The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel (14 page)

“Chas,” he muttered close to her lips, as if she might have some explanation for all he was feeling. They both opened their eyes at the same time, but neither of them moved, as if they were equally hypnotized. Her lips parted slightly to draw breath, and she lifted them just enough to make her invitation unmistakable. As he kissed her again, every sensation became more enhanced, more intense. He felt wrapped in a warm blanket and refreshed by a cool breeze at the same time. She took his face into her hands, and he did the same in return. Their kiss gained fervor and warmth without relinquishing its innocence and fineness. Again they looked into each other’s eyes, and he wanted to just savor this moment and relive the experience in his mind, while it was still close and fresh. She sighed and smiled. He did the same. Then she wrapped her arms tightly around him and put her head on his shoulder. He returned her embrace, and she pressed her hands tightly against his back.

“Oh, Jackson,” she murmured and adjusted her head slightly as if it were searching for the perfect resting place.

“What?” he asked in a whisper and pressed a kiss into her hair.

“This is what I’ve missed.” She tightened her arms around him, and he did the same.

“What, tell me,” he urged when she seemed hesitant to explain. “You can tell me anything.”

“It feels so good to just . . . have strong arms around me, the closeness of a man who actually cares about me, and who I really am.” She chuckled. “And you smell really good; like a man.”

He chuckled and pressed his face into her hair. “You smell like . . . fruit . . . and flowers . . . and spices.”

“That’s shampoo, soap, and what I was cooking.”

“I know. That’s why I love it.”

They were both startled when his cell phone rang. He always carried it on his belt, but she’d only heard it ring three times before, and two of those were calls he’d ignored, saying they could leave a message and he’d return the call later. He kept his arm around her while he took hold of the phone to look at the caller ID, then he took a step back and turned around, as if he were steeling himself for something. But he didn’t leave the room. She leaned against the counter and folded her arms as he flipped open the phone and said, “Leeds here.” Following a short pause, he said, “Yes, sir. Thank you. It’s good to hear your voice, also.” Another pause. “I’m doing as well as could be expected. Thank you for asking.” Through a very long stretch of silence, Jackson turned to look at Chas, then he looked away as if he couldn’t concentrate on the call if he didn’t. But she sensed that whatever he was hearing had to do with the investigation that was going on. She reached a hand toward him and he took it, squeezing tightly.

“Yes, sir. I understand,” he said, and listened some more. She saw his eyes widen and felt his hand tighten in hers.
“Should
I be sitting down?” he asked, then he let go of her hand and moved to a chair as if he’d been ordered to do so and he knew how to take orders. Chas wondered what was coming, and how it might affect him, but she was entirely unprepared to see the horror that filled his countenance, even though he didn’t make a sound. “Yes, I’m still here,” he finally said, his voice barely steady. The only other thing he said before he closed the phone was one more faint, “Yes, sir.” With glazed eyes he absently set the phone on the table beside him, and his breathing became noticeably audible.

She didn’t know how to ask, or if she should say anything at all. Had they found the traitor? Was this his reaction to knowing who it was? Or had he been personally implicated? She’d almost gotten up the nerve to ask when he groaned and dropped his head to his knees, as if he feared passing out. He groaned again, then rushed to the sink where he threw up. She knew he hadn’t eaten anything yet this morning, but he still heaved painfully. She knew that feeling well from her pregnancy. But she couldn’t fathom what news he’d been given that would make him so physically ill. He kept his face lowered into the sink until he’d gained control of himself, then he turned on the faucet to rinse out the sink and his mouth. He splashed water on his face, then reached for a towel that he pressed there for a full minute. Chas put a hand on his arm, and he tossed the towel to the counter before he took hold of her as if he were sinking into quicksand and she was the only hope for helping him avoid suffocation. She returned his embrace with all the fervor of concern she felt, finding it ironic that not so many minutes ago they’d shared an equivalent embrace that had been nothing but tender and romantic.

“Tell me,” she finally whispered.

“I don’t know if I can even bring myself to say it.”

“You have to say it,” she said, taking hold of his shoulders to look at him closely. “You can’t hold it inside. It will eat you alive.”

He hesitated, then nodded, then moisture pooled in his eyes before he turned away, ashamed of his tears. He cleared his throat and muttered, “Sorry about the sink. If you show me where you keep the cleaning stuff, I’ll—”

“Don’t worry about the sink. I’ll take care of it. I’ve puked in the kitchen sink more times than I can count.” He looked confused. “When I was pregnant,” she clarified. “You can’t avoid this, Jackson.”

“Okay,” he said, looking at her again, his tears gone. “But . . . I think I need to sit down.”

Chas nodded and guided him across the hall to the parlor, insisting that it would be more comfortable there, and no one would be around for hours yet. Granny had been given her breakfast and was taken care of for the moment. With her hand on his arm she guided him to the couch. He sat there for just a moment before he kicked off his shoes and laid down, putting a hand over his eyes. She didn’t want to leave, but felt she should ask, “Do you want me to leave for a while and let you—”

“No,” he said. “Please stay. Unless you have something you need to be—”

“Nothing more important than being here with you,” she said and moved a chair closer so that she could hold his hand while he kept the other one over his eyes, as if the light hurt them. She prayed silently that she would be guided in helping him get through whatever had happened, and that he would be given comfort and strength. When she couldn’t think of anything to say, she figured silence was probably best for now. Then she saw a tear trickle from beneath his hand, sliding down the side of his face, into the hair above his ear. She wiped away the trail it had left, and he moved his hand to look at her, almost alarmed, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“It’s okay,” she said, and tears rose in her own eyes.

He noticed them and showed surprise. “Why are
you
crying? You don’t even know what happened.”

“I know that you’re in pain,” she said, and he touched her face.

Jackson wondered for a moment what it might have been like to be dealing with this moment at home—alone. He couldn’t even imagine! He’d never once in his life thought to thank God for anything, but he had to thank Him now for this. If Chas was never more a part of his life than she was right now, he would forever be grateful for having her there for him now, and to be comfortable enough with her that he truly felt that he could share this burden. He just didn’t know how to say it, how to even consider accepting that it was true.

“You need to tell me,” she said, as if she could read his mind.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve given a lot of bad news to a lot of people in my life, but I don’t know how to say this.”

“How do you give bad news to people?”

“I just have to detach myself. It can’t be personal.”

“So detach yourself enough to say it, and then you can let it be personal.”

Jackson nodded, amazed at her wisdom. Her theory made so much sense, but he still had trouble forming the words. He was relieved when she said, “Do you want me to ask you questions?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You look terrified.”

“I am. I feel like . . . I’ve been hit in the chest with a bullet, and the thought of repeating it is like knowing another bullet is coming.”

Chas had to ask, “Are you speaking metaphorically . . . or from experience?”

“I’ve taken a few bullets in the chest,” he said, and she gasped. “With a bulletproof vest on, of course, or I wouldn’t be here talking about it. But it still knocks you flat, and it still hurts.”

Chas appreciated the analogy and nodded to indicate that she understood. She prayed for guidance and sought for the right questions to ask him. “Did they figure out who was leaking information?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Was this person responsible for Dave’s death?”

“Indirectly, yes.”

“Has your name been cleared?”

“Yes.”

“So, there’s no concern for your job?”

“Not technically. Whether or not I can ever go back to work remains to be seen.”

“You feel betrayed.” That wasn’t a question; she already knew.

“Yes,” he said, his voice growing deeper.

“Angry.”

“Yes. And horrified. I’ve seen a lot of horrible things in my life, Chas. Things I would never want to repeat aloud, mostly because I don’t want other people to be plagued with those images.” Chas nodded, glad that he’d gained some momentum. He was talking. “You can’t serve that many years in the Marines . . . or the agency . . . without seeing horrible things. But when it becomes personal. . . .” His voice trembled and his chin quivered.

“Like when you saw Dave get killed?”

“Like that. But this is worse.”

“Worse than Dave getting killed?” she asked, hearing a hint of panic in her own voice.

Jackson knew he just had to say it and get it over with. He needed her to know because he needed her to hold him together, and he could feel himself crumbling from the inside out at this very moment. “They figured out who it was, and it’s evident he knew they were closing in.”

“You worked with this man? It was a man?”

“Yes. But I didn’t work with him directly, even though I’ve known him for years. Our paths have crossed on the job countless times. I’ve met his family. I never liked him much, but I just figured that was a personality difference. I never would have believed him to be capable of this.”

“He’ll go to prison, of course,” Chas said, startled by how quickly Jackson put his hand over his eyes, then over his mouth, as if he preferred holding back the sound of his sudden sobbing as opposed to the tears that came with it. He sat up abruptly and put his head down, resigned to not being able to hide either. He pressed his head into his hands, wracked with heaving sobs that made it difficult for him to breathe. Chas was stunned. She’d never seen anyone cry that hard. And she’d only cried like that herself when she’d lost Martin and her baby. She moved to sit beside him, putting her arm around him. He immediately put his head in her lap and held to her tightly while he cried himself into exhausted silence. Chas wept silently on his behalf, unable to even imagine what the rest of the story might be.

Jackson felt like a complete stranger to himself when he realized how long and hard he’d been crying. Then he realized where he was and who he was with, and he felt mortified—but only for a moment. His embarrassment was quickly replaced by gratitude. He rolled over to look up at her, keeping his head in her lap while he lifted his legs onto the couch. He reached up a hand to touch her face where there was evidence that she had been crying as well. It was easy to say, “I am more grateful to be here now with you than I could ever tell you.”

“I’m grateful too,” she said.

Before he had even another moment to think about it, he hurried to say, “He won’t go to prison. He’s dead. He took his own life when he realized there was no way out. He did it with a bomb.” Chas gasped, but he kept going. “Two of my best men had been sent to arrest him, and he knew they were coming. If they hadn’t been really sharp and really fast, he would have taken them out, too. Apparently that was his intention.”

“Are they all right?” she asked, finally getting a glimpse into the horror he was feeling.

“They’ll live. They’re both in the hospital; broken bones, burns, shrapnel.” More tears came. “These men are my friends, Chas. We’ve worked together for years. We’ve covered each other, trusted each other, put our lives on the line for each other. They have families. If this . . .
cretin
chose to sell his soul and take up with drug dealers, he should have been willing to take the consequences. But he had
no right,”
he said through clenched teeth, “to take innocent people with him.
My
people.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, certain it sounded trite, but he took hold of her hand and squeezed it tightly. Trying to let it all sink in, a terrible thought occurred to her. “If you had been on the job . . . would you have gone with them to make the arrest?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you aren’t feeling guilty that you’re not in the hospital with them.”

“That’s
exactly
what I’m feeling guilty about,” he said, still sounding angry. “But that’s just added on top of the guilt I feel for not taking the bullet that took Dave last month.”

“You can’t do that to yourself, Jackson. Guilt is something people should feel only when they’ve done something wrong.”

“I wonder if I
did
do something wrong.”

“Did you break the law? Lie to anyone? Hide the truth from people who trusted you? Did you go home at the end of any given day without doing everything you could have done within your human capabilities?”

He thought about that for a long moment. “No,” he said.

“Then you have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“But these men have families. If I were taken in the line of duty . . .”

“What?” she asked when he hesitated, wanting him to finish it.

“I was going to say that no one would miss me. I can’t say that any more, can I?”

“No, you can’t say that.”

“It’s nice to know that someone cares enough to miss me, Chas, but if I had been killed the week before Thanksgiving, you never would have known. It would have made no difference to your life.”

“That’s just it, Jackson, you
have
made a difference in my life. But what about the men you work with who surely care for you the way you care for them? They would have noticed. And maybe you’re the one capable of helping your friends put their lives back together after what’s happened.”