carly didn't walk away from Dane when he finally told her the truth about his leg. Bennie didn't break up with Calvin because of his PTSD. Finding out Jessy was an alcoholic didn't change the way Dalton and the rest of us loved her, and Joe didn't get all freaked out by the idea of being in love with a chubby woman who'd just had a heart attack.” She paused to let that sink in. “Elliot deserves a chance. This relationship deserves a chance. It's still so new that there's no telling where it's going. He may be the one, or this may run its course before you have to tell him anything. It could last forever or just be one very sweet memory. Don't go ending it before you find out.”

T
he law office where Marti worked was unusually quiet when she stretched, then rose from her chair. Most of the staff went out to lunch, though there were a few who brought meals from home, trying to save money or watching their diet. Another few usually ordered in delivery, and a couple of women in IT used their lunchtime to power-walk around downtown.

Today, it seemed, everyone had gone out. She heard no distant music or television coming from the break room, no conversation, no tapping on a computer keyboard from any of the offices or cubicles. As she padded down the hall to refill her coffee mug with the super-premium coffee in the break room, she glanced at empty desks and quiet machines. At night, it would be kind of spooky—she'd seen too many movies where danger lurked in dark and abandoned offices.

But it was the middle of the day, and she wasn't at all the sort to startle during the day. Sunlight was her superpower.

As she crossed the intersection with the main corridor, she glanced toward the lobby and came to an abrupt stop. A cowboy, hat in hand, was standing near the reception desk, gazing at the artwork around the office. She saw the collection of Native American art so often that she rarely paid it attention anymore. It was just always there.

Dillon Smith was paying it plenty of attention. Heels clicking on tile, she walked up to stand beside him in front of a sculpture by—

“Willard Stone,” he murmured. “I can't believe this plain old building in downtown Tallgrass has a Stone sculpture.”

“Three of them, actually. There's one in each of the founding partners' offices. Are you a fan of his?”

He glanced at her then. “Aren't you?”

She studied the gleaming wood figure, tall, slender, a woman, nude. It flowed in Art Deco style, sleek and free. “It's not something I would want in my house,” she admitted, “but it's pretty.”

He smiled, such an unexpected action that she blinked to be sure she was actually seeing it. “A Willard Stone pretty. You underwhelm with praise.”

She followed him when he moved to the right. “Do you think the Blue Eagle is pretty?” he asked. “And the Crumbo?”

Her gaze shifted to the signatures: Acee Blue Eagle and Woody Crumbo. She hadn't ever known the artists' names and wasn't sure she'd ever heard them before. “They're a little, um, fanciful for my tastes. I do like the baskets and the beadwork.” They crossed past the front entrance to the other side, where a half-dozen baskets filled two display cases and intricate beaded pieces were framed on the wall in glass boxes.

“Mavis Doering and Lois Smoky here in an office building.”

“We do have good security,” she remarked. “I thought it was because our files are filled with confidential information. Now I know it's the art that's important.”

Marti walked with him as he studied every other piece on display, waiting until they reached their starting point to speak again. “It appears everyone went to lunch and left the office unmanned except for me. Can I help you with something?”

He faced her, his gaze sliding from the top of her hair, pinned into a knot on the back of her head, over her gray dress with its matching jacket all the way down to her pink-polished toes in darker gray shoes. Though the dress was flattering enough and perfectly suited for work, she couldn't help thinking that maybe Cadence was right. Maybe she did need some clothing options that weren't quite so classic…and bland…and modest.

“I don't have an appointment.” His gaze came back to her face. “I came in to pick up some tractor parts and stopped by on the spur of the moment.” He looked away, stepped away as if he was thinking about bolting for the door.

“As I said, everyone's out right now, but if you'd like an appointment, I can make one for you. I need an idea of what it's about so I can know which of our lawyers would be best for you.”

He took another step back. “I don't know…I don't even know if there's anything…I guess I just need some advice.”

She should go to the receptionist's desk and open the schedule, encourage him to meet with one of the attorneys. That was exactly what she would do if he were some stranger off the streets. But he wasn't, and she didn't. “Listen, Dillon, I'm not a lawyer. I'm a paralegal. But if you just want advice, maybe I can give it, off the record, on my lunch break, no charge, just two friends talking.” Recognizing the reluctance that flashed across his face and feeling a bit of it herself at her use of the word
friends
, she quietly added, “I'm very good at keeping confidences.”

He was silent a long time, long enough for her to hear voices of returning co-workers entering through the back door. As they drew nearer, she could tell one belonged to Sasha, the receptionist, who should have stayed behind to cover the desk. Marti was glad she hadn't. Sasha was beautiful, single, and there was nothing subdued or quietly elegant about her. She loved men in general, soldiers and cowboys in particular, and she could promise a good time with nothing more than a look from her big baby blue eyes.

Though why Marti should care whether Sasha showed Dillon a good time was totally unfathomable. Sure, he could take a woman's breath away, and there was zero doubt he delivered on his good-time promises, too. But he seemed…unsure. Vulnerable. And though legitimately they were much more acquaintances than friends, she thought he had enough going on inside him that he didn't need an overwhelming dose of Sasha right now.

Good thing Marti could be
under
whelming.

As the returning workers reached the broad corridor that bisected the building, Dillon shrugged. “Okay. Is there someplace private?”

Total privacy was a hard thing to find in a coffee shop or restaurant, unless they opted for someplace like Sage, with its super-spendy prices. They would never turn away a work-stained cowboy—in Oklahoma, one could never tell if he was just a cowboy or the millionaire oilman who owned the ranch—but she didn't think Dillon would be comfortable there, at least not today. Maybe not with her.

“My house is a few miles from here. We can pick up lunch and enjoy the day on the patio.”

Sasha came around the corner, and a smile spread across her face. Before she could even say hello, Dillon began backing away. “I'll pick up food and meet you there. I know where it is.”

After putting her purse in the bottom desk drawer, Sasha straightened and gave Marti a speculative look. “You and a cowboy. I never would have guessed that.”

Marti opened her mouth to tell her they were just acquaintances, that until the past week, they'd hardly even spoken to each other, but some devil inside made her close it again and smile. “I'm taking my lunch now. I'll be back soon.”

By the time Dillon picked up soup and sandwiches at Prairie Harts and drove to Marti's house, her SUV was already parked in the driveway. He sat there a moment, wondering what the hell he was doing. He'd known she worked for a law firm. Why hadn't he asked Jessy which one before he just walked into the biggest one in town?

Because Jessy would have wanted to know why, and he couldn't have told her.

But could he do anything stupider than telling everything to one of her friends?

Probably not. But it wasn't the first time he'd been stupid, and it wouldn't be the last. Besides, he'd believed Marti when she'd said she would keep his secrets. She worked for lawyers; she understood confidentiality and privilege. More than that, though, his gut instinct said she was the sort of person who kept her word.

She lived in a nice neighborhood, though he'd come to realize after years of traveling that
all
of Tallgrass's neighborhoods were nice compared to the places he'd seen. Some were more expensive, some older, some a little messier, but overall, the worst part of town was only moderately worse than the best part.

Her house was white with black shutters, pots of spring flowers flanking the steps, with a good-sized porch with rockers to have coffee or dessert and get to know the neighbors. Not something he could quite imagine Marti doing.

The front door was standing open a few inches. Ignoring the silent invitation, he rapped, the force pushing it open a few more inches, and Marti stepped into the hallway. “Hi. Come on back. Ooh, Prairie Harts. When you feel obligated to support your friends' new business, isn't it wonderful when the business is so fabulous that you'd go there regardless of who owned it?”

He tried not to look around too much as he walked through, catching glimpses of antiques, subtle colors, order. He wondered how big a pep talk she would have to give herself to cross the threshold of the old one-room cabin where he was currently living.

She offered coffee, water, or pop, then chose water for herself before leading the way out the back door. The yard was a nice size, fenced in, the brick patio pretty much taken over by an antique table and chairs of serious substance.

His only outdoor furniture consisted of a folding chair he'd bought at Walmart.

She sat at one end, and he took the chair at a right angle to her. He traded her soup and a sandwich for a can of pop, and they spent the first few minutes uncovering their food, opening their drinks, taking first bites. It was…odd. They could have been two strangers at a busy restaurant, sharing the only table available but having no intention of sharing anything else.

She immediately disputed that. “What's going on, Dillon?”

He took his time chewing the bite of sandwich in his mouth. After swallowing it, he drank the pop, then dried his mouth and wiped his hands. All stall tactics exhausted, he drew a deep breath. “This is confidential, right?”

She nodded.

“I—I'm looking for someone. She's six years old. Last I knew, she lived in South Dakota, but maybe now it's Wyoming or maybe Montana.” He'd gotten a call from BB this morning that his questions had garnered him less than no information. What little he had learned had conflicted everything else. “Her name is Delilah, but she prefers Lilah, and…she's my daughter.” He pulled the most recent photo he had from his wallet and laid it on the table between them.

Marti wiped her fingers before picking it up, her forehead wrinkling as she studied the picture. Lilah was three in it, wearing pink overalls with a white shirt and a pint-sized cowboy hat, and she smiled broadly as she pressed her cheek against his. She'd been so small and warm against his body, so full of energy and love, a lot of it directed to her mother on the other side of the camera.

After a few moments, Marti handed the picture back. “Is this a custody dispute?”

“No. I just want to know where she is. If she's okay. I'd like to see her once in a while if I could, but no, I won't ask for custody.”

“Is she living with her mother?”

“Her grandparents and her aunt.”

“Do they have legal custody of her? Where is her mother?”

Dillon sprawled back in the chair, his appetite gone, his stomach unsure it would keep down what he'd already eaten. He ran his fingers through his hair, then pressed the pad of his thumb hard into the inside corner of his left eye to ease the pain pounding there. “Tina and I liked to party,” he said flatly, gaze fixed on the worn wood surface of the table. “We left Lilah with her grandparents one Saturday night so we could go out. It was my turn to be the designated driver, and I stuck to it. I drank pop all night. But when we left to go home…The bar was about eight miles out of town on a road that was pretty much deserted. One of the guys challenged me to a race. I know it's stupid, but we were stupid. We'd done that kind of stuff before, just for bragging rights. Tina was pushing me on—like me, she liked taking chances—so I did it. And I lost control on an S curve and wound up in a field, plowed into the only tree there. I walked away, but Tina…she had severe head injuries. The week before my trial began, she…she died. I was convicted on manslaughter charges and went to prison for eighteen months.”

He exhaled deeply, ducking his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd never told anyone that story. Everyone in Tina's family and those involved with the trial knew all about it, but after coming back here, he'd intended to take the details to his grave…until Lilah's birthday had come around. Until she started visiting his dreams. Until he couldn't ignore the big, empty hole ripped out of his life any longer.

He dragged in another deep breath and forced himself to meet Marti's gaze. “Lilah's mother is dead, and I'm the one responsible for it, and I haven't seen my little girl since.”

Elliot was feeling pretty damn weak when he got off work Thursday afternoon. He'd snagged an Italian loaf he'd made that morning, stopped by the grocery store to pick up other ingredients, and was trying to talk himself out of going to Fia's house. He'd managed not to call her all day. Patricia and Lucy had both just shrugged and said she was probably tied up with end-of-month work for the gym, but Lucy had quickly looked away when she said it. God love her, he appreciated a woman who couldn't tell a lie without cringing away from it.

Though maybe it hadn't been totally a lie. It was the beginning of May. Maybe Fia was just tying up all the loose ends of April for her boss. She didn't love paperwork, so maybe she'd just been too tired to pick up the phone when she was done.

Yeah, like the girl who ran 10Ks would be worn out by schedules and salaries and taxes.

In the end, he lost the argument with himself. He took the back streets from the grocery store to the apartment complex, turned onto her block, and pulled into the driveway. Her car sat in the same place, and the blinds were still closed. He knocked at the door a couple of times, then considered leaving a note for her. That said what?

Feeling grim, he returned to the truck and drove home, telling himself there was no reason to be down. His plans really hadn't changed. He was going to make muffaletta sandwiches for dinner, maybe watch a little TV, then go to bed early. He'd just be sharing the sandwiches with Mouse instead of the date he'd hoped to have, and that was okay.