Forgiving Jackson (18 page)

“She doesn’t know much about me, does she?”

“Who does?” Dirk rose. “Okay. My wife’s got my kids in the kitchen and she’s got a party to get ready for. I need to go get them.”

“What kind of party is it?” Jackson asked.

“One with people who are going to be coming through my gate and have to be watched.”

“Here you go, Mr. Beauford.” Sammy set a plate of food on the coffee table in front of Jackson and removed the domed cover.

Jackson sniffed at the food. “I’ve told you to call me Jackson.”

“Yes, sir, Jackson.”

“That’s some better.” He poked at the food on his plate. Not all of it was familiar. “Did you eat this?”

“Not yet. We get to eat after the guests get finished and the dancing starts. We take turns. Emory has a schedule.”

“I bet she does.” A thought, and not a good one, occurred to him. “Hey, Sammy. You don’t have to eat what they mess over and leave on their plates, do you?”

Sammy’s face turned red. That happened a lot.

“No. Emory wouldn’t let us do that. We don’t always get everything if the guests are big eaters but we get new food.”

“That’s good. Did somebody take Ginger some food?” Jackson knew he ought to at least be eating some meals with Ginger but his instinct for self-preservation outweighed his desire to be a good host.

“No. She was in the kitchen helping Gwen chop stuff earlier. I guess she’ll eat down there.”

“No kidding? She must be out of anything to do.” Jackson salted his food. “I know boiled potatoes when I see them, and I guess that’s parsley on them. Do you know what this other stuff is?”

Sammy came over and looked at the plate. “That’s a roll.”

“Yeah, believe it or not, I got that. What kind of meat is this? Fried catfish?”

“No. Gwen called it Chicken Kiev. It’s fried chicken with a hunk of butter inside. And there’s creamed carrots.”

“I am particularly concerned about this slab of Jell-O with eyeballs looking at me.” Jackson nudged it with his fork and it jiggled. Might not be much good for food, but could prove to be an excellent toy.

“Gwen called it perfection salad. There’s raw cabbage and olives in there. I forget what else.”

“That right?” Jackson jiggled it again. Too bad Gabe wasn’t here; he’d think it was culinary brilliance. “And Gwen thinks this is perfection?”

“No. I believe Gwen thinks it’s all pretty disgusting. But it’s a fiftieth anniversary party and they wanted the same meal they had at their wedding.”

“Is that a thing? Do people do that?”

Sammy shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess. These people did it.” He opened a drawer and took out some cleaning supplies he’d stashed there. “I’m going to take a minute and dust the top of the doorframes while I’m here. I don’t think those women from the cleaning service can reach them. I tried to help them out in here last week but they didn’t like it.”

“I have never understood people who get persnickety when you’re just trying to be helpful.” Jackson took a bite of the chicken. Not bad. “I know what I want for my wedding food if I’m going to have to eat it fifty years later. That is, if I get married.”

“What’s that?” Sammy asked, like he really wanted to know. That was the thing with Sammy. He really did want to know.

“I want steaks, grilled by you. Would you do that for me, Sammy?”

Sammy blushed again. “I’d be honored. I would do the best job I could.”

“I know you would. And you need to keep yourself in good health so you can do it again fifty years later.”

“Yes, sir,” he said solemnly. “I’ll remember that.” He put his rags away. “I thought I’d wash and wax your truck tomorrow. But right now, I’d better get going. They were just about to have dessert. I need to go. But I’ll bring you some of that baked Alaska when it’s my turn to eat.”

“Thank you, Sammy. Bring your plate up here and eat with me.”

“Yes, sir. Page me if you need anything. I have a headset. Not everybody has one. Just Emory, the bartender, Gwen, security, and me.”

“And you notice I’m not on that list, Sammy. So I can’t page you.”

“Well, text me. Uh-oh.” His walkie-talkie buzzed. “That’ll be Emory. She needs me to bring down another case of wine. The temps aren’t allowed in the pantry.” He pushed a button on his headset as he headed out the door.

And Jackson was alone again. He picked up his plate and began to eat as he wandered over to the window that overlooked the wedding grove. It looked a lot like it had the night he’d come back. Fairy lights, portable bar and dance floor, big fans set back discretely in the trees. The musicians were setting up. Not country tonight. He could tell from those big, boxy music stands that it was a big band orchestra—which didn’t really make a lot of sense if these people were trying to recreate a 1960s wedding. Seems like they’d have Beatles and Beach Boys music. But maybe they’d had a big band the first time around.

As soon as Emory hurried onto the scene, his eyes went to her. She was wearing a sleeveless straight pink dress that came right below her knees.
I was wearing a short skirt,
she’d said with raw honesty. She probably hadn’t shown her knees since. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry anymore and he set the plate on a nearby table. She was talking to one of the band members, nodding. Then she went around lighting candles and straightening tablecloths, making a perfect party.

How had he thought for even one second that she hadn’t been raped? Sure, she’d lied about the details, but it didn’t change that she’d been violated—violated and robbed of her life. And he’d get the truth out of her. That son of a bitch was going to pay and he’d see to it that she got back everything she’d lost—her self-esteem, her short skirts, and her career. It wouldn’t make up for all the hurt and loss he’d caused others, but setting Emory to rights was all he had.

God, she was pretty. There was no other word for her. Beautiful meant flashy and striking. She wasn’t that. She was just divinely, sweetly pretty—classy, too. He hadn’t seen much of that in the last few years.

Suddenly, he had an idea. He didn’t want to take the time to text so he called Sammy’s cell.

“Hey. Take your time, but when you bring me that—whatever you said, I need something else.”

• • •

“You look beautiful, my dear.” Betty Neill smoothed Emory’s dress. “Such a lovely dress. Classic.”

“Thank you,” Emory said. “I hope the party is everything you wanted it to be.”

“Perfect!”

“I’m glad.” Emory supposed it was perfect—even the food, if you judged it on what the clients wanted. “You let me know when you’re ready to cut your wedding cake. After you cut the first piece we’ll take care of serving.”

“I think I might wait a while. Dinner was pretty heavy.”

No kidding. Heavy like a dump truck full of bricks—not that Emory had eaten any of it.

“Then I’ll—” Just then Emory caught sight of a tall figure out of the corner of her eye and he was coming toward her. The light was dim but there was no mistaking who it was. No one else moved that way. And what was that he was wearing? She couldn’t believe it! Khaki shorts, white leather running shoes, and a dark blue golf shirt with
Around the Bend Staff
embroidered on the left breast. What in the hell?

“Excuse me, Mrs. Neill. There’s something I need to see to.”

She met him a short distance from the bar and pulled him off to the side.

“What are you doing here dressed like a member of my staff? Are you out of clean clothes? Where did you get those?”

“The shorts and shoes are mine. Sammy provided me with this fine shirt. I am incognito.” He smiled, very pleased with himself.

“The only way you could be incognito is if you cut off your head!”

“Excuse me.”

Oh, no! It was the woman with the ever-changing mind, the honorees’ daughter, Cindy Neill Hampton. And she was staring at Jackson with a look of wonder on her face. In about two seconds this party wasn’t going to be about the Neills anymore.

“Aren’t you Jack Beauford?”

He smiled that stage smile. “No, ma’am, I am not, but I thank you for the compliment. I’m Jack’s cousin, Jason Jackson, on his mama’s and my daddy’s side. We do favor some. They say we take after the Jacksons. Now, my sister Missy, she’s a blonde like Mama and so are her kids. Hard to tell where they got it though. She married Harris Bragg. You know who he is? Used to play for Alabama.”

Apparently, no one had ever told Jackson to keep it simple if he was going to lie.

“The resemblance is uncanny,” Cindy said.

“We don’t look
that
much alike,” Jackson lied on. “I like to say I got the looks even if he did get the talent. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

“I’m Cindy Hampton. This party is for my parents.” The woman smiled at him and there was nothing wholesome about it. She was good-looking even if she was too old for Jackson. Wasn’t she married? Hmm. No ring and, come to think of it, there had been no husband sighting.

“I am so pleased to meet you.” Charm rolled off Jackson like rainwater on a toad.

Cindy Neill Hampton was probably writing a letter in her head.
Dear
Penthouse
, I never dreamed that the night of my parents’ fiftieth anniversary would be the most passionate of my life
.

“Do you like the party?” Jackson asked.

“Oh, yes. My parents are very pleased.”

“Since your family is giving the party and all, I’d like to ask a little favor,” Jackson said.

What now?

“This is some really great music and even if I can’t sing like my cousin, I
can
dance.”

Cougar,
Penthouse-
letter-writing Cindy was practically salivating.

“Yes?” she asked eagerly.

“And since there doesn’t seem to be any work to do right this minute—”

“Yes?” Cindy’s smile widened.

“I wondered if you would mind if I used a little of your music to dance with Emory.”

What?

Cindy went cold. “As long as she doesn’t neglect her duties.” She turned on her heel and stalked off.

“I don’t think you can count on much of a tip,” Emory said.

Jackson cocked his head and held out his hand. “Dance?”

And then the band shifted from a jazzy swing number to something slow and smoky. She hesitated.

“Come on. I just lied my soul down a road to hell for the privilege.”

Reluctantly, she let him lead her onto the dance floor where he pulled her against him and settled her head against his chest.

He hummed a little. “Do you know what this song is called?” he asked.

“No. I should. After tracking this band down, I ought to be an expert on big band music. It’s familiar though.” The only music she was an expert on was Jackson Beauford’s.

“‘Moonlight Serenade.’ It’s been said that it’s the most romantic song ever written.”

“Oh?” She leaned her head back and smiled at him, just like a woman dancing with a man would do, just like she should
never
do. “Who said that?”

“Me. I said it just then.”

Keep up the banter. Don’t let him know you almost flirted with him.

“Do
you
think it’s the most romantic song ever written?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then what is?”

“‘The Hurting Side of Love.’” A little laugh rumbled through him.

And she relaxed as they laughed together.

“That’s my girl,” Jackson said.

But she accidentally brushed against him all wrong and too close and his penis hardened against her—
just like two years ago.

She stiffened and he let her put some distance between them, but he didn’t stop dancing and he didn’t drop his arms from around her.

“Sorry,” he said. “Only, I’m really not. Because if that hadn’t happened, I’d be dead and I don’t want to be dead.”

“I should go. I need to check on—” But she couldn’t think of anything.

“And I’ll let you, even though I want to dance with you. I won’t try to make you stay.” He bore those silver-sage eyes into hers. “I will not take away your choices. But you were enjoying dancing, weren’t you?”

She nodded.

“And you deserve to get to dance. You work hard. You’re pretty. You’re funny. And you smell amazing.” He laughed. “The music is marginally better than mediocre.”

His sweet words unleashed a little pocket of joy inside her and it escaped in the form of happy laughter.

“I won’t pull you back against me but I would like it if you came back of your own accord. If at any point you want to walk away, I won’t stop you.”

And suddenly, she wanted to dance, to feel his warmth. Was that so bad? It was a long hike up a rocky path to press against him again but she made the trip.

He gently moved his hands against her back. “You’re safe, Emory. You’re here at Beauford Bend with three guards on duty. And down in the gristmill house with his kids, sits the meanest former Army Ranger who ever lived. We’re surrounded by all these people. But do you want to know the biggest reason you’re safe?”

She nodded against his shirt.

“Because I will never hurt you. And I’ll kill anyone who tries.”

She believed him and she did feel safe—even though his penis hardened against her again.

“Uh-oh. Got a mind of his own, that one.” There was amusement in his voice but then he turned serious. “But mind of its own or not, I control what happens with it and you will always have the power to walk away from me.”

They moved together silently for a while. She felt his breath on top of her head, then to the side and back again.

“Are you
smelling
me?” She drew back and looked at him.

“Only a little. You smell good.” He looked a little sheepish. “Is that okay? If I smell you?”

“I guess.” She really couldn’t think of any reason why not.

“You can smell me back, if you want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She liked being back to their old banter. He hummed in her ear.

“This song has words but I don’t know them.”

“Make some up. Do it now. They say you’re a genius. Prove it.”

“
We’re at a party with bad food. But I like it anyway ’cause I’m in the mood, to dance with Emory
.”
Jackson sang softly in her ear.