Forgiving Jackson (22 page)

“Thank you. If it’s good, it’s just because I know where to get the best strawberries. I hope they hold out for a while longer. Gabe loves strawberries. I’d like to make this again for him when he comes home for the concert.”

“Don’t waste it on him, or any of those high-class ingredients you set such store by,” Jackson said. “He’d be just as happy with pork rind shortcake made with mayonnaise and Ritz crackers.”

“Hey!” Dirk said. “Pork rinds have their charm—and that doesn’t sound too bad.”

Gwen reached across Julie to swat at Dirk. “I’ll remember that next time I don’t want to cook.”

Emory smiled a thank you to Sammy when he set the small cream pitcher by her cup. For the moment, things were pleasant. The meal had vacillated between relaxed and tension-filled—thanks to Ginger’s relentless nagging of Jackson. She might have good intentions but she never gave herself or anyone else a break from her ultimate goal of Making Jackson’s Life Better.

And, heaven help them all, she was about to speak again. You could always tell when Ginger was about to further her mission because she squared her shoulders, leaned forward, and narrowed her eyes.

“I haven’t seen you eat sweets since you ate all that blackberry cobbler when we were in Merritt, Alabama, for that celebrity golf tournament. You said you felt sluggish for a week.”

This time Jackson didn’t let it get under his skin. He just smiled and shoved another spoonful of cake and whipped cream into his mouth. “And my cousin’s cobbler was entirely worth a sugar hangover, as is anything Gwen makes.”

“Maybe not pork rind shortcake,” Emory said. Everyone laughed. Jackson shot her a grateful look. Maybe he was a better actor than she gave him credit for.

Ginger was at it again—squaring her shoulders and all the rest. Emory tried to catch her eye, but Ginger was having none of it. Emory wondered what would happen if she picked up her iced tea glass and dumped the melting mess on Ginger’s head.

But wait. Was
she
any better? Was wanting to rescue Jackson from Ginger any better than Ginger trying to herd Jackson in the direction she thought he needed to go? Maybe he inspired the women around him to try to rescue him.

“Jackson, about the Opry. They called again. As a member you know you are expected—”

“Julie, what’s that song you’re singing?” Jackson said.

Gwen and Dirk’s little girl looked up the table at Jackson and put her hands over her face. Then she peeped through her fingers and smiled.

Jackson laughed. “I see you! What was your song?”

Julie widened her brown eyes. “Old MacDonald.”

“Yeah? I know that one. Come sing it with me.” He held out his arms to her.

Not gonna happen, Mr. Hall of Fame. That’s a girl who kowtows to no man.
Julie was a shy, sweet child, who often spoke in a whisper and hid behind the legs of her trusted adults. As far as Emory knew, Jackson had paid no attention to the child since he’d been here. No way would she go to him.

“But I can’t remember how the duck goes,” Jackson said.

“A quack, quack here!”

“That’s it! I am so dumb!” Jackson smacked his forehead.

After a brief look at Dirk for permission, Julie jumped from her chair and flew into Jackson’s arms; then he picked her up and began to dance around while singing the children’s song.

Another one bites the dust. Welcome to the club, Julie. No doubt it’s a big one,
Emory thought
.
Not that
she
was a member; she just knew them when she saw them.

“Here an oink, there an oink, everywhere an oink oink,” Jackson and Julie sang together.

Gwen and Dirk exchanged looks and smiled. Emory knew they believed that Jackson kept his distance from their children because they reminded him of his little sister. Gwen had confided to Emory that she hoped it would change when the children got past the baby stage. Now, Julie was a year older than Camille had been when she died, and maybe, tonight, Jackson had looked up and noticed that.

Or maybe he just needed to avoid Ginger’s haranguing that bad.

Still, it was impossible to watch him and not feel the sweetness. He might have needed the distraction but he’d had it now and didn’t need to go into “The Wheels on the Bus.” But he did. All of a sudden, she wanted to sleep with him.

The future be damned. The past be damned. She wouldn’t be able to do it, of course—even if he wanted to and that was no guarantee no matter what he’d said. What Jackson wanted last week, last night, today, didn’t necessarily have anything to do with right now. But it was all academic anyway—though the
want
was there and that was something, something big and something he had given her.

He was twirling Julie around now, still singing, and Emory was overcome with the desire to kiss the back of his neck. It would be warm and muscular and taste a little salty. She picked up her coffee and took a gulp. What was wrong with her?

Maybe nothing was wrong; maybe this was good. It would never be Jackson, but was this a sign that she could recover? That she might some day be able to have a normal relationship with someone else?

Trouble was, she didn’t want to kiss the back of another neck. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temple. She wasn’t sure how long she sat like that before she became aware of the sounds of a party breaking up around her.

Phillip had started to cry and Abby was saying something about hating to eat and run but that she needed to get him home. Ginger pleasantly thanked Gwen for the meal and said she had been on her leg too much today, that she was going to take a pain pill and go to bed. Dirk extracted a reluctant Julie from Jackson and was talking about baths and bedtime. Sammy, Neyland, and Christian assured Gwen they would clean up and urged her to go home.

Emory got up and began to gather dishes.

“No,” Christian said. “We’ve got this, Emory. Go.”

Emory hesitated.

“I’ll walk you,” Jackson said, taking her arm. In spite of herself, Emory’s heart took a little flight. Should she ask him in? Maybe suggest they watch the movie they’d missed last night? Or would that be forward and misleading?

Maybe he would kiss her. Maybe she could kiss the back of his neck.

Stop it!
Dear God, she was going crazy.

“What a night,” he said as they moved in the moonlight toward the carriage house.

“Good food,” she said.

“Good food, bad Ginger.” He laughed a sardonic little laugh.

“She does want the best for you,” Emory said grudgingly. “I’ve seen that, though I didn’t think so at first.”

“She does,” he agreed. “Just like a bulldozer wants the best for a road.”

“You could send her away. Don’t deny it.”

“I could.” He sighed. “But even though it looks like this concert is going to happen with or without me, it would be hard for it to happen without her.”

“So, which is it?” she asked. “With or without you? You were great in church this morning.”

“Thanks.” He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. “I don’t know yet. I might. I have something else I need to do before I decide.”

She almost asked what that was, but something in his tone said he didn’t want to say. Instead she said, “I hope you do it,” as the stepped up on the porch.

“Yeah?” He cocked his head to the side. “Why is that?”

“I think you were born to make music and share it.”

“We’re talking about one concert.”

“I know better than that, Jackson, and you know it, too. We’re talking about the rest of your life. And I think you’ll lose yourself if you don’t do what you were born to do.”

“Oh, Emory.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m already lost.”

There in the moonlight, he looked so vulnerable, so sixteen years old. She wanted to grab him in her arms and tell him not to worry, that she’d find him. But she couldn’t do that for him; no one could.

“You don’t have to be lost,” she said. “You can do the show and find your way back.”

He met her eyes and shrugged.

“I haven’t tried to make you talk about what happened in L.A. I might be the only one. And I’m not going to try now. You don’t need to tell me how you feel or say a word. But hear this: You get to grieve. You
ought
to grieve. I can’t begin to grasp the magnitude of this. But you’re a good person and you have a right to your happiness and your success. That’s all.”

“I ought to take off,” he said. “Unlock the door. I’ll watch you in.”

“Goodnight, then.” Aching disappointment filled her—disappointment because what she’d said hadn’t helped at all and aching because he was leaving. She fitted the key in the door and closed it behind her.

So that was that. It was humiliating to admit how much she’d wanted him to come inside, to hold and kiss her. She leaned against the door. It was probably for the best. She’d been a whim and a distraction for him for a few hours. It’s not as if they had something that was going somewhere—physically or emotionally.

She just wished those few hours hadn’t meant so much to her.

Might as well get some sleep. She crossed the room and began to turn off the lights.

Then there were rapid, heavy footsteps on her porch followed by frantic banging on the door. She didn’t even stop to wonder who it was or be afraid. She knew who it was and she had nothing to fear from him.

She threw open the door and Jackson rushed in and pulled her to him.

“Please let me stay,” he whispered against her ear. “I promise to be careful with you. I won’t try to do anything you don’t want to do. Just let me come to bed with you and be close to you. I can sleep when I’m with you.”

“Of course,” she whispered back. “Of course you can.”

And the dull ache inside her eased and floated away.

What now? He’d asked to stay and she’d said yes. Should she just lead him to bed? What should she wear? These were questions that had gone through her mind with her first serious boyfriend, when she was a virgin and unsure if she was ready for sex.

And wasn’t this the same thing? It was unfair—having to start all over again.

Jackson pulled back and met her eyes. “I’ll do whatever you want but do we have to sleep on that couch again? In our clothes? Because that wasn’t optimum comfort.”

“No. We don’t have to do that. I have a bed, a pretty comfortable one.” She hesitated, still trying to work out how to navigate the miles and miles that lay before them to the bedroom.

He must have mistaken her hesitancy for reluctance because he smoothed her hair and said, “I’m going to tell you again, and I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it: I will not make love to you until and unless you ask me to. That’s a promise.”

She felt a smile bloom on her face and opened her mouth to tell him she believed him but he shook his head and shuddered.

“You can bring a man to his knees with that smile,” he said.

“I had no idea I had that in my arsenal,” she said lightly.

“You have no idea you have an arsenal.”

“Do
you
have an arsenal?” she asked.

He grinned, chasing away some of her nervousness. “No. I have a guitar kit. But I’ve got Dirk and he’s got an arsenal.” He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “But nothing in it is equal to your secret weapon.”

That gave her the courage to take his hand and lead him to the bedroom. “I sleep on the left,” she said as she turned the covers back.

“Then I hope I get to, too,” he said.

He removed his shoes and stripped down to his boxer shorts and T-shirt. “Is this okay?” he asked.

“Sure.” She tried to sound nonchalant. “I’ve seen more of you than that in running shorts.”

“Can I take off my shirt? I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“Go ahead. It’ll save having to crank down the thermostat.”

His body was better than she’d imagined and she’d imagined a lot. If he’d slacked off on working out—as Ginger complained he had—it didn’t show. His wide shoulders tapered to a flat muscular stomach and lean waist. He had just enough body hair and there was a tattoo the size of a half dollar on the left pec over his heart. From this distance it looked vaguely heart-shaped. And those arms—the corded muscles were impressive enough but she’d never seen the area usually covered by a t-shirt sleeve before. She still couldn’t make out what the all-black tattoo that circled his bicep was but it was no more than an inch high and was very appealing.

The whole picture was spectacular.

“The federal government should issue a list of men who are not allowed to wear shirts,” she said, “and you ought to be on it. I’m going to write a letter about that.”

He threw back his head, laughed, and struck a bodybuilder pose. “Yeah? Who else would be on that list?”

“Matthew McConaughey, Matt Bomer, Tim McGraw, Henry Cavill, Jon Bon Jovi—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He held up his hand to cut her off. “McGraw? Really? I kind of hoped you’d say that, all of a sudden, you couldn’t remember anybody else on the list.”

“Sorry.” She shrugged.

“I don’t think you are.” He lay down and propped himself up on a bent elbow. “Are you going to turn me in to the etiquette police for not standing until you sit?”

“No.” She opened her dresser drawer.
What to wear, what to wear?
“You see, as long as you mention that you know better, you can get away with breaking a few rules. As in, ‘I know I’m not supposed to eat asparagus with a fork unless it’s covered in sauce, but I just cannot bring myself to pick it up with my fingers.’”

“No shit?”

“It’s a well-kept secret. We try not to let men find it out. Else you’d be saying things like, ‘I know I’m not supposed to lay down right on the buffet table but I’m tired from all my channel changing and beer drinking, and I need to be here beside these hot wings so I can reach them better.’”

“Well, hell.” He rolled over onto his back and picked up a pillow—her pillow—and tossed it back and forth. “Cat’s out of the bag now. And I’m telling.”

“You do that.”
Those pink silk pajamas might do.
They were pretty but modest. The bottoms were shorts but they came almost to her knees and the top was loose and covered enough that she could get away without a bra—her white utilitarian bra that matched her white granny panties. “Who are you going to tell?” She closed the drawer.