All of Me Page 19

  “I’d also like you to attend our wedding so you can see for yourself that what Bill and I have is the real deal. It’s on Christmas Eve at Thunder Mountain Lodge. The whole town’s invited.”

  She’s so naïve. “That’s very kind of you, Lily.”

  “So you’ll come? You will still be in Salvation by Christmas?”

  Was this a challenge? Or was she just taking it that way? Why not go to the wedding? It wasn’t like she had plans for Christmas Eve.

  “We’re doing it up big,” Lily enticed. “A grand celebration for a big love.”

  “Sure, why not,” Jillian accepted, her fingers walking through the files under the M, not really sure why she did.

  “That’s great. And, Jillian?”

  “Yes?” She looked up, Lily’s prenuptial agreement in her hand.

  The young woman’s smile was brilliant. “I hope someday you find your true love.”

  “I’M IN A PICKLE, Aim, and I don’t know how to get out of it,” Tuck spoke out loud to his dead wife. “I need your advice on what to do about Jillian.”

  Dead silence.

  Normally when he talked to Aimee, he experienced a comforting peace wrap around him. He knew it was probably all in his mind, but nevertheless, when he talked, he imagined she was listening, and that made him feel better.

  Not today.

  Today he felt emptier than he had since he’d fallen into the lake on the anniversary of her death. It was a rotten sensation, and he wanted to run away from it, but there was nowhere to go, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he was held captive by the cast on his right leg. He couldn’t run from his hobbled mind.

  “Aimee?” he tested.

  Nothing.

  His chest ached. Restlessly, he shifted on the couch. “Are you gone?” he whispered.

  From his pallet in the corner beside the fireplace, Mutt lifted his head and gave him an expectant look.

  “It’s okay, Muttster, go back to sleep.”

  The dog lowered his head, and Tuck tasted something salty on the back of his tongue. He swallowed, blinked, picked up the remote control, and flipped through the television channels in search of a diversion but found none. He couldn’t concentrate on mindless daytime TV prattle.

  “I’m sorry, Aim. I didn’t mean to kiss her. But you’ve been gone for so long, and I’m so lonely and I miss what we had so much. I want that again. You were right when you told me that I’d want it again, but I didn’t believe you. I don’t want to want another woman. But I do.”

  Dammit. The salty taste was back in his mouth again. He clenched his jaw and swiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Aimee?” he murmured, reaching desperately for something he knew was long gone.

  Mutt whined.

  “When you’re right, dog, you’re right. There’s no one here but me and you. I gotta let go. I know, I know … but seriously, how the hell does a guy do that? And what woman’s gonna want me with all my emotional baggage?”

  Mutt barked.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Tuck blinked, scrubbed at his eyes, and took a deep breath, struggling to tamp down his emotions and hoping whoever was at the front door would just go away. After the fifth knock, he heard the door handle jiggle open.

  “Tuck, you in here?” Ridley called from the doorway.

  “Come in,” Tuck hollered, shifting on the couch to a sitting position. “What’s up?”

  Ridley came through the door, bringing with him the smell of Bluebird cheeseburgers. “Lunch’s up.”

  “Dude, how’d you know I was starving?”

  “Your sister is omnipotent.”

  “Gimme.” Tuck reached for the brown paper bag in Ridley’s right hand, then spied the stack of wood his brother-in-law had tucked under his left arm. “What’s that?”

  Ridley tossed him the sack and sat down beside him on the couch. “A special project for you while you’re laid up.”

  Tuck’s ears pricked up with interest as he opened the paper bag, and the smell of grilled onions wafted into the room. He loved the idea of something to do while he was recuperating. “Special project?”

  Mutt whined loudly and licked his lips.

  Ridley laid the maple wood on the coffee table, fished a dog biscuit from the front pocket of his shirt, and tossed it to the dog. “Evie’s Christmas gift from me. I want you to make it.”

  “Yeah?” Tuck eyed the expensive maple as he bit into his cheeseburger.

  “Music box.”

  Tuck nodded, swallowed. “I’m with you.”

  “Cradle on top of the box. Cradle that swings. Intricate detail. Not gonna be easy.”

  Excitement pushed out the loneliness he’d been feeling before Ridley had walked in. He’s been an architect and a carpenter, but he’d never tackled a woodworking project like this. All his skills had been plied on houses, not delicate crafts. Eagerness had him putting down the cheeseburger and picking up the maple. He wanted this. Needed it. “Plays Brahm’s Lullaby?”

  “George Michael’s ‘Faith’.”

  Tuck grinned at Ridley. “Dude, I’m so there.”

  TWO WEEKS PASSED with Jillian and Tuck tiptoeing around each other. Or rather Jillian tiptoed. Tuck sort of clumped about in his cast. Jillian made arrangements to take the Colorado bar exam and spent her spare time studying at Sutter’s office or playing chess with Lexi. Tuck immersed himself in crafting Evie’s music box. Neither one of them spoke again about the kiss they’d shared. In fact, they both did their best to avoid talking about anything personal.

  They fell into the rhythm of roommates trying hard to give each other space. She got up at five-thirty each morning, went running with the dog, showered, and left the house before Tuck ever woke up. In the evenings, Tuck hung out at the Bluebird or at Evie and Ridley’s.

  The weekend before Halloween, Tuck finished the music box. He could see a hundred different ways he could have done it better, but he had to admit it wasn’t half bad for his first attempt at crafting a music box. But once it was done, time weighed heavily on his hands. He wanted—needed—something else to occupy his mind while his ankle healed. That Saturday morning, when Jillian returned from her jog with Mutt, he announced, “I’m going stir-crazy. I need something to do. I’m going to strip the wallpaper off the kitchen, then texture and paint the walls.”

  “You can’t do that,” she said, toweling the perspiration from her neck. “Our property dispute hasn’t been settled. Blake’s will hasn’t been probated.”

  “Look, the place needs renovating. Whether you end up living here or I end up with the place, it’s got to be done. What’s the harm in giving me something to do?”

  “You’ll want to decorate it your way, and if I end up with the place, I’ll have to redo it.”

  “I tell you what, you can pick out the décor.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why would you do that? Is it because you know there really is no deed?”

  “There’s a deed.”

  “Then why?”

  “You are the most distrustful woman I’ve ever met,” he said. He tossed his head and his hair fell over his forehead. He needed a haircut, but she liked the rakish look longer hair gave him. “I’m bored and I’m desperate enough to let you paint the kitchen pink if that’s what it takes.”

  “I won’t paint the kitchen pink.”

  “I had no doubts. You’re not a girly-girl.”

  “Fuchsia, maybe,” she teased.

  “So you wanna make a supply run to the hardware store in Boulder?” He smiled.

  “Who pays for the material?”

  “We split the cost.”

  “Again, why would you do that?”

  “Occupational therapy. It’s not any more expensive than material for some useless craft project.”

  He had a point. The charming grin—combined with the sexy hair—did her in. She ignored her prudent side, tossing caution out the window. It would be pretty damn nice to get rid of those ducks.
“Yeah, okay. Let me get my purse.”

  BY NOON they’d only managed to steam off about a quarter of the mallard duck wallpaper. It was a painstaking process. Intrigued by the whole wallpaper peeling endeavor, Mutt kept getting underfoot, and they spent half their time shooing him away. Finally, Jillian got up and put the dog outside. “Go chase a squirrel or something.”

  She came back, and hands on hips, watched as Tuck meticulously steamed a section of aged yellow wallpaper. “Mallards in the kitchen. Imagine.”

  Tuck grunted. “It is a lake house.”

  “Who picked out that wallpaper?”

  “Aimee’s grandmother I imagine. This lake house was in the Townsend family for three generations.”

  Jillian pushed her bangs back off her forehead. “Then Blake goes and breaks the chain by leaving it to me.”

  “And then deeding it to me,” he reminded her.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “There weren’t any Townsends left to leave it to.”

  “No, I mean, seriously, why would he leave the place to me and then deed it to you? The brain tumor is the likely explanation, but I was with Blake the day before he died, and while he had been getting progressively forgetful, he didn’t really seem impaired.”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “I mean, why didn’t he just leave the place to you to begin with? Why drag me into it at all?”

  “I don’t know that either. Maybe because you were more like a daughter to him than his own daughter, and Aimee didn’t have any kids to leave it to.”

  She stared at him. “How come you never had kids?”

  “There wasn’t time,” he said sharply. “We wanted to, but Aimee …” He shook his head, didn’t finish.

  What in the hell was wrong with her? Why had she asked that? “I’m sorry. That was completely rude and none of my business. Would you like to break for a quick lunch?”

  “Yeah.” He straightened, turned off the steamer, and went to the sink to wash his hands, his cast thumping heavily against floor.

  “You’re limping less.”

  “It doesn’t hurt as much as it did.” Tuck wiped his hands on a cup towel. “I can sleep on my stomach again.”

  “That’s good,” Jillian murmured. Immediately, her mind went to the thought of him lying on the couch the way she’d found him that first morning almost a month earlier. She pushed the image from her mind and went to peer into the refrigerator. “We’re out of groceries. You wanna just hit the Bluebird?”

  “That’d take too much time. We have bread,” Tuck said. “And sliced cheese. We could have grilled cheese sandwiches.”

  “Clearly, you haven’t tasted my cooking.”

  “Don’t worry, Queenie, I’ll handle it.”

  Jillian tucked her fingers into the back pockets of her jeans. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  “Why not?” He twisted the tie off a loaf of wheat bread. “It suits you.”

  “That’s a depressing thought.”

  “How come?”

  “Queenie makes me feel as if you think I think I’m better than everyone else. I’m reserved with people. I know that, but it doesn’t mean I think I’m better.”

  “I don’t think that at all.” He turned the gas burner on low.

  “What do you think?”

  “A queen is a woman who’s foremost among others. Plus, you said you played chess with Blake, right?”

  “Yes, it’s my favorite game.”

  He gave her a look that said, There you go. “And what’s the most powerful piece on the chess board?”

  “The queen.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So when you call me Queenie, you’re saying I’m powerful?”

  “Yup.”

  Jillian couldn’t help smiling. “Powerful, huh?”

  “Far more than you know.”

  “I think I like that.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Wear your crown with no misgivings, Queenie.” He winked at her and melted butter in a nonstick skillet.

  He finished cooking the sandwiches and served them up. They sat at the bistro table in the breakfast nook. They hadn’t sat here together like this since the morning after the first night Jillian spent at the lake house. From this vantage point, they could look out the window and see a section of the lake stretching out frosty green beyond the snow-covered pine trees.

  Soft rock music poured from the radio in the kitchen window. They’d found a station they could both agree on. Delbert McClinton was singing “Givin’ It Up for Your Love.” The song had came out the year Jillian was born. She knew because the audio tape The Jealous Kind had been among her father’s music collection when he’d died. As a teenager, she’d listened to his tapes over and over, trying to make a connection to the man she barely remembered. She shook her head, shook off the past.

  “This is the best grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever eaten,” she told Tuck, surprised at how tasty it was. “What’d you do to give it that extra zing?”

  “Mustard.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And not just any mustard,” he said. “Grey Poupon.”

  “Should we be eating this in a Rolls-Royce?”

  “I’m in the mood to slum it, how ’bout you, Queenie?”

  “I’ve been slumming it for a very long time, Magic Man. Rolls-Royces are a bit beyond my budget. I was a county employee.”

  Tuck leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, his eyes lingering on her face. Jillian glanced away, looking out the window to see a few black-headed sparrows perched on the bird feeder on the deck, pecking at sunflower seeds.

  On the radio, The Lovin’ Spoonful was playing “Do You Believe in Magic?” No, Jillian didn’t. But she wished she could.

  “You really planning on staying in Salvation?” Tuck dusted bread crumbs from the table onto his empty plate. “Even when the deed turns up?”

  She was already getting attached. She was quickly growing to love the house, the mountains, the lake, the town. The fact that everyone treated her as though she were transient was bothersome. It made her feel a little unwelcome, even though the community was friendly. They had not embraced her fully.

  Or could it be you haven’t fully embraced them, and they’re picking up on your emotional reserve?

  She lifted her chin. “Yes, I am.”

  “Wait until after you’ve weathered a Colorado winter and see if you still feel the same way.”

  “What’s the deal?” she asked. “You in the local pool to see how soon I’ll leave town?”

  “You know about that?”

  “You better change your bet. I’m not leaving.”

  “That stubborn, huh?”

  “Partly,” she admitted. She met his gaze, and he was studying her with half-lidded eyes. “But mostly because I need this chance at Salvation.”

  “Pun intended I’m guessing.”

  “All my life I was so focused on being a prosecutor. It’s all I ever thought about, all I ever worked toward,” she said.

  The Lovin’ Spoonful posed their question again. Do you believe in magic? Such a stupid song.

  “So when all the other little girls were talking about being rock singers and movie stars and models, you said, hey, I wanna put the bad guys in jail?”

  “Yes, yes, I did. I was quite enamored of Law and Order, but it went beyond that.”

  “In what way?”

  “I was attracted to law because the roles are clear. I liked the responsibility and the authority. I’m a cards-on-the-table kind of gal. I like a career where preparation, caution, and constant questioning are valued. I like the fact that it’s clear who the bad guys are and who the good guys are. I get off on the dangerous undercurrent inherent in criminal law. The courtroom is the only place where I felt like I truly belonged.”

  He smashed the bread crumbs on his plate with the pad of his thumb. “You’re always thinking, aren’t you? Trying to
figure out everyone’s angle.”

  “Always,” she admitted.

  “What’s mine?”

  “Huh?”

  “If I was accused of a crime, how would you assess me?”

  “I’m not sure this little analysis game is such a good idea,” she said.

  “Why?” He leaned closer, his eyes suddenly sharp, the languid expression completely disappearing. “Afraid you’ll hurt my feelings?”

  “Honestly? Yes.”

  “You think I’m that sensitive?”

  “I value the friendship we’ve started to forge. I don’t want to blow it.”

  “Like I almost blew it the night we walked home from the Rusty Nail.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Like that.”

  “I promise I won’t get offended. I’d really like to know how I look through Queenie’s eyes.”

  “Shouldn’t we be getting back to the wallpaper?”

  “We can steam and strip and talk all at the same time.”

  “Are you sure you really want to know?”

  He raised his chin. “I do.”

  “No holds barred?”

  His eyes glistened a challenge. “No holds barred.”

  “Even if it might sting?”

  “That’s what no holds barred means.”

  Jillian sucked in a breath. “Okay, here goes, but remember you asked for it.”

  Tuck stacked their plates in the kitchen sink, grabbed up the steamer, and went back to the wallpaper. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  Jillian took up a putty knife and came to stand beside him, prying off the paper he’d loosened with the steam. “In spite of having been the Magic Man,” she said, “you’re an underachiever.”

  “You’ve been talking to Evie.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t have to talk to your sister to figure this out about you.”

  “No?”

  “If you’d worked hard to become an architect, if designing those classrooms was so important, you wouldn’t be here in Salvation, hiding out.”

  “Interesting theory, except maybe I don’t view it as hiding out,” he said.

  “You don’t. I get that, but it’s part of what I’m basing my opinion on.”

  “So we’re in agreement.”