Czytaj książkę: «Her Military Man»

Chapter One

“Pardon my French, lady, but that’s a load of—”

Beeeeeeeep.

“My, my…” Constance Price, aka Miss Manners, said with a relieved sigh. How could it be Wednesday when it felt so much like Monday? Thank goodness she’d hit the censor button in time to avoid the juiciest portions of her caller’s rant from hitting Mule Shoe, Oklahoma’s airwaves. She liked to think her talk radio program was progressive, but not in a vulgar, do-any-stunt-for-ratings way. Monday through Friday, noon to 2:30, she prided herself in tastefully providing listeners with lifestyle tips on everything from hosting the perfect dinner party to sharing the perfect relationship. Sounded great in theory, but when it came to the whole guy-girl thing? Her own life hadn’t turned out so hot. That said, how had she landed the job as Mule Shoe’s queen of manners? Well, the show she’d originally pitched had had more of a Martha Stewart domestic-type theme. Much to her daily consternation, to expand the advertising base, Constance’s boss had tagged on the show’s relationship portion. Of course, that sometimes opened the door to a lot of opinionated listeners.

“Thank you, sir, for your enlightened view.”

“Enlightened, my—”

Beeeeeeeep.

“Thanks again,” Constance said before disconnecting the caller, then taking a hasty sip of a Diet Coke she wished had a bit more kick—with an un-ladylike poke of rum! “All right, as a refresher to my listeners, today’s theme is breakups—how to handle them in a mutually respectable and mannerly fashion. Renee-Marie,” she asked her show’s redheaded Cajun producer and the station’s part-time receptionist, “do we have another caller?”

“Line two,” Renee-Marie said with a wink.

A wink?

Shaking her head, Constance hit the feed. “Miss Manners here. How may I assist you in living a more civilized existence?”

“Okay,” the same obnoxious caller said, “I get the hint about toning down my language. But while you’ve been sitting in your no doubt pink satin broadcast booth, I’ve been off serving our country in godforsaken places you couldn’t imagine in your worst nightmares.”

“Sorry…” Constance glared at Renee-Marie who’d held up a note that read, Felix made me do it! Felix was the station owner, her boss and a royal pain in Constance’s derriere. “Truly, I am, but—”

“Look, all I’m trying to say is there’s no such thing as a mannerly breakup. I usually wouldn’t have time for rehashing ancient history on a show about manners, but I’ve been laid up with a busted leg, giving me far too many hours for reflection. Case in point, I once knew this girl—let’s call her Lucky—well…”

Chills ran up Constance’s forearms.

A million years ago back in high school, Garret used to call her Lucky—on account of her being his lucky charm. Long story short, if ever there’d been a textbook example of an unmannerly breakup, theirs was it!

“…Lucky was a looker. In fact, she reminded me a lot of you. Oh, she put on a great self-effacing act. You know, acting all demure and polite about what a closet sex kitten she truly was, but let me tell you, that girl could purr.”

Constance cleared her throat, loosening the collar of her high-necked, long-skirted, prairie-style dress in the process. “Might I remind you this is a family show. Please refrain from the more base details of your story.”

“Yes, ma’am…” Was that a mocking grin behind his words? Garret used to do the same thing—tease her about being too formal. Like she’d been born a century too late. “So, like I was saying, Lucky—” he coughed “—better known as you—pretended to be one thing, but inside…” His sad laugh rang over otherwise dead air. Dead. Out of necessity, the way things had been left between them. “Anyway, without airing dirty laundry, all I’m trying to say is how about not just laying all the guilt for poorly done exits on guys? As in the case of a certain lucky charm I used to know, there are some she devils out there deserving credit.”

Air.

Must.

Breathe.

Now.

Constance? Renee-Marie silently screamed behind the studio’s soundproof window.

No way was the caller Garret.

The man hadn’t stepped foot in Mule Shoe since the day he’d left for the Navy ten years earlier. Since that day, all color and hope and joy had been sucked from Constance’s life. At least until her daughter—their daughter—Lindsay, had been born.

On the flip side, who else could it be? The guy’s wrath felt targeted on her.

Really? Or was that guilt and regret over never having told Garret the truth about their little girl exploding in her head? In her heart, she’d called him a hundred times, written a hundred more letters, but somehow she’d never found the right words. How many times had she told herself fear kept her secret safely locked inside? Fear of her sad childhood playing out again? Only this time, with her daughter?

For the sake of her show—her sole means of financial support—she had to pull it together. Constance cleared her throat off air, then managed somehow to inquire in a blessedly detached voice, as if she hadn’t just joined Garret’s cat-and-mouse game, “Ever considered there may have been a reason behind Lucky’s actions? That maybe she’d actually been trying to help you?”

He laughed sharply. “By making out with another guy? Worse yet, my supposed best friend?”

“Yes, but did you look hard enough to see if the kiss was genuine—or maybe all for show?” Covering her face with her hands, Constance told herself to shut up. The man wasn’t Garret any more than her heart was on the verge of pounding straight up and out of her chest over the notion that maybe he was Garret, come home to haunt her. If he’d had any idea why she’d kissed Nathan that horrible night, maybe he wouldn’t now be so cruel. “Maybe the whole time, this Lucky person to whom you keep referring, was kissing that other guy, she was thinking about you. Wondering if—”

“Give me a break. See? This is what I’m talking about. This show is bogus. Entirely one-sided with the favor always going to the ladies. You’re always talking about how guys are basically snaggle-toothed brutes and women nothing but sweetness and light.”

“That’s not true. Just the other day we did a show on women who curse and how that affects the men who love them.”

He laughed again, filling her mind and heart and soul with a huskier, world-weary vision of her first love. No way. It couldn’t be him. No, no, no. “I’m gone. Peace out.”

“Well…” she eventually said after a four- or five-second dead air lag to regain her composure.

Seriously, the guy couldn’t have been Garret.

Last she’d heard through a friend of a friend, the Navy SEAL was rarely even in the country, let alone backwoods Oklahoma. He didn’t even come home for Christmas—instead always sending his mother a plane ticket to meet him somewhere exotic.

How did she know? Strictly beauty shop gossip. Well, except for that time she’d run into his cousin Hillary at the county fair. And then, Constance had only asked about him to be polite.

Yeah, right.

“Renee-Marie, do you have our next caller?”

“Miss Manners, my name’s Pat, and I just want to tell you how much I adore your program. You don’t pay that obviously ill-bred oaf the slightest bit of attention. Oh, and for the record, though I’m sixty-eight years young, and it’s been fifty years since my last breakup, I still believe kindness is a virtue—most especially with those we no longer want in our daily lives.”

And so the afternoon lagged on…

“Miss Manners, I’m Jim, and I gotta say I agree wholeheartedly with Military Man. All this manners stuff is hoity-toity horse crap. Oh, and just curious, how long were you two an item?”

“Miss Manners, I’m Vicki, and I agree with you in that manners are a beautiful, necessary part of life. That military man you used to date is obviously never going to land another girlfriend, much less a wife, if he persists in being such a barbarian.”

“Thanks to all my callers,” Constance finally said. “That wraps the show for today, so until tomorrow, I’m Miss Manners, wishing you mannerly days and deliciously refined nights.”

Sharply exhaling, Constance disconnected her mic.

“Great show!” Felix burst into the drab, brown-paneled broadcast booth with all the grace and forewarning of a Sooner State twister. “Wowza, where’d you find that guy? Wait—don’t answer. I don’t wanna know if you two never really dated and the whole thing was rigged. But whatever you do, keep him coming. The phone’s going nuts. All twenty of your faithful listeners must’ve called everyone they know to tell them about the show. We’ve had so many calls in the last five minutes, my cousin Wanda said the first time she tried getting through, there was actually a recording saying circuits are busy.”

“That’s all well and good,” Constance said, fishing under the brown laminate counter supporting her announcer turret and mic for her worn leather purse. “But I’m pretty sure I know this guy, and trust me, he’s rough around the edges. It’s best we never hear from him again.”

“Crap on a stick,” Felix said, “you’re going straightaway to sign the guy, right? Because with that much passion between you, the show’s a surefire hit.”

“But, Felix, I—”

He sobered. “Look, you know how I hate being the heavy, but remember that talk we had the other day?”

“A-about my ratings?” Her gaze plummeted to her scuffed brown boots.

“Yeah. How they’re the lowest in this station’s history—and that’s saying something, considering some of the junk we’ve had on the air.”

“But, Felix, I told you just as soon as folks realize how important caring about others’ feelings and incorporating manners into their everyday lives is, that—”

“Manners schmanners,” he said with a glint of his right gold canine. “All I care about are advertising dollars. Get this guy back on by the time I’m back from my trip, or your show’s in the can.”

Felix blustered off while Renee-Marie wandered in. They’d only been friends for a little under a year—the time Constance had been doing the show. Before that, Constance had worked more than a dozen small jobs that never seemed enough to pay the black hole of bills that came along with being a single mom.

She’d always dreamed of going to college, maybe earning a degree in history or literature to match her love of all things eighteenth and nineteenth century, back when everything seemed more…civilized. She’d fantasized about using that degree to work in a big city museum. Or the ultimate dream—penning a historic novel.

But then her and Garret’s relationship had moved to the next level, and suddenly being with him in every way a man and woman could—even though technically they’d still been teenagers—had meant more than future career aspirations. Her love for Garret had been like a living, breathing entity all its own. He’d made her feel cherished and safe and beautiful and interesting and above all, loved.

She’d have done anything for him—anything. Meaning, when she’d discovered she was pregnant a week before graduation, she’d loved him enough to let him go. To want him to follow his own dream of getting out of Mule Shoe, out from under his deceased father’s lengthy shadow.

“Felix doesn’t really mean it,” Renee-Marie said, wrapping Constance in a warm hug. “About firing you if you don’t track down that caller. You know how he is. Meaner than a crawdad with somebody dunking his tail in boilin’ butter. This’ll all blow over.”

Constance wished she could be so sure.

One thing was for certain, if the caller was Garret, he’d be easy enough to find. His mother lived only ten miles from Constance. All she’d need do was head that way, then politely inquire whether or not her son was in town.

On the one hand, if the caller was him, and if by some miracle Constance got him to agree to make a few guest appearances, then what? Yes, her much-needed job would be safe, but what about her most closely held secret?

“You going to be all right?” Renee-Marie asked.

“Maybe,” Constance said. Assuming Felix knocked off his foolish insistence on her old beau joining her show.

GARRET UNDERWOOD switched off the kitchen radio, wincing when the sudden movement stung deep within his bum left leg. Two months earlier, he’d busted it jumping from a helicopter onto a ship’s deck in choppy seas. Diagnosis? Comminuted fracture of his proximal femur. Docs fixed him with a steel rod, meaning no cast but plenty of pain. Recovery time? A good three or more months, which—taking into account time already served—left a minimum of three weeks to go.

He was now up to his neck in physical therapy. Plenty of weight-bearing exercises that left him aching, but if that’s what it took to get back on the job, so be it. His doc had yet to make a final decision as to whether or not he’d even still be fit to return to duty. He said he was waiting to see final X-rays to give his ultimate okay. Garret didn’t need pictures to tell him he’d be fine. He had to be. For if he no longer had his work, where did that leave him?

Lord knew he couldn’t spend the next fifty or so years stuck back in Mule Shoe.

He looked up to see his mother smiling. She calmly asked, “Mind telling me what that was all about?”

“What?”

She’d passed the morning in her garden, picking the first of that season’s green beans, zucchinis, cukes and tomatoes. She’d started her crop early in her greenhouse, placing her well ahead of everyone else’s garden game. At sixty, wearing jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt, Audrey Underwood looked a damn sight younger than he felt.

Tapping the portable radio she’d unhooked from the waistband of her jeans, she said, “I heard the whole thing. You do know Miss Manners is her, don’t you? Your Constance? The station has a billboard of her out by the cattle auction.”

“Yeah,” Garret said, trying not to glare, but not quite succeeding. “I know it’s her.” How many other people in the county had heard him make a complete jackass of himself? “But even if you did hear me, what makes you think I was talking about her?”

“Oh,” she said, setting her basket loaded with greens on the white tile counter beside the sink. The homey sight of her bountiful harvest completed the already disgustingly pleasant space. Yellow-flowered wallpaper set the tone for white cabinets and a worn brick floor. The flood of sunshine streaming through every paned window on the south wall didn’t do much for his mood, either. Where was a stinkin’ cloud when a guy needed one? “Maybe I don’t believe you’re over her because even after all this time, you still won’t say her name.”

Laughing, shaking his head while wobbling to his feet, he said, “Give me one good reason I should? That girl’s a snake.”

“That girl’s a woman now.”

He snorted. “A woman who ran off and married my best friend, then had his kid.”

“They’re divorced. Have been for quite some time.”

“And I’d care why?” he asked from in front of the picture window overlooking blue sky and rolling green pasture where a half dozen Herefords stood chewing their cud. Twenty or so stubby oaks dotted the landscape that otherwise consisted of nothing much but alfalfa and ragweed reaching as far as the overgrown fencerow serving as the boundary between his mom’s property and the Griggs’s. Though his dad had been gone for nearly twelve years, Garret remembered like it was yesterday when the two of them used to walk that fence, checking for breaks, mostly just swapping guy stories.

Though his dad, Ben, had been an attorney by trade and only a part-time farmer, he’d loved the land. He’d made sure that financially, Garret’s mother could live in the rambling two-story white Victorian plopped on the edge of five hundred acres of pasture and forest for as long as she liked or was able.

“Honey,” she said, stepping up behind him, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Let it go. Let her go.”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

She shot him The Look. The one he’d always hated, because no matter how many missions he’d fought, or how many hellholes he’d barely made it out of, it was a look that instantly reduced him to a scraped-knee kid all of about eight. “How do pork chops sound for dinner? Mashed potatoes. Maybe sugar peas and a peach cobbler with plenty of ice cream?”

“Don’t do that,” he said, swinging about to watch as she hustled back to the sink to wash vegetables.

“Do what?” she oh so innocently sang over her shoulder.

It was no family secret the woman had been after him to settle down and give her grandkids for the past five years. But if she was for one second by way of reverse psychology suggesting he look up Constance, she could forget it. He’d been trained in all manner of mental warfare and he wasn’t about to succumb. “Never mind,” he grumbled. “Need help?”

She winked. “Only if you’re offering to get me a few dozen grandkids.”

MONDAY AFTERNOON after the longest, dullest weekend ever—but wait, he’d already barely survived that the weekend before—Garret sat in an entirely too girly white wicker rocker on the front porch of his mother’s house, trying to remember the last time he’d had fun.

For mid-April, the heat was fierce. Hot sun made even the usually blaring cicadas too weary to sing. Having been based on the East Coast for so long, he’d forgotten what Oklahoma heat was like—and this wasn’t anywhere near the prime of it.

He swigged bottled water, wishing it was beer, but his mom had strict rules about not drinking before five, and seeing how he was already in piss-poor shape, it probably wasn’t that hot of an idea to screw up his liver in addition to his leg.

Lord, how he wanted out of Mule Shoe and back to his own place in Virginia. Not that he was in the studio condo all that much, but it was the point of the matter. He needed his own space.

Far from memories being back here evoked.

Hard to believe that after all this time, after all he’d been through, all that old angst over Constance was still there. Simmering just beneath the surface.

Sitting here in the sweltering sun, if he closed his eyes and held his breath, he’d be back to their first time.

A sun-drenched May afternoon when he’d picked her up in Big Red—his old Chevy truck—for a day at the swimming hole on the backside of the Underwood land. The pond had a rock bottom and was spring-fed, meaning the water was clear and cool. Stubby oaks and maples and a few odd cedars provided dappled shade, save for the one grassy bank his dad had cleared for his mom years earlier where he’d planned on building her a gazebo. He’d died before making it happen, but at that moment, seeing how perfect the spot was for Constance to settle her oil-slicked bikini-clad bod on top of her towel, Garret was damn glad there wasn’t a gazebo mucking up the view.

Lord, Connie had been beautiful. Legs so long that every time he’d seen her in her cheerleading uniform, he’d been glad for the protection of his own football uniform’s cup.

The afternoon started out casual enough as they shared chips and Twinkies and talked in the blazing sun. Not before and not since had he ever felt more comfortable opening himself up to a woman. She’d had this way of looking at him—staring right into his soul. Made him spill secrets that in retrospect had been better off left inside. But he’d been a kid. Stupid in love. Stupid in the way she’d made him feel like the star of her life. As if being with her, he could do and be all things. With every part of his being, he’d secretly fantasized that one day, Connie would be his wife.

Later, they’d swum and laughed and took turns dunking each other. But then, he wasn’t even sure how, maybe because of the way water drops sparkled in her dark hair, he’d kissed her.

They’d been going out since just before Halloween, so it wasn’t as if he hadn’t kissed her before. Hell, most Saturday nights they’d round second base, sometimes even third, but something about this day was different. Never had they been so absolutely alone with nothing bearing witness but the blue, blue sky and a few chattering squirrels.

Maybe he’d kissed her with such urgency because it would be a long time before he saw her again.

In his heart, where it mattered, she’d always be his. For the time being, though, he’d known parting ways was for the best.

He’d already signed his enlistment papers, seeing how for as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to join the SEALs’s legendary ranks. She’d be heading off for Norman—to the University of Oklahoma, where she’d be taking godforsaken history courses that’d put him in a coma. Truthfully, other than burning lust for each other, they didn’t have a thing in common. She was book smart. He was a jock, obsessed with getting in tough enough physical and mental shape to make it through BUD/S training.

With all that in mind, mixed with a good dose of apprehension and excitement for his future, too young and stupid to have put on the brakes for nobility’s sake, Garret had kissed her more. Then, with a big romantic whoosh, hefted her out of the water and into his arms, carrying her back to their towels and the sun.

Hot as it was, it didn’t take two seconds for them to dry and for the realization to kick in that, come mid-June when he shipped out for boot camp, it’d be a good, long while before he saw Connie again. At the thought, emotion swelled his chest, making it so tight, he hurt.

For the longest time, they just stared at each other, and then they were kissing again and he was fumbling to untie her bikini top needing her so bad he could hardly think. Every time she moaned against him, she made him want her more, so when she arched up to meet him, they were both struggling to yank off their still-damp swim bottoms.

Sweet lord, she’d been hot and slick and welcoming. The first few seconds had been awkward, but then she’d pulled him back for another kiss, and the rest was history.

A sweaty, crazy erotic joining that by all rational accounts of first times shouldn’t have been that great, but to his way of thinking, was just about as close to heaven as he’d ever get on this earth.

After their first time, for those precious last few weeks before graduation, they’d discovered practice really did make perfect.

Now, see? he thought, rolling the sweating water bottle along his forehead. Memories like that were no good. He’d loved her, had hoped to marry her when he’d returned from training. To have caught her kissing his best friend stung—bad. He had no need for her, either in or out of bed.

As for Nathan, he hadn’t spoken two words to the guy in the past ten years.

Garret eyed a rising dust cloud caused by a small sedan flying down the dirt road running in front of his mother’s house. A faint breeze carried the dust storm right up onto the front porch, leaving him coughing and feeling none too kindly toward whoever the too-fast, inconsiderate schmuck was who’d just now turned into his mom’s driveway.

Taking another swig of water, he watched through narrowed eyes as the dust settled, but sun glinting off the windshield made it impossible to see the driver. Whoever it was turned off the engine, took a second, then opened the door with a screech loud enough to startle a fence-sitting crow into cawing flight.

The driver rose, giving him a view of sleek, dark hair attached to a creamy-complexioned face partially obstructed by oversize black sunglasses. Dressed in a severely cut black pantsuit, she took her time tiptoeing—no, prancing—across the gravel drive. Didn’t want to scratch those three-inch heels?

The closer the woman came, the more his stomach fisted.

No. No freakin’ way.

Hidden as he’d been by sweet-smelling lilac bushes, Garret guessed he must’ve been as big a shock to Constance as she was to him. Only no, that couldn’t be, seeing how she was invading his turf.

“Garret,” she said, holding out her slim, lily-white hand for him to shake.

Trying hard to be adult about the situation, Garret nodded from where he sat, then crossed his arms. With the image of her sun-bronzed naked body still burning behind his eyes, the only thing he could think to say was a slow-drawled, “See you’ve been keepin’ out of the sun.”