All I Want Is You (7 page)

They sat observing it all in silence for a few moments, like watching a movie, and as the horrible mess in the yard got bigger, Christy couldn't help feeling how wasteful and destructive it was, and how it was ruining this wonderful thing Mrs. Harrington had put so much love and care—­so much of
herself
—­into. Until finally she said, “It's like watching them throwing little pieces of her soul back and forth, breaking it into more and more tiny bits. Soon there won't be anything left.”

“That's deep,” he commented.

“It
is
deep. It's the thing she loves. The thing she puts her heart into. And they're just throwing it away, just using it to wound each other, like it's nothing.”

“I hate you, you son of a bitch!” Mrs. Harrington shouted.

“Go to hell, you stupid whore!” Mr. Harrington flung back.

God, this was just too ugly, too awful. Christy sighed. “My grandpa invited me to come visit him in Florida,” she shared for no particular reason—­maybe because the idea of escape suddenly sounded all the more appealing. “I can't afford to go, but I'm trying to figure out a way. I think I need to get away from this chaos for a while.”

Just then, three cop cars came racing up the street, sirens quiet but the blue lights illuminating the darkness to leave it glowing and iridescent, making the night feel even more unreal.

“That sounds nice right about now,” Jack said. “Maybe you can find some cheap airfare.”

But she shook her head. “I'm going to drive. By the time I pay to rent a car there, it'll add up to just as much, and if I drive I can take all my jewelry and materials.”

“Why do you need your jewelry stuff on vacation?”

“I thought it would be nice to show Grandpa Charlie what my grandma's jewelry ended up inspiring. And . . .”

When she trailed off, he prodded her. “And?”

The air continued to be tinted a shade of electric blue. “Well, I'm not sure, but I was thinking . . . maybe I could try to . . . sell some of it. At the beach. They have a thing there every night at sunset with street performers and vendors.” The idea had just occurred to her while sitting and watching the Harringtons break all their pots. It had left her feeling the need to do something constructive, and this was what she'd come up with—­though she had no idea if it was a viable plan.

“That's a nice thought,” Jack replied, “but a long way to drive alone in a car that—­don't take this the wrong way—­looks like it's seen better days.”

That part was true, but Christy just shrugged it off. She was trying to take Grandpa Charlie's attitude, just trusting things to work out. It felt naïve in a way—­but she was tired of worrying and wanted to take a break from it. “I guess being on my own has made me brave. It'll be fine.”

“Alice,” he persisted, however, sounding downright adamant now, “it's dangerous.”

And for the first time since he'd shown up, she drew her gaze from the drama across the street—­the Harringtons were both yelling at the cops now, telling them to mind their own damn business—­and looked at him. Even in the dark, his eyes sparkled warm and sexy, and the sight stole her breath. But then she got hold of herself and said, “Do you have any better ideas?”

He stayed silent a minute, during which a cop threatened to arrest Mr. Harrington if he refused to go inside and be quiet so his neighbors could sleep.

But then Jack said, “I could always go with you.”

And Christy laughed, replying, “Good one.”

Until he told her, “I'm serious. I could use a getaway myself. And call me a worry wart, Alice, but you haven't exactly struck me as someone who can completely take care of herself, brave or not.”

At this, Christy gasped softly, offended—­but then she remembered the history of their relationship so far and couldn't really think of a way to argue the point.

“And since you're, uh, not exactly rolling in dough right now,” he added, “I'll even spring for the room.”

“Room?” she asked, her eyebrows shooting up. “As in singular?”

He shrugged away her concerns. “They all come with two beds. And I'm . . . not exactly made of money, either.”

She thought he'd sounded a bit uncertain when he said the last part, and she couldn't help thinking this all sounded like a terrible, hideous, horrendous idea. After all, traveling together? Sharing a room? With a man she barely knew? But was completely hot for? But who was also completely wrong for her at this pivotal time of her life? It was an absolutely
abominable
idea. Which could surely only lead to more of the very chaos she was trying to escape—­well, even if it would probably be a very different kind of chaos. But chaos was chaos, and that wasn't what she needed right now.

And that was why it seemed so strange when she heard herself say, “Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

They sat silently for a moment, both of them absorbing that, she supposed, and listening to the ruckus across the street—­until Jack asked, “So where does your Grandpa live in Florida?”

And she told him, “A quaint little beach town called Coral Cove.”

 

. . . If you drink from a bottled marked “poison,”

it is almost certain to disagree with you,

sooner or later.

Lewis Carroll,
Alice in Wonderland

Chapter 6

A
S
J
ACK
had checked the oil in Christy's old Toyota yesterday, he'd asked himself what the hell he was doing. Going to Florida with her. A girl he kept telling himself he should keep his distance from.

As they'd talked last night about their travel schedule over more ice cream on his front porch, he'd asked himself the same question again.

And now, as he shoved a few pairs of khaki shorts in a large duffel bag, he asked it one more time.
What am I thinking? Why did I offer to go with her, for God's sake?

It had seemed like a sane enough suggestion at the time. Like a compromise. It was a way of ensuring her safety without letting on that he had money and could easily have sprung for a plane ticket and rental car for her. And a beach trip did sound nice—­he hadn't done anything fun for a while and some fun sounded healthy.

The problem was—­he feared he might be starting to care for her.

Once upon a time, the answers here would have been easy. Once upon a time—­not too long ago, actually—­he would have just offered to help her out with travel expenses. In fact, he probably would have been dating her by now, and if things had progressed the way he thought they might have—­he'd have been perfectly generous financially.

But the way things stood . . . if he started dating her now, and if he was honest about his financial situation, he'd never know for sure which interested her more: him or his bank account. There was no denying, after all, that the girl had dollar signs in her eyes right now, even if it wasn't her fault. No, it wasn't her fault she'd fallen on hard times, and it wasn't her fault her grandfather had, too. But it wasn't
his
fault he had reason to keep his guard up with women who needed money.

A few minutes later, he zipped the duffel shut and carried it downstairs, dropping it by the front door. Then he stepped into his office to finalize a few last business matters—­he'd check in on his laptop while he was away, but as of noon today, he was officially on vacation. Something he hadn't taken since his honeymoon five years ago.

Powering down his desktop, he left the office, and as he passed through the living room, his eyes landed on that picture of him and Candy, the one he'd feared Christy might see. But this time he stopped, bent down, picked it up. He looked into the eyes of the two ­people staring back at him. And what he saw there was . . . innocence. In both of them.

Although he had no solid proof, he still believed in his heart that she hadn't been after his money in the beginning. Or . . . not consciously anyway. She'd been young. Sweet as the day was long. And mired in debt. He'd fallen in love and wanted to take care of her. And so that was what he'd done—­he'd dived right into her life and bailed her out. It had all made sense because he'd had no doubt they'd be together forever.

But in the end it had turned out she was more in love with his money than with him. He was pretty sure she'd just been swept up in his knight-­in-­shining-­armor routine, that she'd confused gratitude and relief with love. And then . . . a rainy afternoon, the shadowy curves of her naked body on top of another man.

But Jack pushed the image away as soon as it came. Damn, it had been a while since that particular memory had invaded his brain.

Mostly, Jack had ended up pretty confident in life. And he liked to think he was an easygoing guy. But his marriage at twenty-­five—­and subsequent divorce, only two years later—­had left a raw spot inside him.

He'd tried dating after the divorce, at the insistence of friends. But with every woman, he couldn't shake the notion that his money was a part of the appeal, and he'd wondered:
If I didn't have it, would she still be hanging on my arm and suggesting we go back to my place after dinner?
It had made him pull back, suggest a picnic instead of a five-­star restaurant, or a movie instead of pricey theater tickets. And in the end, with three different girls, when it was just him and a bucket of chicken, or him and a DVD rental, it wasn't enough. But he pushed those thoughts aside, too. They were useless to think about, after all.

So he'd decided to go to Florida with Christy for a
lot
of reasons. He was long overdue for some relaxation—­he'd been working in one way or another pretty much nonstop since splitting with Candy almost three years ago. And maybe he thought this would be a way to get to know Christy better without putting himself at risk.

But isn't this the same thing you did with Candy? Jumping in to take care of her? When she didn't even ask you to? The only thing Christy ever asked you to do, after all, was break down a door.

Yet . . .
no, this is different. As long as she thinks we're on the same playing field financially, it's completely different. This is just . . . being a friend. This is getting to know someone. It's two totally different situations.

When he set the picture back on the low shelf, this time he turned the frame facedown. When he got home and had more time, he'd finally pack it away somewhere.

Despite all that, it still felt a little strange to carry his duffel bag outside, drop it on the porch, and lock the door behind him, knowing he was about to hit the road with this girl he'd only just recently met. He looked up to see her on her front porch, a wheeled suitcase by her side. She was talking on her cell phone, but waved to him, her smile as bright as the May sun shining brightly down on their city street today.

As he crossed the narrow thoroughfare toward her, though, a glance to his left drew his eyes to the chunks of shattered glass and clay rubble still littering the Harringtons' lawn almost a week after the incident. Spring green grass had rapidly grown up around it and needed to be mowed. The house had been quiet since that ugly night, so Jack had no idea if they'd gone their separate ways or quietly mended their fences. But he could see Christy's point about the pots—­still lying there, all broken and ruined, they were a harsh reminder of how ­people could hurt each other so badly, how ­people who'd once loved each other could end up treating each other with such cold disregard.

Dropping his bag next to her car, he headed to the porch where she still stood talking. She pointed at her phone and mouthed, “Grandpa Charlie.” He nodded.

“Yes, Jack and I are leaving right now. We'll stop in Georgia for the night, and I'll see you by dinnertime tomorrow.”

Jack picked up her suitcase—­which was girlishly pink but sported a few scuff marks and looked like something she'd owned since she was much younger—­and carried it to the sidewalk, lowering it next to his own.

“No, I'm pretty sure he's not an ax murderer,” she said to her grandfather, walking behind Jack, “or I'd probably be dead by now. He's really been a big help to me.”

And when Jack turned to face her then, their eyes met, and she smiled at him and said into the phone, “He's a really great guy—­I know you'll like him.”

C
HARLIE
Knight hung up the phone, disconnecting from his granddaughter, and smiled up at Angie, one of his favorite nurses. “My grandbaby's coming tomorrow. Can't wait for you to meet her.”

“Well, I'm sure I'll love her,” Angie said, “as long as she's not half the handful you are.” She added a wink.

Charlie sat in a wheelchair watching her walk about the room in the lavender scrubs she favored, checking the trash in his wastebasket, then picking up an empty soda can from a table near the window. He still wasn't used to that—­not being able to pick up after himself with ease, not having any decent level of mobility. He could still get up on the walker when he needed to, but he'd found himself in the wheelchair and scooter more and more often lately.

“Wish you could have seen me when I was all young and fit,” he told Angie. “Used to run, back in the day.”

“Like, on a track team, in school?” she asked, glancing up from the chart she now made notes on.

“No, we didn't have a big enough school for track or cross country teams in Destiny then.” He'd told her plenty about his hometown of Destiny, Ohio since coming here five years ago. “But we were poor and didn't have much in the way of vehicles. So if I wanted to get around very much, I had to do it on these two legs.” He motioned vaguely down at them. “Running was faster than walking, and I never did like wasting time.” Now it was
him
winking.

“And where did you run to?” Angie asked, lowering the chart back to the foot of his bed. “Chasing girls, I bet.”

He laughed. And felt the fullness of a memory fill his chest. It was true what they said—­youth was often wasted on the young. If only he could go back in time and appreciate what he'd had then more fully. Or even just feel it some more, bask in it. “Reckon you could say that,” he told her.

“One girl in particular?” she asked. “Or were you the type to live up to your name—­a good time Charlie?”

Another laugh escaped him. “Oh, I liked a lotta girls,” he replied. “But . . . maybe there was one who was a little more special than the rest.” A
lot
more. But somehow, even at his age, he still wasn't comfortable wearing his heart on his sleeve. “And her I didn't have to run to. My father was laid up that summer with a bad back, so I had a set of wheels—­our old farm truck.”

It surprised him when Angie tilted her head, looking a little sad. “Only a summer? With the special one?”

Even less. But he didn't want Angie to feel bad for him, so he kept it simple. “Only a summer.” Then narrowed his gaze on the sweet nurse. “You look a little something like her,” he confessed.

“Oh yeah?” Her eyebrows lifted, and the resemblance, which he'd noticed before, struck him fresh.

“Yep. Same dark hair, black as yours. Always thought it made her look sort of . . . exotic or somethin'. She wore it long like you do, too, with bangs. Her complexion was paler than yours, but she picked up a pretty tan come summer.”

“Sounds like she was a looker,” Angie teased.

But Charlie confirmed that part easily. “She was beautiful. Just like you.”

Angie put her hands on her hips in accusation. “You're after extra pudding with dinner, aren't you?”

He let out a chuckle. “You're on to me. But reckon pudding's the next best thing to tryin' to get you to run away from that husband of yours with me.”

“Well, I'll see what I can do about the pudding. And I hope that girl back in Destiny knew how lucky she was.”

With that, Angie started toward the door—­but Charlie held up a hand to stop her. “Angie?”

She looked back, hand on the doorknob.

“How's Mrs. Waters doing?” The woman down the hall from him had been in a coma since her arrival here four months ago. She had no family—­even less than him—­and he worried about her.

“No change,” Angie said.

He just nodded. “Well, tell her Charlie asked about her.”

She gave him the same skeptical look she did every time he suggested this.

“You know they say ­people in comas can sometimes hear,” he said in response to her expression. “And what with her bein' all alone, figure it couldn't hurt for her to think somebody cares.”

Angie's expression softened. “You're right. And I'll tell her—­I promise. You're a good egg, Charlie.”

T
HEY
were crossing the Ohio River on the Brent Spence Bridge leading from Cincinnati into Kentucky when Jack said from the passenger seat, “Let me know when you want me to drive.”

Christy cast a dry look in his direction. “It's been fifteen minutes.”

“Well, I'm just saying . . . whenever you want me to, I'm happy to take my turn. I like driving.”

“So do I,” she said pointedly. “So that makes you the co-­pilot for now. If you're already bored, you can . . . pick some music for us to listen to or something.”

“Now that you mention it, I figured your car probably didn't have an MP3 hookup, so I brought some CDs.”

She slanted him another look. “You just have this all figured out, don't you?”

She put her eyes back on the road as they began winding their way up a large, twisting hill, but sensed his easy shrug next to her. “Just trying to be nice.”

“Well, I'm just saying . . . don't think you can run the show here, okay?”

He held up his hands in defense. “No show running, Alice, I promise.”

She had no idea why she was being so snippy . . . except that maybe she was nervous. About traveling with him. About spending so much time so close to him. It would definitely change their relationship. But how? For the better or the worse? And what did she even want their relationship to be? All things considered, she had no idea. So if she was a little nervous, no wonder.

Watching Jack rummage in a small zipper bag at his feet, she asked, “What did you bring?”

She spotted a large bag of Fritos and—­as he'd indicated—­a stack of CDs. Plucking one out, he said, “How about Springsteen?
Born to Run
. Good road trip tunes.”

Christy recognized the CD's cover—­her parents had owned it. But like most everything, it had been lost in the fire. “Sure,” she said quietly. And as Jack slid the CD into the player on the dash, it struck her that she hadn't heard any of these old songs since her parents had died.

She knew “Thunder Road” immediately by the first notes of the piano and the lonesome-­sounding harmonica. And when Bruce sang the poignant first line, she felt it in her gut and understood in a whole new way why ­people loved these songs. Maybe it was something that had come with age, something she simply hadn't had the capacity to soak up when she'd been younger. Or maybe it was about experience—­maybe you had to live long enough to lose something to really understand the quiet desperation in Bruce's voice.