When I See You (22 page)

"Are you okay?"

Brock touches my arm. I tremble uncontrollably at his touch and know he can feel it. I shake my head side-to-side, and then belatedly realize he can't even see me. Tears return.

"Define okay for me." I swipe at a stray tear, just as he reaches out and touches my face.

"I miss him, too," he finally says.

With his fingertips, he traces the trail of my tear down my face, and then strays toward my collar bone. It's the most intimate touch I've experienced in six months, nine days, and two hours. The last time I saw Ethan alive. It's the recognition of that moment that must cause this unexpected pain to course through me like a freshly opened wound. I take an unsteady breath.

Notably, this close proximity is interrupted by the first glimpse of the Wainwright's ranch house which seems to be at least a city block long, New York style, with a paved circular drive, a humongous bronze statue with Greek-like figurines of a man and woman sharing a pitcher of water, complete with a working fountain below, and most notably, an American-made navy sedan graces the driveway. All of it just seems to welcome us.

"Welcome, to J's Paradise," Brock says.

He sweeps his arm across the landscape as he alights from the car and helps me to my feet as I hold on to his free arm.

"It's amazing."

I gaze around in wonder. I had no idea that Brock came from any sort of money, but the wealth is apparent all around me.

"It is," Brock says back to me. "It kept me going, many a day, while I was in Afghanistan, in just wanting to get back to this place, so I could feel the breeze, hear the wind whistle through the grass, and see the blanket of stars at night. There's nothing like it, anywhere. The peace and quiet. It keeps me going, even now, knowing it's still there. Even though I can't see it, I can
feel
it."

I close my eyes, and smile, when I hear the wind whistle and the rustling of the long golden grass.

"I hear it, too," I say unsteadily.

Brock traces my eyelids, seeming to instinctively know my eyes are closed.

"I'm glad you came," he says slowly. "Ethan——well, he loved the ranch. He practically lived here when we were growing up. Did he tell you about it? "

"No, he didn't—"

Max breaks the moment, stirring awake from his nap. "Momma, is this where Daddy lives?"

I pull out of Brock's grasp, suddenly undone by his closeness and notice Tate and Ashleigh openly staring at our friendly embrace with keen interest. I lean back into the car and undo the straps of Max's car seat.

"No, baby. Daddy's in Heaven; remember? This is where Brock lives. We're in Texas, though. Soon, you'll see Grandpa and Grandma Holloway."

"Oh."

Max looks so disappointed. I'm not sure where the idea that we would be seeing Ethan has come from. Max hasn't talked about Ethan for a few weeks.

Brock leans in next to me. "Come on, buddy. I want you to meet my mom and dad," he says.

Max scrambles into Brock's outstretched arms and puts his little arms around his neck. I watch Brock trail his hand along the bed of the truck while holding onto Max. This little modicum of happiness comes over me in just watching the two of them interact. Max's confusion in seeing Ethan seems to have been forgotten. I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful to Brock.

"My mom makes the best chocolate chip cookies in Texas and my dad is a big-time rancher and oilman. They really want to meet you. Show you around and stuff," Brock says.

"I love cookies. Can we see horses? And cows? What's an oilman?"

"Yep, we're going to see it all," Brock says. "Oil is black gold. It makes the world go round."

"Oil, huh?" I ask with a little smile.

"Oil," Brock says to me.

I watch him hoist Max up on his shoulders with relative ease. I'm surprised when he flips out a white walking stick that I've seen blind people use and taps his ways to the front door with Max chattering all the while. Ashleigh grabs two of our bags, gives me a surreptitious look, and then exchanges a knowing, seductive look with Tate Matthews before following Brock and Max.

"So, how long have you and Brock known each other?" Tate asks as he openly watches Ashleigh strut across the drive and into the house.

"We met for the first time this past February, just before he and Ethan returned to Afghanistan for their final tour."

"Really?" Tate asks in surprise. "It looked like…It seemed like you two have known each other for a long time. It looked intimate to me."

I'm surprised at his word choice. It must show on my face.

"Intimate. Really? We're just friends," I say, laughing nervously.

Tate studies my face for an endless moment. Then, he shakes his head.

"Brock Wainwright isn't friends with any woman that I know of," he says slowly. "Not ever. Not even, now."

"Oh really? You know this for a fact?" My breath gets uneven at his insinuation and I know I'm blushing. "Because he seems pretty broken, so different, from the last time I saw him when we first met. Back then, he acted as if he owned the world. Now, he doesn't seem to own anything."

"He'll snap out of it. He has to, for Ethan, for himself. He can't waste his life just because he can't see it."

I step back, surprised by this handsome cowboy's sudden discordant tone. His duty to protect Brock is admirable and disconcerting at the same time. I shade my eyes with my hand and look at him more closely. He seems to be sizing me up, too. His eyes narrow as he studies my face.

"He's like a brother to me. So was Ethan. It's hard to see him like this. You're right; he's broken in some ways." Tate gets this disconcerted look as if he's said more than he should have. "I've got this. Go on. Aunt Janie is going to love you. A week under her care, and you'll be a new woman." He finally smiles.

I silently nod and start to leave, still smarting from his insinuation that my actions with Brock were somehow intimate.
What is going on with me today? Why did I touch Brock like that on the way here? Intimate. Inappropriate. We're just friends; aren't we?

"Jordan," Tate calls out to me. His tone, all at once, is conciliatory.

I turn back, looking at him, still uncertain, and give way to the strange confusion his words have conjured up inside of me.

"I love him like a brother, like he loved Ethan," Tate says. "I love them both. I just don't want to see him get hurt anymore than he has been already. Sorry. I shouldn't have jumped all over you like that."

I nod, trying to understand where he's coming from, but still undone by what he's said.

"I was married to Ethan. I loved him. I'm still in love with him," I say with a helpless shrug. "I have no intention of getting involved with anyone. I have my child to think of. And, I can't lose anyone else. I don't know." I look up at him. "I don't know if I'll even survive this loss, let alone be able to love anyone else again. Not with the possibility of losing them." My voice trembles. I know he hears it.

I haven't admitted these fears to anyone. I'm embarrassed to be admitting them, now, to a perfect stranger.

"Just so you know," I say in a low voice. "Ashleigh goes through men like a pair of pajamas. You best stay clear."

I gaze at him in defiance.

At first, he looks disappointed that I would say this, but then he says, "Yeah, I got that."

Thirty seconds later, his face dissolves into this wide dazzling white smile. I catch my breath, awestruck by his stunning beauty, so like his cousin's.

"But just so you know, I'm going to marry that girl."

He gazes at me with such confidence that I'm too taken aback by his audacious comment to even respond. I turn around and walk away from him, trembling with a mixture of anger and embarrassment at his insinuation about Brock and me and his incredible self-assurance about Ashleigh.

Eventually, I turn back. "I think you just met your match, Tate Matthews. You best prepare yourself," I call out to him and finally laugh.

He shakes his head and starts to laugh, too. Then, he turns his attention back to the luggage. Mystified, I watch him for a few minutes as he deftly unloads more of our luggage. Then, I turn away, too confused by his revelations about Ashleigh and even myself.

I cross the vast threshold into the Wainwright's incredible ranch house. My eyes are just becoming adjusted to the dim light of the stunning dark granite foyer in comparison to the bright light of the outdoors when I'm engulfed into the outstretched arms of a beautiful older woman, who can only be Brock's mother.

The faint perfume scent of Coco Chanel's No. 5 assails my nostrils. I breathe in deep and am instantly reminded of my mother.

"Oh, Jordan," the dark-haired woman says.

She has a young Jackie Kennedy thing going on with this amazing shoulder-length hair, the color of espresso, and golden brown eyes that sparkle and just take you in and make you feel welcome. I like her immediately.

"My God. Look at you! You're gorgeous. Just like her," she says, fingering a strand of my hair.

I'm confused by the
her
reference, but before I can ask what she means by that she's stroking my hand.

"You look fantastic. Oh honey, let me hold you for a moment."

I can't say anything.

And, all at once, the sorrow of the past six months takes all control. I start crying in this woman's arms without further provocation.

≈ ≈

A tall glass of lemonade, a guest suite made up to welcome someone of royal status, and a much needed nap have restored my sensibilities into their proper place of outward decorum.

Janie Wainwright is a human dynamo. She runs her household like a cruise ship captain, ensuring all of us have what we need. Ashleigh has already stolen away to catch up with Tate, who is apparently on the Back Forty, wherever that might be, with Brock's father, Henry.

In discerning how much work there is to do on the ranch, since I first arrived a mere six hours before, I'm now indebted to Tate for taking the time to pick us up at the airport, especially since he had to dash off with Henry Wainwright as soon he unloaded all the bags. Of course, this was after my untimely emotional outburst over Ethan and Janie's motherly ministrations. Seeming to realize I didn't want Max to see me upset, Tate was quick to take Max's little hand and hurry him off toward the barn a fair distance from the main house. I''m just trying not to worry too much, since I haven't seen Max since we got here. Janie has assured me that my son is in good hands with her husband, her son, and her nephew Tate.

"Ashleigh's there, too," she says to me now.

I watch her settle in to a cozy chair directly across from me. The furniture in this room is upholstered in silken material with a bright white background and patterned with huge red exotic-looking flowers. Janie Wainwright's sense of decor is on the same scale as my late mother's. I have flashbacks of our mansion in L.A.

"Ashleigh isn't exactly clued in to the details of motherhood."

I have this vision of Max falling off a fence or a horse or something in a faraway field and envision Ashleigh just standing by, unable to determine what to do next other than to reach for her cell phone and call for help. I force myself not to openly shudder.

"I shouldn't have slept so long. I was just so tired. I don't know why."

"Of course you're tired. You've been traveling all day with a small child," she says with a laugh. "Tate said he would bring Max back with him. He'll check in around five, so there's really nothing to worry about."

I clear my throat, hesitant to ask my next question, but somehow, I need to know. I tossed and turned during my nap, restless, by Janie Wainwright's strange reference to her. The words,
you look just like her
kept
spinning through my mind.

"Did you know her?" I finally ask. "My mother, Laurel Breckenridge." My mother's name seems strange to say, but easily rolls off my tongue. I rarely speak of her; and yet, with Janie Wainwright, here I am talking about her.

"Yes. We attended high school together here in Austin. She moved with her mom, your grandmother, after her senior year. She attended UCLA. I stayed here and went to the University of Texas. Then, she met Davis. She had her dreams of being an actor and she'd fallen in love with one. I met Henry. We got married and stayed in Texas. We tried to keep in touch." She shakes her head and tries to smile. "But Texas is a lot different from Hollywood. You were about two when she flew in to Austin, her last visit here. Brock and Diana were about Max's age. I remember the three of you playing in the back yard near the old Oak tree. Brock was pushing you on a swing." She laughs softly, remembering. "It was lovely to see you and your mom. She was so happy, so in love with your dad. And, she loved you. That's how I like to remember her."

Janie gets this haunted look. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when they were killed. I read about their murders in the paper. I couldn't believe it. There wasn't any information about you. I was hoping you'd be with your grandmother, but then I learned she'd passed away a few months before their deaths."