And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles.
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
IN THE days that followed, Tamra and Jeremy resumed work on the golf course. Since the artificial grass had been installed on all the holes the previous week, Jeremy began cutting and attaching the wooden borders around each green. While most modern courses were using more natural boundaries like stone and other landscaping materials, the Coral Cove Mini-Golf Paradise had been designed to resemble those from an earlier era, with a retro feel, right down to the coral-colored details accenting it all.
And that was mostly what Tamra worked on—painting the borders before Jeremy put them in place, and finishing painting the hut. She was also busy placing orders for a cash register, snack foods, a soft drink dispenser, golf clubs, and an array of colorful balls.
Of course, working together was entirely different now. Now Tamra welcomed Jeremy’s flirtation—even if she sometimes had to bat his grabby hands away, only because the course was situated right in the center of town where anyone could see them.
After the first day they worked together, Tamra wondered if Jeremy might come over that night. She sat outside in one of the Adirondack chairs with a glass of wine, almost waiting on him, almost willing him to come—but time passed and it got late and she realized it wasn’t going to happen.
She looked at her cell phone and considered texting him, inviting him. Yet she decided against it. She didn’t want to seem like she wanted him if he wasn’t . . . in the mood. Or maybe he didn’t want it to become a big, every night thing. Whatever the reason, despite her new confidence, she still decided to leave the next move to him.
The following night, as they were finishing up the day’s work, Jeremy said, “So what’s up tonight? Any chance I can interest you in grabbing a pizza with me at Gino’s?”
And crap—she had plans. “I’m sorry—Fletcher and Kim invited me over to dinner after the Sunset Celebration. I think they want to try playing ordinary husband and wife. Or maybe she wants to get to know me. I’m not sure, but can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”
Jeremy had tilted his head and flashed a cute look. “Could always blow it off. And we eat the pizza in private somewhere so they never know.”
Wow, she so wanted to eat pizza someplace private with Jeremy. And then do other things with him in private, too. But she let out a sigh and said, “I can’t. He’s too good a friend and this situation is too weird. I don’t want to let him down. Another time, though?”
“Sure,” he said. Perhaps a bit too easily, as if he’d felt he’d been blown off.
And she’d felt awkward.
Her dinner with Fletcher and Kim held some awkwardness of its own. They were both trying too hard to be normal, but it was apparent to Tamra that nothing was normal, at least not yet. Afterward, Fletcher walked Tamra back across the street to her house. “It’s getting better,” he told her. “We’re talking a lot, working through issues. And she loved all the little gifts I got for her while she was gone. I’ve even convinced her we can be happy if we stay here and don’t go back out on the road.”
Tamra’s eyes had gone wide. “She’s trying to make you leave? Sell your house?”
“Don’t worry—I’ve made her understand this is my home now. She’s just afraid people here won’t really accept her. But I’ve assured her they will. That’s why I wanted you to come over tonight. And thanks for being pleasant to her. I know that might not be easy for you.”
“I’m trying. For you,” she said. Then admitted, “She’s actually pretty nice.”
“And what’s up with your new lover?” he asked teasingly.
Her face warmed at the word, as he’d clearly intended. “Well, nothing new, but . . . let’s just say we get along at work a whole lot better now.” And she’d ended with a smile, but she also hoped there’d be something new to share soon.
It was two days of frustration and flirtation later that she was bent over Hole 14, inserting the little metal cup that would catch the ball, when she turned around and caught Jeremy checking her out.
She cast a playful smile. “See something you like, Mr. Dog Guy?”
“Sure do, Mary. Your ass.”
She blushed hotly at his bluntness.
“Can I just be honest with you about something here?” he asked.
Hmm. She got to her feet and turned to face him. “Yeah, okay.”
And her cheeks got even hotter when he said, “I’m so hard for you right now I’m about to bust my damn zipper. And I’ve been hard for you since about Sunday morning, since about an hour after I left your garden.”
After a small gasp left her, a lump of something like anticipation rose to Tamra’s throat. “Really?” Part of her couldn’t believe he’d just said that, but then she remembered that Jeremy seldom minced words.
“Yep, really.”
She tried to swallow back that anxious lump as a tingly sensation cocooned her whole body. “Then, um, what should we do about it?”
His eyes narrowed on her. “You could invite me over later. We could build a fire, eat that pizza next to it. And then we could have fun in your hammock again.”
He was possibly the boldest man she’d ever known. The ones in her youth—they’d been bold, too, but in a different way. They’d been all about taking advantage of her innocence, deceiving her. But Jeremy was without guile. He was just himself, no pretending or strategizing or tiptoeing around anything. And even when it caught her off guard, she kinda liked it.
After all, she’d been tiptoeing around this for the past few days and it had gotten her nowhere. Clearly Jeremy had tired of that and had now taken them somewhere with a few simple sentences.
She let out a breath. “Okay, consider yourself invited.”
WHEN Jeremy arrived with pizza following the Sunset Celebration that night, he found her in the garden, waiting with two glasses of wine beside a small café-style table he hadn’t noticed on his previous visits. It was tucked away at the end of the stone path, painted in an array of colors and swirly designs, and he suspected she’d done the artwork herself. And for some reason, he had the feeling she’d never sat at the table with anyone else before. It felt like . . . a private place within her private place.
Music played softly over speakers he couldn’t see—Marie Lambert singing about her secrets—and the lights in Tamra’s trees gave the whole garden a magical essence.
She must have sensed him taking it all in because as she handed him a wineglass, she bit her lip and asked, “Too much?”
He shook his head. “No. Perfect. In fact . . . I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be with you.”
Her expression softened, those pretty red spirals falling around her face, and he could see the sentiment touched her. “I’m glad you like what I’ve created here. It’s . . . special to me.”
“I guess I kinda feel that.” He gave her a quick wink. “And even though I’m doing a hell of a lot better about being with people, there’s still something pretty damn comfortable about . . . not. Being with them.” Then he winced. “Not you, I mean. You I like.” He leaned his head back, sighed. “I like lots of people. I just . . .”
“It’s okay, I get it,” she said on a soft trill of laughter. “I’m not always crazy about hanging out with other people, either. Why do you think I made this place?”
After they sat down and started eating slices of greasy pepperoni pizza on brightly colored plates she’d brought from inside, he asked about the table and chairs and learned that she had indeed painted them.
“I’d like to see more of your art,” he told her. “Maybe after we eat you can show me.”
Her eyes lit up. “Sure. My art is . . . what sustains me. Not only financially, but in my heart, I mean.” Then she lowered her chin and looked more vulnerable than usual. “But . . . I kinda thought you weren’t interested in that.”
He blinked. “Why?”
She dropped her gaze to her pizza, yet then peeked back up at him. “Well . . . I invited you to come see it at the Sunset Celebration. But you weren’t into it.”
Aw damn—she’d misunderstood. But then again, he hadn’t bothered to explain. Back then, it would have been too personal. Now, though . . . he could tell her. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see you, or your art. It’s . . . crowds. Crowds aren’t my thing, Mary.”
She looked earnestly curious as she asked, “Why not?”
And Jeremy drew in a breath, let it back out. He was okay with telling her this, but it still made his chest tighten. “It’s a war thing. When you’re over there, crowds just mean trouble. They’re unpredictable. You can’t keep an eye on everybody—you can’t control what happens.”
“Oh.” She looked both understanding and sad. “I never thought of it having to do with that.”
He nodded. Most people didn’t get it, he knew. “When I’m on the jobsite with you, or in the Hungry Fisherman, or hanging out behind the Crab, there are few enough people around that I can monitor the situation, keep a lookout for anything suspicious or weird.”
“And you do that? In all those places?”
“Everywhere,” he admitted. His thoughts went back to the Home Depot where he’d picked up work supplies several times now. “Not crazy about big stores, either, but doing better with that. And I’m cool with jogging on the beach at night when it’s mostly quiet, or walking up the street to Gino’s for a couple slices when there aren’t too many cars driving down Coral Street. But the Sunset Celebration—or hell, even the beach in the middle of the day . . .” He stopped, shook his head. “I know, logically, it’s fine. I know there aren’t suicide bombers hanging out on the pier. But . . . just not my scene, like I said.”
“I understand now,” she told him. “Though . . . I’m sorry you miss out on it. It’s nice. I think you’d have a good time. Without the crowd issue, I mean.”
He just nodded. It embarrassed him a little, made him feel like a tough kid in the schoolyard letting his insecurities show. But at the same time he was glad to clear the air on it.
“Can I ask you about something else? Something that’s none of my business?”
Hmm. This is what you get when you start opening up to someone. The question reminded him that everything came with a price, even something as simple as letting someone get to know you. “Sure, you can ask me anything.” Then he grinned. “Can’t promise I’ll answer, but you can ask.”
She returned the smile. “Fair enough. I’m just wondering how you ended up . . . well, without a home or income. Because, I mean, they pay you in the service, right? Even if you didn’t get a job right away after coming back, I would have just thought—”
“I gave it away,” he replied.
“What?” She looked surprised.
“I’d saved most of my pay the whole time I served. But I gave it all to someone after I was discharged. Someone who I thought needed it more than me.”
She regarded him from beneath shaded eyelids. And he realized he’d have to tell her more. He’d answered without forethought, wanting her to understand his circumstances came with reasons—but if he didn’t tell her who he’d given his money to, he’d seem like a guy who kept secrets. And in truth, he was keeping a secret—a damn colossal one. But he didn’t want to seem shady or suspect. With Tamra, he didn’t want to be that guy anymore.
“I had a buddy in Afghanistan named Chuck.” He stopped, pressed his lips together, felt the weight of what he’d just said. “No, he was more than a buddy—he was my best friend. We went through a lotta kinds of hell together.”
He stopped, remembering Chuck’s face, his big goofy grin. He’d been the guy who could laugh through the rough times, lighten things up. The muscles in Jeremy’s chest tightened, but he shut his eyes a second, pushed that away, and went on. “Chuck was killed.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He just shook his head. It was nice of her, but she shouldn’t be sorry for him. “Thing is, Chuck had four little kids. The oldest is only ten now. And I knew even with death benefits, it just wouldn’t be enough. And Chuck had big dreams for them. He wanted them to have opportunities, wanted them to go to college—the two oldest ones are bright as hell. So . . . not long after I got home, I drove from Ohio to Texas and wrote his wife a check.”
“For all of it?” She looked a little amazed.
“Yep,” he said. Then he let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Now thing is, when I did that, I thought I was in better shape. I thought I’d get a good job and be the hero everybody in my hometown thought I was. Only . . . it didn’t work out that way. And hell . . .” He laughed again. “If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have kept a little of that money to help me get by. But guess I didn’t think through that grand plan quite well enough, huh?”
“What happened, Jeremy?” she asked gently. “Why didn’t you get that job? Why weren’t you the hero your friends and family . . . thought?” She’d paused toward the end, her voice gone softer. And he heard it, that second when she realized what he’d said—the war hero they thought I was. And she knew now that there was something people didn’t know.
Jeremy parked his chin in his palm, his elbow on the table. His fingers, curled into a loose fist, pressed against his mouth as he let his gaze drop to the open pizza box between them. And it struck him then—the military shrink had pointed out this gesture to him. “You do that when there’s something you want to hide, something you don’t want to say—you cover your mouth, cover part of your face.” Even so, in the end, Jeremy had convinced him he was okay.
Tamra tuned in to his unease. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. And the fact that you gave your income to that family—Jeremy, that’s tremendously selfless. You should be proud of that.”
Still letting his fist cover his mouth, he raised his eyes to her. “Proud? No,” he said. “It’s not a pride thing. It was just . . . the thing I had to do. The only decent thing.” He stopped, drew in a breath. “If anything about any of it could be called decent,” he heard himself mutter.
Across the table, she bit her lower lip, and he could see her trying to read what was going on behind his eyes, wanting to know more. Shit, how had things gotten so freaking serious here? This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he’d suggested this.
And . . . hell, she was so pretty. He’d always thought that, but he could swear that just since the party she’d somehow gotten even more so. It was as if her skin was softer, glowing, her eyes a deeper shade of green with a brighter sparkle. Her hair now fell about her face in a way that softened everything in her demeanor. Or . . . maybe he’d done that. In the hammock with her.
“Would you mind,” he asked, “if we didn’t talk anymore?”
Full darkness framed her face now, her eyes as illuminated as the tiny bulbs strung in the trees. “Sure,” she said. Though she looked as if she felt bad now, and he didn’t want that.
“I came here,” he told her, “because you make me feel . . . better. Better than I do most of the time. And I think I make you feel good, too. And I’m looking at your beautiful face and thinking: Why the hell am I telling her all this heavy shit when all I really want to do is have my way with her?”
Across from him she sat up a little straighter in her chair, tensing slightly. Her lips pressed into a thin, straight line. And he thought maybe he’d said the wrong thing—until she replied, “Then I think you should have your way with me.”