Forgiving Jackson (28 page)

So she’d be gone for the concert; that was probably the point.

“The kids are looking forward to that.” She gave out a watery little laugh. “Oddly enough, so am I.” She placed her elbows on her knees and folded her hands beneath her chin. “You know, I’m a sucker for Mickey.”

“I’m sorry, Audrey. That’s all I’ve got.”

“And you don’t even need that. You know, I have some guilt, too. You could have used some comfort. I knew you were in bad shape but I couldn’t bring myself to drive to Beauford Bend. I was afraid to see you, too. I thought if we saw each other we might both start crying and never stop.”

He shook his head. “We’re a pair, aren’t we, Audrey Carlene?”

She made a face. “Don’t call me that,” she said like she always did when Trace used her middle name.

“I came to tell you something else,” he said. “I wasn’t planning to do the memorial concert this year. I just didn’t think I could. But I changed my mind. I know you’ll be gone, but I wanted you to know.”

She smiled a real smile for the first time. “Jackson. I’m so glad. We’ve all wondered and worried. That’s wonderful news. The guys will be so pleased. Have you told them?”

Hell’s bells and damnation. “No.” He shook his head and looked at the floor. “I don’t intend to. I thought I’d just play alone. I’ll have to have some of the techs, of course. Dave, Randall … maybe Bobby Lee. But the band—no.”

“Jackson.” She put a hand under his chin and raised his eyes to hers. “They won’t die if they go on stage with you. You need to call them.”

He shook his head, though whether it was in disbelief or denial he couldn’t have said.

“No. You listen to me,” Audrey said. “They need this. Not the money, of course. They do this for free anyway. But they need to play—they need to play with
you.
You all need to be together.”

Again he shook his head. “I can’t.”

“You can. They understand why you haven’t been in touch and no one is angry with you. But they need you and they have been holding their breath, hoping you’d come out for this.”

“But what about Trace? And Cody?” Surely she could see that he couldn’t replace them, surely the realization would come to her and she’d tell him that of course he was right, that she shouldn’t ask this of him.

But no. “You know every musician in this town worth knowing. You know who Trace and Cody respected. Make yourself a short list and get on the phone. It has to be done.”

He let out a long sigh. “All right. Okay.”

Because what other answer could he possibly give this woman?

Everything was on track for the wedding. It was a second marriage for both the bride and groom and it was going to be an understated affair—a heavy hors d’oeuvre reception instead of a sit-down meal, a string quartet instead of a band, and a cupcake tower instead of an elaborate cake. Best of all, it was all inside so there would be no complicated setup outside. Emory idly picked up the liquor list. Maybe she should order another case of Champagne.

If the clients didn’t drink it all, it was a safe bet that the C-Squad would.

The roar of Jackson’s truck interrupted her thoughts. She made herself read over the liquor list again twice before she went to look out the window.

Jackson was just approaching the side porch where Gabe and his friends were gathered. Gabe leapt off the porch in a single bound to go meet him. She expected them to embrace but they just clapped each other around the shoulders briefly and exchanged a few words before heading to the porch. Sammy, who was hanging around pouring drinks and refilling trays, got Jackson a beer from the copper tub while Gabe made introductions. Jackson shook hands with the men and hugged Tasha. He must’ve already known her because he didn’t hug the other women—but when people settled back into their seats, Miss Light Highlights prissed over to where Jackson was leaning against a column and got in his personal space.

What made women think that high heels went with short shorts? Really, was there anything tackier—even if it did make her legs look even longer and her perfect butt look even tighter? Emory let the curtain fall and went back to her chair. She ought to print out the pictures of the girls who were attending charm school. Amelia had taught her to put faces with names before they arrived.

Yes. She should get started on that. There were twenty this year, including three from town, but that left seventeen to learn.

Fifteen minutes later, she was still staring at the first page (
Alexander, Phoebe Christina; Anders, Kathryn Michelle (Kate); Bellemy, Ellis Elizabeth)
when the light knock came at the door.

She knew who it was before he stuck his head in the room. Ginger always bolted in. Sammy knocked and waited to be asked in. Gwen just opened the door. Dirk knocked and called her name at the same time, but he was gone anyway. Only Jackson tapped lightly and then stuck his head in.

She met his eyes as he came in and sat down in the chair in front of her desk.

“Hi.” He rested his right ankle on his left knee. His eyes were red like he was sleepy or had been driving without sunglasses. Or maybe crying.

“Did you get your guitar?”

“No. Yes.” He yawned behind his hand. “I mean, I didn’t. But then I changed my mind. So I called and bought it. But I don’t have it yet.”

“So you’re going to get it tomorrow?”

“No.” He shook his head. “They’re bringing it to me. Monday. That’s soon enough. I’ve done without it this long.”

Could he act any odder? Must be a reason. A little fear went through her.

“Did you hear from Dirk?”

“No. Not yet.” He picked up her printout and leafed through it. “What’s this? An adolescent dossier, complete with mug shots?”

“Yes. They’re all secret agents. Most of them agreed to become spies in exchange for staying out of prison.”

He smiled. “What did they do to get hard time?”

“Blew up mailboxes with cherry bombs. Ran over dogs with their rollerblades.”

“Which are they? Secret agents or spies?” he asked.

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“Sort of, depending on your point of view. If they’re working
for
you, they’re secret agents. If they’re gathering intel
on
you, they’re spies—and dead if they get caught. Benedict Arnold is a traitor or a hero, depending on if you’re British or American.”

“True.”

“I saw Gabe outside.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“I saw him inside. He looks good.”

“He’s got a lot of women with him. But then he always does.”

“Most of their names start with
C
.”

“They do? About that—”

Here it comes. Whatever
it
is.

“They”—Jackson gestured toward the porch with his head—“are going out for dinner tonight.” He hesitated. “In Nashville. I was hoping you might go. But it
is
Nashville. And you should know that Gabe invited Nickolai Glazov and that woman—Tewanda—that he’s seeing.”

Not exactly a heartfelt invitation. And if you wanted to count heads, you’d realize there would be an extra female if she went. Little doubt who the odd woman out would be and her name wouldn’t start with
C.

“But I want to go with them. I want to be with my brother.”

“Of course you do. And you should.”

“I understand if you don’t want to go but I’d like it if you did.”

“Then I’m going to say no.”

He nodded. “I expected that.” He looked toward the window. “Gwen made some food. Little shrimp pies and some mushroom thing. You want me to bring you some?”

“No, thank you.” She picked up the liquor list for the wedding. “I’m not hungry. You should go visit with Gabe. I have all this work.” She waved the paper.

He looked conflicted. “I tried to get them to go to Mill Time but they want to go to Nashville. And Gabe had already made a reservation and invited that Nickolai … ”

Truth was, Nickolai wouldn’t bother her. Nashville would be harder but she was determined to go to the concert and it might not be bad to have a trial run. If she believed for one second that he really wanted her to go, she would at least consider it. But she didn’t. When Jackson wanted something, he stated it clearly with vehemence, without any room for no. And that wasn’t what she was hearing.

“You should go out again. Help Gabe entertain his guests.”

“Ha. Like he needs any help.” But he got to his feet.

He started toward the door but came back and gave her an afterthought, closed-mouth kiss.

• • •

Emory didn’t see Jackson again before he left for dinner, unless you counted watching out the window when he and the others loaded up in the two rented BMW SUVs they had arrived in. And she didn’t count that.

The Washingtons had climbed in the back seat of the second vehicle while Jackson opened the passenger door for Light Highlights
C
before he slid behind the wheel. She might not have made it across the hall from Jackson but by the end of the night she would probably have secured an even better spot.

By the time Emory went to bed at eleven o’clock that night—after staring at the adolescent dossier for a few hours, eating a tomato sandwich at Gwen’s kitchen table, and flipping television channels for two hours—she had figured out what had happened.

She understood completely why Jackson’s interest in her was waning. (Or completely gone, if she was going to be honest.) It was really quite simple. He’d been lonely and bored and now he had a distraction. And, for whatever reason, he had been committed to punishing her attacker and he was about to close the deal on that.

What she
didn’t
understand was why she was surprised and disappointed. What had she thought was going to happen?

She had been living in a playhouse—a lovely, safe place, but also lonely at times. And then she’d gotten a brand new, unexpected and very shiny playmate—indeed, the shiniest playmate in all the land—and she had loved the playhouse even more. Now that it looked like her playmate had gotten bored and broken out, her beautiful, cozy playhouse was feeling a little like a prison cell.

Damn him and damn his silver-sage eyes, sweet whiskey voice, and hands that could play a magical melody on her skin better than on any guitar.

And about that. He was probably getting tired of her inability to close that deal. They had gotten closer—very close, indeed. She could lie over him with open legs and move until she came and came and came and he spilled on her stomach—but she had not been able to cross that final barrier.

Maybe she wasn’t meant to. And that probably wouldn’t be a problem for him tonight.

She punched her pillow and tried to get comfortable. Had she forgotten how to sleep without arms around her and breath on the back of her neck? When she got up for a drink of water, it was all she could do to stop herself from looking out the window to see if the light pattern coming from the family wing had changed since she looked before she went to bed.

She didn’t want confirmation of what she already knew, at least not yet. Hating herself, she removed her nightgown and fished the t-shirt he’d taken off last night out of the dirty clothes hamper.

She had to get up at six o’clock—not a second later. This wedding was at two and The Enchanted Garden would deliver at eight and June would be here with the cupcakes at ten. As she slid back into bed, she looked at the clock. If she went to sleep right now, she would get four hours and thirteen minutes of sleep. That would be enough.

But she didn’t go to sleep right then, or in the next thirteen minutes. Jackson was probably back. It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t sleep when he’d probably already had sex—real sex—and was sleeping. Probably, he was drooling and snoring just a little now and then. He would have kicked all the covers off by now, too, and then gotten a little cold and drawn himself into a fetal position.

Light Highlights wouldn’t mind; it wouldn’t bother her a bit that he could be a little hard to sleep with, though she wouldn’t know yet that it was harder to sleep without him. She’d just smile and cover him with the sheet and watch him unfurl himself as he warmed and relaxed. Maybe he’d waken and pull her tight against him and let her feel him go rigid with desire against her.

How many other women had lost sleep over him? How many would in the future? Emory summoned up a mental dossier of the women she’d seen in pictures with him. She dressed them all in unflattering, calf-length denim jumpers and made them leap over a sawhorse, as she counted them like sheep. Sometimes she made them trip and fall into pig manure.

In spite of herself she laughed a little and began to settle down. Her last image before drifting off was of Light Highlights falling face first into the sloppy manure and falling again when she tried to get up. Emory dozed off and on but she wasn’t asleep when her phone signaled that she had a text message.

She grabbed it from the nightstand like it was an oxygen tank and she was smothering—though it could be Teresa. It wouldn’t be the first time a bride had texted in the wee hours before her wedding. But no. It really was life-giving oxygen.

He had come to her! Not wanting to be caught wearing his t-shirt, she jumped up, threw it on the floor, and kicked it under the bed. After retrieving her nightgown, she got back in bed and tried to look like she was asleep. Then she waited. And waited. Just what porch was he on? One in Aspen, Colorado?

Another text came in.

Smiling, she keyed in,

But before hitting send, she stopped.

It had been a hellish night, but she had faced some things: This was ending and it was going to be hard. It could be tonight or it could be tomorrow or next week. He was going to do that concert and then he was going to get back to his life. The end might as well come tonight. She already had a head start on the heartache.

She set her phone on the bedside table and lay back against the pillow. It was for the best. And she wasn’t pulling that t-shirt from under the bed either, no matter how much it smelled like him. She would get over this, and she would get started right now.