A Summer to Remember (21 page)

“I hate to say this,” she began, and Elliot placed his fingers over her mouth.

“Then don't.”

She kissed his hand before pulling it away. “You need to get to bed.”

“If that's an invitation, I accept.”

“Three thirty comes awfully early.”

He set the tray on the floor, but when Mouse immediately pounced on it, he rethought the idea and carried it to the counter instead. Coming back, he wrapped his arms around Fia and stretched out, holding her intimately against him. “I can get by on less than four hours' sleep. For a while.”

She rubbed her fingers across the beard stubble on his chin. “I need to go home. I don't have a car here, or clothes, and you really don't want to wake me up and throw me out in the predawn hours when you leave for work.”

“I wouldn't do that. And you look really good in that shirt. I can come back on my break and take you home.”

“Or…” She wiggled free, stood up slowly, and undid the buttons on the shirt. When she finished, she shrugged out of it and threw it at him. “You and Mouse can spend the night at my house, and you won't have to disturb either one of us when you leave.”

“That's a deal.” He reached for her again, but she backed away until she was in the bathroom, door closed behind her. She pulled on her bra and panties, glad that she had a fondness for wearing pretty underwear all the time and not just when she thought she might get lucky, then she tugged her dress over her head. Other than some kinks in her hair and her makeup having completely disappeared, she looked pretty good for someone who'd passed the afternoon and evening being wanton.

When she returned to the bedroom to find her shoes, Elliot was packing a small ruck with clothes, a plastic zipper bag filled with dog food, and another with brownies. He added his toothbrush, toothpaste, and razor, helped her into a slicker, and handed Mouse to her. “Is she too heavy for you to carry?”

Fia snorted. “I used to bench-press more than I weighed.” She pulled the hood in place, snuggled the dog beneath the rubberized fabric, and headed for the door.

They ran through the rain, shook it off inside the truck, then made the same trip to her front door. Remembering her fall last week, she stepped inside cautiously, turning on lights, kicking off her shoes. Her little house lacked the coziness and warmth of Elliot's apartment, but that would change now that they were here. They would leave their scents in the air, all over the bathroom, in the shower, and all day tomorrow she would smell hints of him everywhere she went.

Her idea of heaven.

It was after ten when they finally went to bed, cuddling, playing, but going no further than that. As award-worthy as the sex had been, Fia was a tad sore where body parts that weren't used to being rubbed had been rubbed very well. In its own way, the cuddling was just as good. It was something she'd always longed for and had never gotten enough—would never get enough of.

The bedroom was dark and still, Elliot sleeping soundly with one arm flung over her hips, when Fia realized in that first groggy instant of wakefulness that she was actually awake. Rain pounded the roof and splattered against the windows, and from someplace nearer came slow, steady breathing. Opening her eyes, she saw Mouse's dim form standing beside the bed looking at her. “What's up, baby girl? Do you need to go out?”

The dog didn't turn and trot to the door but instead stood on her back legs and rested her front paws on the mattress. Her way of asking for permission to get into bed with them? Though in Fia's limited experience, Mouse didn't ask. She just did.

An instant later, pain shot through Fia's foot. Gasping, she sat up and bent her leg to massage her toes. Sometimes she could ease the spasm before it reached medication stage.
Please, God, let this be one of those times.

Her toes were curled tight, the curve of her arch exaggerated, her foot twisting as the muscles contracted. She'd scoffed once at a story about spasms so severe that they fractured bones, but that was before they had become a regular part of her life.

As she tried to work the curve out of her big toe, Mouse trotted to Elliot's side of the bed and barked sharply.

“Hush, Mouse,” she hissed, but the dog barked again.

Elliot rolled over, his face pressed into the pillow. “C'mon up. Jus' don't crowd.”

Mouse barked again. If the first had been a request for attention, this one was a demand. Quickly, before Elliot could fully awaken, Fia patted his arm. “Go back to sleep. I'll see if she wants to go out.”

With a grunt, he dozed off again, not moving when she eased out of bed. Her foot protested when she put weight on it, but she gritted her teeth, hobbled out of the room, closed the door as soon as Mouse was out, too, and by the dim light of the bulb over the sink, she limped into the kitchen. After giving the dog a treat to keep her quiet, Fia settled on the couch and went back to work massaging her foot. It didn't seem to be helping, she noted grimly, but at least the spasm wasn't getting worse, and hallelujah, her other foot and hands felt perfectly good.

“Really, Mouse, you have to learn to keep quiet. You could have woken your daddy up, and he has to get up soon anyway. Besides, this is
my
problem. In the future, let's keep it between you and me.”

Sitting on the couch in the dark at three in the morning, discussing your secrets with a dog. That sounds so like you, Fee.

Fia's smile was rueful. She'd wondered when she would hear from Scott again. There were worse times, she acknowledged. Like when she and Elliot were, um, getting intimate. But Scott wouldn't have done that. Despite Elliot's claims, Scott really
was
an angel, and she knew down deep in her soul that he wanted her to make a life and be happy without him.

I like him.

“I do, too,” she whispered.

And he likes you.

“Yeah.” How cool was that?

Very cool. So what are you waiting for?

She didn't answer. She was days past the point where she should have told Elliot everything. But if she had, one of two things would have happened: He would have distanced himself from her, or he would have felt obliged to continue seeing her, even if it meant getting trapped into a situation neither of them wanted.

Or maybe he wouldn't have cared. Maybe it wouldn't matter. So are you going to wait until one of your spells hits? Until you're having spasms and in pain and scaring the hell out of him and can't even talk to explain it to him? That's a hell of a way to break the news.
There was a brief silence, in which she could so easily see Scott shrugging that careless don't-shoot-the-messenger way of his.
I'm just telling you what you already know, warrior girl. You've got something with this guy. Give him a chance to step up and prove it.

“I don't want that kind of proof. I want a full, free, wholehearted commitment—”

Which Elliot couldn't give if he didn't know what he was getting into. And because she'd kept her illness private, there was no way she could know how full or wholehearted his commitment would really be.

“Crap. Want to trade lives, Mouse? I think I could get used to lying around all day, getting fed when I'm hungry, and having my belly scratched when I need it.”

“I don't think I'd like the lying around all day, but I'm happy to feed you when you're hungry and scratch your belly.”

She jumped, twisting around to see Elliot lounging against the wall just inside the hallway. “Oh! I didn't know—”

“I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who talks to myself.” He pushed himself away from the wall and came to sit beside her on the sofa. “What are you doing up?”

Guilt and anxiety twined along her spine, one urging her to tell him, the other reminding her of the risks. In the end, the coward won, and she pushed the minuscule chances of that conversation taking place right now to the back of her mind, instead extending her leg. “Muscle spasm.”

“Wow. You've got a good one going.” He nudged her to put some space between them, then lifted her foot into his lap. He wore boxer briefs, navy blue, snug, and totally immodest, and she couldn't help thinking that there were so much better things he could be doing right this moment than rubbing her foot.

Then he began working his strong grip over, between, and under her toes, and the sensation was sharp-edged pain tinged with relief. “Are you getting enough magnesium and potassium in your diet? Enough water?”

“Water, yes. The others, I don't know.” Not really a lie. Mineral deficiency wasn't the cause of the spasms, but since she didn't know what was…

“I'll pick up some food tomorrow. You like kiwis and oranges? Spinach, fish, bananas?”

“Spinach? Blech.” She stuck out her tongue.

“That's only because you haven't had it the way I fix it.”

She sat awkwardly for a moment, watching him, then slowly reclined back, pushing a pillow beneath her head and consciously relaxing every muscle group in her body. The exercise was part of her yoga routine, done at the end with deep breathing exercises, and usually it left her calm and peaceful. It was having no effect on her left leg, but the rest of her body was sinking deeper into the cushions, deeper into the quiet of her mind, while Elliot's hands worked their magic.

“You should mention this to your doctor next week.”

The pain had subsided from needle-sharp stabs to dull throbs that she could live with. In the middle of the night, she would normally do her best to work it out, then take a muscle relaxer and let sleep take care of the rest. Elliot just might put her to sleep with nothing more than the slow, methodical deep-tissue massage he was giving her.

No doubt he was better for what ailed a woman than any grogginess-inducing pill.

“Wiggle your foot.”

Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw that his hands were resting on either side of her heel. Her foot looked perfectly normal, graceful enough to slide into her most delicate sandals. Gingerly she wiggled her toes, twisted her foot left to right, scrunched up her toes, and unscrunched them again. “You're a lifesaver.”

His grin appeared. “Something small, round, and sweet that you like to suck?”

“Ugh. Gross.” Sitting up, she pecked a kiss on his cheek as, down the hall, the alarm on his cell rang. “I'm sorry you missed your last bit of sleep.”

“I can get by. Don't worry. Think you'll be able to get back to it?”

A yawn interrupted her answer. With a laugh, he pulled her to her feet, “Come on. I'll tuck you in, run Mouse out quick, and I'll be quiet while I shower.”

“Let me take Mouse out, and you go on with your shower.” She put on her own slicker, hanging in the laundry room, and a pair of beat-up sneakers that couldn't be damaged by anything less than fire. Mouse was following her and wearing a cautious look. “Wondering where this is?” Fia asked, taking a long-unused golf umbrella from its hook.

The dog trotted to the back door, and Fia moved more slowly, though her caution in bearing weight on her left foot was unnecessary. The spasm, thanks to Elliot and God, was gone, leaving only a faint tingle in its place.

As she reached the back door, Elliot came out of the bedroom with an armful of clothes. “I owe you for taking her out to get wet.”

“I'll collect tonight.” She opened the door, popped open the umbrella, and flashed him a smile. “If you forgot anything, you can probably find it in the medicine cabinet or the linen closet, or just give me a whistle.”

“Aw, damn, I never did learn to whistle. Emily can bust your eardrums. She never lets me forget it.”

Laughing even as the familiar envy twisted in her stomach, she and Mouse made a dash into the rain. Cold water splashed her legs and immediately soaked through her shoes. She huddled inside the slicker while Mouse hovered beneath the umbrella, a definitely sour look on her face. “Sorry, Mouse, but it only protects you from the water up above. You still have to wade in what's already fallen.”

Which was a lot. On the news they'd watched just before bed, they'd talked about flood warnings, stalled weather systems, another day or two or three of the same to look forward to. Good thing she didn't have to go to the office this week. She and Mouse could just stay warm and dry inside while Elliot made forays out to work and to bring them food.

Finally they returned to the house. Everything wet went into the laundry room, and she scrubbed them both with towels stacked on the shelf there. They were headed down the hall to the bedroom when she stopped just for a moment outside the bathroom door. The shower was running, nearly drowning out the sound of Elliot's voice as he sang. She didn't know the song, couldn't make out all the words, but it was lovely and sweet, and it made her heart hurt with joy. Leaning against the doorjamb, she listened until the last mournful notes faded, then she silently moved again.

She would remember this moment forever.

E
lliot climbed out of the shower, warm and as alert as he usually was at this hour, which was not very. For a man who really liked sleeping in late, he'd sure chosen the wrong jobs: ranch hand, soldier, baker. But the shower had helped, and coffee would work wonders, too. By the time he finished his second cup, no one would guess he'd had a busy day–late evening–early morning.

He soaked up the water from his hair with a hand towel, then dried his body with a larger one. As was his habit every few weeks, he considered cutting his hair short, so he could go from drenched to ready for anything without hassle, but as was also his habit, he left the decision for another time. After all, he had someone else's opinion to consider now.

After pulling on his jeans, he rummaged through his stuff for his razor. He knew he'd stuck it in his ruck, the same time he'd dropped in the shaving cream. Damn, it must still be in the ruck. Opening the door, he saw the bedroom door was closed and the room was silent.

If you forget anything, you can probably find it in the medicine cabinet or linen closet,
Fia had said. He checked the tub first, to make sure her razor wasn't tucked in there among all the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, then he opened the medicine cabinet.

It was neat: toothpaste, toothbrush, and floss on the bottom shelf. Razor and extra cartridges on the second shelf. Fanciful perfume bottles filled with delicately colored liquids on the third. Pill bottles on the fourth.

The bottles stopped him short. They looked new, hadn't been handled a lot, and the labels faced forward. In the same position on every bottle was Fia's name, underneath a medication name and dosage. The first he recognized as a muscle relaxant, the next a sleeping pill. He didn't know what the third or fourth or fifth ones were.

His gut was tight, that crampy uncomfortable feeling that something bad was coming and he couldn't stop it. He didn't reach for the bottles—didn't try to see the dates they were filled, who had prescribed them, what the instructions were. He already felt guilty for seeing them, for not grabbing the razor and closing the door right away. He wasn't a snoop. He never would have looked in the medicine cabinet if she hadn't okayed it first.

He didn't think she would have okayed it if she had taken a moment to think about it.

Hand unsteady, he picked up the razor, closed the door, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was pale, grim, and he wasn't ever going to admit it to anyone else, but even a little bit scared. Why did she need all that medication? What was wrong with her? What didn't she trust enough to tell him?

He shaved, dressed, dried his hair, brushed his teeth, and carried his boots to the living room to put them on. The towels he'd used were hanging over the curtain rod, and the razor was dry and back in its place. He put everything else back in the pack, then moved stealthily to the bedroom door, easing it open.

The instant Mouse could squeeze through, she did so, trotting to the kitchen, where he'd left a bowl of food and fresh water. He stood in the doorway, watching Fia sleep, her hands tucked beneath her cheek, her breathing shallow and steady. She was beautiful and vulnerable, and he experienced another twinge of guilt as he crept across the room and kissed her, his mouth barely brushing her skin. A faint smile appeared, but she didn't waken, so he left as silently as he'd come in.

After zipping up his slicker and tugging the hood forward, he gave Mouse a quick scratch on the sofa. “Wish you could use a phone, pup. Take care of her for me, will you?”

His mood was somber on the drive to the bakery, the sweep of wipers the only thing that broke the silence. He was so deep in thought that he drove right past Prairie Harts the first time, made a U-turn, and returned. He was the first one there, so he unlocked the door, flipped on the lights, and checked the schedule for today's specials. “If it's Monday, it must be meatballs. Italian loaves, yay.” First up, though, coffee. Extra strong.

The grinder drowned out the sound of the door opening, so when Patricia appeared a few feet away, he was startled. “Morning, cowboy. You have a good day off?”

“The best.” Even thinking about those hours with Fia could start warming him from inside out. “What about you?”

“It was lovely. My daughters and their family came to visit, and we all did a video chat with my son, Ben, and his wife, Avi, in Georgia. They're coming home on leave at the end of May.” Patricia's smile faltered. “The first anniversary of George's death.”

“Tough time,” he murmured.

“Yes.” She gazed off for a moment or two, lost in the past, before forcing the bittersweet expression away. “Are you going to make coffee with that or just stand there hoarding it?”

He looked down at the ground beans in the now-quiet machine. “I was thinking about just chewing it raw, but I'll share if you insist.”

“Here, I'll start it. You go ahead and work on your bread.”

He handed over the coffee, pulled on an apron, washed his hands, and went to his work space, a not-quite-big-enough corner of the kitchen. He warmed water, weighed yeast and flour, salt and sugar, then started.

He'd dated a girl once who'd scoffed at his interest in cooking and baking.
It's just following directions. Anyone can do it.
He pretty much agreed with her about cooking. Most recipes delivered a good product, and experience yielded the ability to make changes that took the dish from good to exceptional.

But baking…More art than science. A recipe that was perfect with eight ounces of flour today might need nine ounces next week. Yeast might not be active enough; dough could be temperamental about rising. That beautiful golden brown loaf fresh from the oven could be the most beautiful loaf ever made—mixed with precise measurements, kneaded to exactly the right point, proofed until it doubled as the recipe instructed—and be a doughy mess inside.

As Elliot scraped the dough onto a floured board, he couldn't help grinning. With all those uncertainties, a person would be justified in thinking he was crazy to bother with baking at all. But iffy as it was, it provided balance for him. Connection. It satisfied a deep need to be involved with his food, to make it the very best he could.

Funny. He felt pretty much the same thing for Fia.

The pill bottles might not mean a thing. Just because she had all that medication didn't mean she needed it all the time. Even if she did, people could have health problems that required medicine—high blood pressure, underactive thyroid, allergies, depression—but it didn't mean they were
sick
. It didn't justify that weird sense of
this is bad
in his gut.

Yeah, Fia had lost weight. Every piece of clothing she owned, including that pretty little bra with the butterflies, was a little loose on her. And yeah, she'd given up a strenuous job for one that didn't even require her to leave her house. And yeah, in the time he'd known her, she'd left the house only twice by herself. Patricia and Lucy took her food. Marti or Ilena picked her up for their Tuesday night dinners.

Maybe she just didn't like to drive. Maybe she'd gotten tired of the demands of whiny clients who wanted the benefits of a workout and a trainer without expending the effort. And no one grieved on a timetable, she'd told him yesterday.

“I'm no expert on bread,” Patricia said, setting a coffee mug on the counter for him, “but I think you might have beaten that dough into submission.”

He pinched off a piece of the dough, flattened it, then stretched it between his thumbs and forefingers. It thinned enough for light to shine through without tearing, a good sign that the gluten was fully developed. “Not yet,” he said, “though another minute or two, and I'd be tossing this batch out and starting over.”

She leaned against the counter and sipped her own coffee. “Lucy and I think we should put you to work behind glass up front. Our female customers would love to watch those muscles in action while you knead.”

“Wrestling steers, humping packs, kneading dough…it's all good. But if I'm gonna put on a show, I think I need a tip jar.”

With a laugh, she set her coffee down and began gathering items from the refrigerator. Breakfast treats came first: cinnamon rolls, sticky buns, Danishes, biscuits, and such. When Lucy arrived, she would work on the cakes, cupcakes, and cookies that were their best sellers, and around nine, she would start the lunch special. Today's was meatballs, served on a sandwich or in a bowl, topped with shaved parm and with a healthy serving of bread. He'd made about a hundred giant meatballs Saturday afternoon and had already warned his bosses that he was taking two or four home for dinner with Fia tonight.

Then he was going to pay back that favor he owed her.

Maybe all night long.

At a quarter of six on Tuesday evening, Marti was standing in front of her closet, considering her choices for dinner with the margarita girls. Nothing was calling her name—well, except for Cadence, who'd just come home from an after-school visit with Abby. “I'm in the bedroom,” she yelled back, and a moment later, her niece appeared in the doorway, hands behind her back. “Did you have fun at Abby's?”

“Actually, her mom took us to the mall. And she and Jacob and Mariah are going to Three Amigos tonight, too, and have a table of their own, and after dinner their stepdad will take them home. Can I go, too?”

“Therese already called, so of course you can go. You'd be welcome to join us without the other kids, though I'm not sure you'd want to be seen in public with the Tuesday Night Margarita Club. We might embarrass you.”

Cadence snorted. “A bunch of…” She paused. “Parent-aged women? I'm sure you get really disruptive.”

“Parent-aged women? Is that your way of saying ‘old'?”

She shrugged, and plastic crinkled behind her back. “Not old, exactly. But you
are
just a couple years younger than my mom.”

“Hmm. What are you hiding back there?”

“Not hiding. Waiting for the proper moment.” With a flourish, Cadence pulled out a plastic bag stamped with the logo of a clothing store at the mall. She slid her hands inside, let the bag fall to the floor, and shook out the garment she was holding.

It was a dress: very pretty, made to fit snugly and show off its wearer's curves—and her arms, legs, and every breath she took, too. And that was the subtlest thing about it. The color was in-your-face screaming-for-attention bright-sunny-day yellow. The contrast with the school uniform Cadence wore was remarkable.

“You'll look so cute in that,” Marti said.

“Not me. You. I bought it for you.”

Marti lifted the tag, and her eyes widened. “That's a lot of money, Cadence.”

“Nah. Mom and Dad gave me a debit card with my first three months' spending money. Consider it a thank-you for letting me stay here.” The girl was beaming, looking happier in that moment than since she'd arrived. “We talked about your clothes, remember? The fact that they're pretty much boring and plain? So Abby and I were looking, and we both thought you would look great in this. You've got the body, even if you usually hide it, and Abby says it'll make your butt—I mean…” Lifting her chin, Cadence did a good imitation of her mother. “Your derriere will look fantastic. Do you like it?”

Marti resisted the urge to say of course she did just to please Cadence—the kid wouldn't be fooled—and studied the dress again. Its lines were classic, like her usual dresses. The neckline was cut a little lower than she was accustomed to—yeah, like two inches lower—and the color…Wow, the color. It would definitely be a change for her.

Hadn't she thought just last week that she needed a change?

And she wouldn't disappoint Cadence for anything.

“I do like it. Let me try it on.”

“I'm sure it'll fit. We checked your sizes before we went. But go ahead, try it.”

Both amused and touched by Cadence's excitement, Marti slipped out of the dress she wore—dove gray, ugh—and pulled the yellow one over her head. It required a bit of tugging here and there—adjusting it over her breasts, smoothing it over her hips, trying to get just a millimeter more coverage on her thighs—then she posed for Cadence.

“Oh, Aunt Marti, you're beautiful! It fits you perfect, and the color is even more perfect. It really pops against your hair and skin tones.” Cadence went to the other closet, the one that used to be Joshua's, and scanned the shoe rack, taking out one pair of heels, putting them back in favor of another. “Here. Try these.”

They were sandals Marti had bought on a whim, surely influenced by one of her bolder margarita girls, mesh and leather, with beads and bits of brightly colored satin ribbons woven through the mesh. The yellow ribbons were a close enough match to the dress, and the two items together made her look…

Well, definitely not drab. She actually looked younger, and she doubted the word
underwhelm
would come to anyone's mind. With its stretch fibers, the dress was comfortable, even when she sat down on the bed and crossed her legs.

“You look like summer,” Cadence said.

“Summer who?” she asked absently.

“
Summer.
‘Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou are more lovely and blah blah.'”

Marti wrapped her arms around her Shakespeare-quoting niece in an impulsive hug. Typical for their family, it didn't last long, but it was surprisingly warm. “Thank you so much, Cadence. This is wonderful. Now you'd better get changed while I finish up.”

Marti was snipping the tags off when Cadence said, “Your friends will be surprised.” Quickly, with a sly grin, she added, “So will Mr. Smith,” before disappearing into her room.

Marti's jaw dropped as she went into the bathroom. She hadn't mentioned Dillon having lunch there last week, at least not until Cadence saw the to-go bags in the trash.