“When I lie by myself and remember, I begin to have pains everywhere and I think of things that make me begin to scream because I hate them so.”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
HER GASP was quick but audible. Followed by one word. “No.”
He’d looked away from her again, letting his eyes get lost in blue flames a few feet away. But now he peered back at her. Met her gaze head on. Even if it was harder this time. “Yeah,” he corrected her. Only then he began to tremble, just slightly. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Of course not.” Horror filled her eyes now and he was sorry as hell he’d told her.
How the fuck had that even happened? Since when did he go spilling his guts to anyone, and spilling his worst, deepest, ugliest secret at that?
He felt like . . . a monster. Someone who hurts people.
Was that how she’d see him now?
“I’m not—it was just—” Shit. He stopped talking, tried to catch his breath.
Beneath the cover, she was touching his chest now, then running one hand up over his shoulder, neck, trying to soothe him. “It’s okay, Jeremy—it’s okay.”
But no amount of comfort could make this better. “It’s not okay. It’ll never be okay.”
“You—you didn’t do it on purpose. And . . . you said ‘pretty sure.’ What does that even mean? Why do you even think . . . ?” She trailed off and he knew she didn’t want to push him any deeper into the memory, but at the same time she wanted to understand.
And hell—now that he’d dropped this shit on her, he wanted her to understand, too. As much as possible anyway. Although, even now, there really wasn’t any understanding it. He gave his head a quick shake, trying to clear it, trying not to get too mired in the ugliness.
“There . . . there was gunfire all around us,” he told her. “My buddy Marco was with me, but we were separated from the rest of my guys.” His heart boomed so hard against his chest it hurt, but he tried to keep talking, tried to stay as calm as he could. “We took cover.” Breathe in to four, breathe out. “In an abandoned stone hut.” Breathe in to four, breathe out. “But we knew the bad guys were coming. Saw them headed our way before we ducked inside.”
Shadows. Images of them filled his head. Dark shadows moving through the dark night. Shadows with guns. Same as he’d been a shadow with a gun.
“Three, four, five Taliban came in bullets flying,” he said, “and we returned fire.”
War games. He’d always been so good at them. Praised. Promoted. Trusted.
He’d trusted himself, too.
He never fucked up. Never.
Until . . .
“And then a sixth man came in . . .” His chest went hollow. “And I thought he was one of them.” Stomach, too. “But when it was all over . . .” More thickness filled his throat. “Chuck lay there dead.”
He let out a sigh. “He’d been coming for us, coming for me and Marco. I don’t even know where from—like I said, I’d lost the rest of my squadron. Somehow Chuck had been more plugged in on my locale than I was myself.” Breathe in to four, breathe out. Hell, was there irony in using breathing techniques learned in the military for combat situations to get him through talking about killing his best friend in one?
It had been a long time since Tamra had spoken—and when she did, damn, the sound of her sweet voice reminded him he was in a safer place now. No more Helmand. No more shadows. At least not the kind with guns.
“But you’re not sure,” she said. “Not sure you did it.”
He swallowed past that damn lump in his throat—it was getting on his fucking nerves. Made him realize he hadn’t felt that so much in a while. He used to feel it all the time. “Not a hundred percent, no,” he told her. “Too many bullets flying. But the way we were positioned . . .” Breathe in, breathe out. “It’s unlikely the fire came from an enemy gun.”
“Don’t they investigate stuff like that?”
Breathe in, breathe out. “When they have reason to suspect friendly fire, sure—they investigate the hell out of it.” Breathe. “But not all friendly fire ever gets reported.” Breathe. “And it’s not something the military likes hearing about—hell, nobody likes it. For obvious reasons. But it happens.” Breathe. “Probably more than people want to believe.” Breathe. “In close combat, it’s fucking hard to keep track of what’s going on—I don’t care what anybody says.”
“I can understand that,” she said. Her voice stayed sweet, calm. He’d never noticed that before, that sweet quality. He let himself focus on it—let it calm him, too.
Even as he let the rest out.
“And so, I’m pretty sure I killed my best friend. And I guess when you break it all down . . . that’s why I have nightmares, that’s why I hid at my brother-in-law’s for so long, that’s why I didn’t give a shit about anything. Because . . . it was just hard to want to live after that. Hard to look in the goddamn mirror.” And it hit him for the first time. Maybe that’s why I quit taking care of myself. Easier to look in the mirror if I don’t really see myself there.
He was done now, spent, ready to shut the hell up.
Maybe she sensed that because she lifted her hand to his face, cupped his jaw, gently kissed his lips. And it was perhaps the nicest kiss he’d ever received.
“I think,” she began gently, “that you should try to let this go.”
He flashed her a stunned look, but before he could say a word in protest, she pressed one art-roughened fingertip over his lips and went on. “Your heart is broken, I know. But you’ve done all you can.”
“I . . . I never . . . told anybody.” It came out sounding hoarse. “His wife. My commanding officers. The shrink I saw before discharge.”
“What good would that do? What good would it do anyone? It wouldn’t, and you knew that. And you’ve tortured yourself enough. I’m sure your friend wouldn’t want that. And I’m not suggesting that letting go of it is easy. And I’m not suggesting forgetting about it. I’m just saying you should . . . consider forgiving yourself. That’s all.”
“But—”
She literally reached out and clamped his lips together between her fingers. “No but,” she said in that same gentle tone. “All I’m looking for here, all I’m wanting you to say is: ‘I’ll try.’”
She pulled her hand away, and he instinctively began to say, “But I—”
This time her fingertips only pressed down on his mouth, effectively shutting him up again. “I’ll try,” she said, enunciating very clearly, eyes wide on his. “That’s all I want to hear, nothing else.”
“Or?” he challenged her.
She pressed her fingers back down over his mouth. “Or this. I can do this all night, you know. So you might as well just see things my way. Now—what do you have to say for yourself, Sheridan?”
She drew her fingertips away. Waited. Oddly, part of him wanted to laugh—it was funny, her physically shutting him up. And that made it easier. To think it over for a minute and to just give her what she wanted. “I’ll try,” he said.
And he didn’t think he meant it. Except when the words left him . . . well, sometimes it was hard to say something without feeling it. Especially given that he quit putting on acts a long time ago. So he was saying it only to appease her, but . . . at the same time, deep down inside, there was a tiny part of him that meant it.
And as they went quiet again, letting the crackle and pops of the fire compete with the distant roar of the surf, Tamra snuggled more closely against him, resting her head on his shoulder. And it was nice. Nice to have . . . her forgiveness, even if he didn’t have his own. Nice to let the crash of waves—rolling in, rolling out—soothe his soul.
Nice sound. Worth coming to the beach alone just for that. The slow rhythm of it was like . . . breathing. And that was when he realized his own had relaxed. Everything in him had relaxed.
He’d been wrong. About her comfort.
It worked.
ALTHOUGH he sometimes drove out to Route 19 to grab some fast food when the urge for something different struck, most nights Jeremy still got his dinner at the Hungry Fisherman or Gino’s, and he’d also gotten in the habit of doing it while the Sunset Celebration took place. Because when people were at the beach, they weren’t at the Hungry Fisherman or Gino’s.
And since his talk with Tamra the other night, he’d connected with her most evenings after the Sunset Celebration, and he had plans with her tonight too, but was stopping into the Fisherman in the meantime.
After baring his soul to her, two things had happened.
He’d realized that maybe telling someone had actually been an okay thing to do. Giving it voice was hard—almost like . . . reliving it. But it had also shown him that maybe he wasn’t a monster. He didn’t want to be absolved—he still didn’t think he deserved to be absolved—but it had shored up something inside him to find out he could tell her something like that and not have it change how she saw him.
The other thing was that . . . well, he was a long way from forgiving himself, but . . . getting her forgiveness made him feel something new. That life was going to go on. His life. He’d put that on hold for a long time now. And even coming to Coral Cove had only been one tiny change, mainly driven by the desire not to burden his relatives. But something in that unexpected conversation had made him realize that if he was alive, existing, breathing, he needed to keep moving forward.
As he walked across the parking lot that led from the Happy Crab to the Hungry Fisherman, he found a certain cat underfoot. It was freaking uncanny sometimes how quick the cat appeared from nowhere the second Jeremy stepped outside. “Do you lie in wait for me or something?” he asked Captain as they crossed the asphalt.
“Meow,” Captain said.
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Then, nearly tripping over the damn cat as usual, he said, “Bud, couldn’t you just hang back at the motel? The fish is coming. You know that. So be cool, huh?”
Of course, Captain didn’t seem to take that to heart. A dog would. Even if a dog didn’t exactly speak English, they still had a way of grasping what you wanted them to do and doing it—at least some of the time. Which is why I’m a dog guy.
Fortunately, Jeremy got in the door of the restaurant without the cat getting in, too. He sat down in his usual booth and, fifteen minutes later, Polly had taken his order and brought him a fish sandwich, coleslaw, and fries.
He was halfway through the sandwich when Abner, wearing a Tampa Bay Buccaneers winter hat complete with a fuzzy ball on top, slid into the padded seat across from him. “How’s your fish?” the older man asked.
“Good,” Jeremy said, a little taken aback as usual when Abner engaged with him.
Then Abner abruptly changed the subject. “You look serious tonight. Somethin’ on your mind?”
Jeremy thought he probably looked serious most nights—but maybe the recent haircut revealed his expression more. And having the man offer to lend an ear caught him off guard just as much as everything else with Abner. So Jeremy said, “Guess I’m thinking about my future.”
“That’s a mighty big subject, son.”
“Yep,” Jeremy agreed. “But the golf course will be done soon. I’m gonna need another job, and hopefully something not as temporary.”
Across from him, Abner nodded repeatedly, appearing to think this over. And finally he said, “Jobs are a dime a dozen. I could put you to work in the kitchen or you could get any of twenty different jobs if you headed out to all the retail on the highway. But seems to me it’d be a good time to start doin’ somethin’ you feel passionate about.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Jeremy confided.
“Then what do you feel passionate about?”
He’d been thinking that over, too, and kept coming back to one thing. “I like building.” He’d liked it more lately than he had anticipated. Maybe it was like . . . his own personal kind of art. Not the same thing as what Tamra did, of course, but he’d discovered it felt good to create something that hadn’t been there before.
“Well, that’s handy, ’cause there’s always construction goin’ on up and down the coast.”
“Problem is,” Jeremy said, “I’m not skilled enough, haven’t had much training. I know enough to put up a golf hut. And I can follow instructions and learn. But I probably couldn’t handle a project much bigger than that on my own.”
Abner turned that over in his head for a minute before he said, “Seems to me like you need some sorta mentor, somebody to teach you those skills.”
Jeremy hadn’t thought he’d want to be anybody’s student at thirty-four, but damn, that suggestion sounded good. The idea lifted his heart unexpectedly.
Though he had no idea where a guy got such a mentor. And he was just about to say that when Abner read his mind. “Let me call up a friend of mine, a fella who owns a big construction outfit, see if he’d he willin’ to hire you on, teach you some of what he knows.”
“You have a friend?” Jeremy asked without missing a beat.
And Abner laughed. “See why I like you? You aren’t afraid to give me a hard time. Most people don’t pay me much attention and I’m good with that. But . . . gotta admit I like you.”
“It may surprise you to hear this, Abner, but I’ve grown fond of you, too.”
When Abner stood to go a few minutes later, he said, “Have a nice evenin’ and enjoy feedin’ your cat the fish Polly slips you across the counter.”
“You know about that, huh?”
“’Fraid so. I notice more than folks realize, includin’ that one.” Abner motioned over his shoulder to his wife as she headed toward the kitchen.
“I can pay for the cat’s food.” Maybe that made sense, actually, now that he was getting more financially stable.
But Abner swiped a hand down through the air and said, “Naw, no need. As long as I don’t have to live with a cat or have a cat runnin’ around in here, you two can feed the thing all ya want.”
He started to walk away then, but Jeremy felt the need to correct him on something. “It’s not my cat, just so you know.”
And Abner simply chuckled. “Whatever you say.” Then went on his way.
Jeremy just rolled his eyes, even though there was no one there to see it.
These cat accusations were getting ridiculous.
A week after Jeremy had told Tamra his big secret, she sat at a table on Christy’s side porch with her and Bethany, helping to decorate tiny bottles of bubbles to be blown at the wedding in lieu of throwing rice or birdseed. The calendar page had turned to October and the wedding was only a couple of weeks away now.
“Did you decide which one you want?” Bethany asked Christy. Now that Tamra’s fellow artist had painted a number of beachscapes, Christy planned to select one as a wedding gift. Tamra had seen the paintings and was duly impressed. She’d never seen Bethany’s cityscapes, which she understood had been her primary focus up to now—but she thought the girl had been born to paint the beach.
“I’m leaning toward the sunset with the most pink in it,” Christy said. “That one just glows—it’s like you captured light on canvas.”
“Excellent choice,” Tamra said, then shifted her gaze to Bethany. “And now that Christy has made her pick, I’m going to look at the rest and buy one from you, so think about what you want for the various pieces.”
“That’s generous, Tamra,” Bethany said with a smile, “but I’d be happy to just give you whichever one you like.”
“No, that’s generous,” Tamra replied. “But I’m big on supporting other artists and I know you are, too—we all need that to get by in this business. I’ll be getting a beautiful piece of art for my home and I want to give you what it’s worth.” Then she tilted her head, adding, “And that reminds me—I’ve been thinking you should set up a table at the Sunset Celebration. It’s a great venue.”
Bethany had attended the nightly event with Christy several times since her arrival. “Oh, I agree it’s great. But . . . don’t you think my pieces are too big, and maybe a little too pricy, for the vacation crowd?”
Tamra turned that over in her head. “Maybe, maybe not. People will spend a lot on something they love. And . . . you could also start doing smaller canvases that could be priced lower. Everyone wants something to take home from their beach vacation.”
Bethany narrowed her gaze and scrunched her lips a little, thinking it over. “Hmm,” she said. “Okay, sure, why not. What do I have to lose?”
Tamra had really come to admire the younger woman’s bold, go-for-it attitude. Especially now that she was reaping some benefits of going for something she’d wanted.
Jeremy and she had connected more nights than not in the past week, and it had remained mind-blowingly hot even as it grew still more comfortable. Now they discussed their plans with ease rather than tiptoeing around the issue. If one of them was tired and wanted to just lie low, the other didn’t take that personally. And on the rest of the nights, well . . . heaven had come to Tamra’s own backyard.
Her garden had quickly come to feel more like their place than hers alone now. Sometimes it was all sex, sex, sex—sex in the hammock, sex by the fire, occasionally even sex in her bed of all normal places. Other times, though, it was talking. About her past and his. They never pushed each other, but it had just become easy to share now, in a way she knew neither of them shared with anyone else.
And Jeremy had finally seen her art and seemed impressed—he’d even commissioned special pieces for his sister and mother for Christmas, along with one for Polly, as well.
That had surprised her. “Polly?” she’d asked.
“She’s been good to me,” he’d said easily. “And she doesn’t have a lot of pretty things in her life—so she might like something pretty, something that catches the light.” For her he’d requested a stained glass suncatcher shaped like a cat.
“But you’re not a cat guy,” Tamra had reminded him, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Nope,” he’d insisted. “This is for Polly, not me—remember?”
The sounds of muffled voices from behind Christy and Jack’s cottage brought Tamra’s thoughts back to the present, reminding her that Fletcher and Jack were currently finishing up the arbor in the backyard.
And Tamra hoped this wouldn’t be a bad subject to broach, but decided to anyway. “About Fletcher,” she said to Bethany, “I’m really sorry about how things turned out. I know he really liked you and wanted to get to know you better.”
Bethany let out a wistful sigh. “The hell of it is that he turned out to be so cute. Still not my usual type, but . . . there was something about him I really connected to.” Then she shook her head. “Crazy of me, right? To think things would ever work out with a guy I really like?”
“Stop that,” Christy admonished her. “The right guy will come along.”
“I’m not necessarily looking for my Prince Charming,” Bethany argued. “Just someone to . . . connect with, like I said. Someone steady and nice.”
“Well, then I’m sure that guy will come along, too,” Christy-the-eternal-optimist said.
Bethany only shrugged. “Maybe. But where is he?” And before either of them could reply, she looked to Tamra and said, “I guess things are working out for him and his wife then.” It was a statement, but also, Tamra knew, a question.
“As far as I know.” Between work and Jeremy, Tamra hadn’t seen much of Fletcher lately, but in the brief conversations they’d shared, things had sounded the same—like he and Kim were busy rebuilding their relationship.
“Well, I’m happy for him,” Bethany announced. “It might not seem that way, but I am. I mean, to think he believed all that time that she would come back and then she did. There’s something special in that, right?”
And it was hard for anyone to argue that. Even Christy stayed quiet. The silence among them was its own answer. It was difficult to question an honest-to-goodness miracle.
“Well,” Christy finally said, ending the quiet contemplation, “Tamra is living proof that the perfect guy can come along when you least expect it.”
Tamra’s face warmed slightly as a blush stole over her. Sometimes it was still hard to believe the way things had unfolded for her and Jeremy. And maybe that wasn’t a miracle as big as Fletcher’s, but given the romantic drought that had stretched through most of her life, it still felt pretty darn miraculous in its own way. She’d written Fletcher that note at the party about it being a night for miracles, but maybe it was just a time for miracles, a time for change, for all of them. Maybe Bethany, too—even though Tamra had no idea where Bethany’s own personal miracle might come from.
“It’s true,” Tamra replied. “Things can change in a heartbeat.”
Christy gave her head a thoughtful tilt. “And if you don’t mind my saying, you’ve been a ray of sunshine lately. You seem happier than I’ve ever seen you.”
“And now we hear all sorts of interesting noises from your backyard at night,” Bethany added, punctuating the statement with a sly grin.
The heat of another blush crept up Tamra’s neck and onto her cheeks.
But Bethany quickly added, “Oh, hey, don’t worry—I’m not modest. I’ve had sex in lots of weird places. And he really turned out to be a hottie—so have fun with it.”
Though what Tamra shared with Jeremy had gotten to be more than just fun. She cared about him. A lot. How could she not? He’d brought her back from such a barren romantic existence. He’d taken her from having nothing to feeling like she had it all—laughter, passion, companionship, and . . . trust. The trust he’d shown in her had blown her away. So she liked to think she’d helped bring him back from a pretty bad place, too.
A few hours later, she found herself in the spot on the pier where she sold her wares most evenings, sorry to notice a slight chill in the air setting in earlier now that summer had passed officially into autumn, but happy enough about other things.
Bethany had brought her paintings tonight—Christy and Jack had provided a folding table for her to sit at with her work propped up in front of it and also behind her, against the pier railing. And she’d seemed utterly surprised when an older woman walking a Chihuahua had purchased one of her paintings for $75 in the first half hour. It had reminded Tamra to go ahead and select the one she wanted, too, after which she pointed out with a wink, “Two official sales already—not bad.”
Plus she had plans to meet Jeremy later—he’d suggested getting slices of pumpkin pie at the Hungry Fisherman, which Polly started offering this time of year, and then seeing where the night led them. And she hoped the night would lead straight to sex. Wild, crazy, hot, naughty sex. Because she was finally comfortable wanting that and not being shy about it.
Just then Reece came strolling up, walking Fifi on the pink leash Tamra had given him a few Christmases ago, and he paused to say, “You’ve got a suspicious grin on your face.”
She let her eyebrows rise. “I do?”
“Yep. And that’s new on you. And I like it.”
“Is that so?” She gave her head an inquisitive tilt.
“Yep. Because I’m pretty sure I know what it’s about.”
She blinked. “You are?”
“Yep. The guy staying in Room Eleven,” he said—and then he tossed her a wink before Fifi led him sauntering away.
Soon after, Fletcher walked by hand in hand with Kim, raising a casual wave to Bethany as Kim stopped to say to Tamra, “I’m going to pick out the perfect suncatcher for our kitchen window.” And Tamra realized that maybe some of her happiness with Jeremy had come along . . . because Fletcher had made her believe in miracles. And ever since then, she’d felt like more and more of them were possible.
She watched as they proceeded up the pier, a little sad for Bethany, but feeling like things must be working out the way they were supposed to. After all, that was what Fletcher always said. And she pretty much considered him the authority on that now.
“Hi, Mary.”
She jumped at the sound of the familiar voice, deep and sexy, and looked up to find none other than Jeremy himself standing in front of her. She blinked, stunned. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
He laughed, even if it appeared a bit forced, and said, “No, something’s right. It’s just . . . time I came here. Time I started getting past some things. I should have come the first time you invited me, but better late than never, right?”
She smiled up at the man who had brought her so much joy, so much passion. “So why tonight? What brought this on?”
“Guess I just wanted to surprise you.”
One more little miracle.