Unpredictable Love (3 page)

Admitting she had feelings for SSGT Trent
Stevens wouldn’t happen. Jory wasn’t some foolish schoolgirl with a
crush on a handsome Marine. She was a grown woman, who had been
shouldering the responsibilities of an adult since she was
seventeen. Her head wouldn’t be turned by a few letters and some
fancy words. She was above that. Or so she thought.

Saturday morning, she headed downtown to
interview Laura Dailey. She’d ask about the pen pal project,
keeping her correspondence with Trent private, and the town garage
sale planned for two weeks hence. The money would go toward buying
a new ambulance. The rust bucket they used to cart sick people was
on its last legs.

She hiked up the wooden steps to the woman’s
kitchen door. As always, the warm, tempting aroma of something
baking enveloped Laura like a soft, cashmere sweater. The scent
drew Jory in as her taste buds jolted awake.

“
Come in. I’ve got the last apple pie
from the fall crop in the oven. It’s almost done. You’ll have to
have a piece and tell me how it compares to the pies made from the
earlier apples.”

Jory stepped inside. Her mouth watered at
the smell of baking apples and cinnamon. The apple crop was almost
used up. Soon apple pie would give center stage to sweet corn
fritters, blueberry cobbler, and peach pie.

After the interview was over, Jory gave in
to the desire for more.

“
So, how’s that new man in your life?”
The older woman cast a keen eye on the reporter.

“
What new man?”

“
The military guy.”

“
You mean my pen pal?”

“
That’s what they call it? Guess I can
take some credit for setting you two up, since I started the
program.”

“
Nobody set me up with anyone.” Jory’s
jaw stiffened.

Laura went on, “Yeah. He’s the one. Staff
Sergeant or something. Rumor has it you’re pretty tight. Marla told
me you’re getting a raft of letters.”

Jory waved her hand, casting her gaze down
to hide her blush. “A lot of hot air on paper, Laura.”

“
That’s not what Marla
said.”

“
How can she know, unless she’s
steaming open my letters?”

“
So there
is
something going on?” Laura sat back, a grin
spread across thin cheeks.

Jory took another forkful. “He’s pretty
handsome, but not my type.”

“
What is your type? Short, fat, and
ugly?” Laura chuckled.

“
Maybe living here? Not facing death
every day? A guy who reads? The Staff Sergeant isn’t exactly a
Rhodes Scholar.”

“
Don’t be such a snob. Opposites
attract. Look at me and Barney. He’s a big lug who works outside,
gets filthy like you wouldn’t believe. Look at me. I’m trim and
have a spotless house.”

Jory laughed. “Point taken. Right now, we’re
sort of friends.”

“
That’s how it begins,” Laura piped
up. “He sounds better than Archie.” Laura made a noise of
disapproval in her throat. “Don’t know how you ever settled for
him.”

“
Not much to choose from around here.”
Jory wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Thanks for the fantastic pie.
I gotta be going.” She rose, stretched, gathered her notes, and
went on her way.

Upon returning home, Jory went to her desk
and tapped out a rough draft of the interview while it was still
fresh. She hoped to write a piece compelling enough to jumpstart
people into trotting out their second-hand stuff and parting with
some hard-earned cash.

Then, she headed for the kitchen. It was her
turn to make dinner. Laura had given her a few apples and the
recipe for apple dumplings. Jory hoped to make pork chops and
broccoli too, even though Amber didn’t like the veggie.

She hummed along with music on the radio as
she prepared dough. A low rumble drew her attention as she put the
meat in the oven. Glancing out the window, she saw the sky darken.
Looked like a storm was rolling in. She sighed. How perfect—lying
in bed, writing to Trent, while lightning flashed and thunder
crashed right outside her window. She shivered.

When dinner was finished, there wasn’t a
crumb left from the apple dumplings. Amber vowed to make them next
time she had dinner duty. Jory left the others to tidy up the
kitchen. She climbed the stairs, closing her door for privacy. She
edited the garage sale story several times before calling it a
night. After donning her fuzzy nightshirt, she climbed into bed
with a yawn and a glance at the clock. It was midnight.

Jory pulled out her lap desk, nabbed
some paper from the nightstand, and watched the thickening clouds.
She pondered what to write to SSGT Trent Stevens.
I’ve at least gotta try not to be
boring.

A low roll of thunder shook the house a bit
as clouds curled around the moon.

Jory loved storms. She cozied into the
covers.

“
A romantic setting and the closest
thing to a man for me is at the other end of this paper.” She took
a deep breath and let it out, taking the ballpoint in her right
hand then returning it to her mouth. Words didn’t come.

“
Write about what you know. That’s
what they say.”

Dear Trent,

I love scary storms. Spooky nights with
clouds rolling in make me want to curl up with a bottle of wine, a
fire, and a good man. Am I crazy? What floats your boat?

What are the storms like in Afghanistan? I’m
sorry if that’s a stupid question. I guess all storms are the
same.

I’m staring at the moon and feeling sorry
for myself that the only man here with me is you, on paper. Sorry
again!

I’m a downer tonight. I hope you’re not
down. But you probably are. None of this is coming out right. Wish
you were here with me. Then, you’d be safe, and I wouldn’t be
alone.

Wishing you a safe journey,

Jory

I shouldn’t send
this.
But she signed it, folded it, and put it in the
pink envelope. She addressed it by heart, this being her seventh
letter to Trent.

She pulled the covers up to her neck
to keep out the chilly air and turned on her side. Closing her
eyes, she imagined what it would feel like if Trent was in bed
behind her. She touched his picture for a second with her
forefinger. He was much taller than she, making it hard to
visualize.
How can I imagine a man I’ve
never met?

The storm was gone by morning. Jory rose
early, planning to spend a couple of hours at the paper when it was
quiet. She had stories to finish and deadlines to meet. Before she
left, she handed the letter to Nan to mail on her way to church.
The familiar toot of Dan MacMurray’s car horn announced his
arrival. He was fifty-five, trim, gray-haired, and attractive. He’d
be escorting Nan to her house of worship.

Amber was sleeping off her late night date
with Troy, the local hunk. She went out with young men in Pine
Grove and a couple from Oak Bend, from time to time.

Amber made no bones about her freedom.
She flirted with everyone and had dated several men at once.
Probably sleeping around too.
Jory
ground her teeth at the image. But, of course, if she looked like
Amber, maybe she’d be a bit freer too. Jory shook her head.
Never.

The journalist pushed thoughts of her
sister’s behavior out of her mind. Amber was twenty-five, old
enough to deal with the consequences of her own decisions. As long
as her sister continued to take birth control pills, there’d be no
negative consequences to her lifestyle. At least that’s what Jory
hoped.

At times like these, the reporter reminded
herself that she’d had the guidance of two parents for a lot longer
than Amber had. She cut her sister some slack, knowing that the
trauma of losing them had affected the young girl deeply. She’d
been rocked to her roots, and had become clingy with both Nan and
Jory. It had been hell for three years.

Jory arrived home at one. She dropped her
briefcase by the stairs before joining the others in the kitchen.
Nan had whipped up a late lunch before she’d gone out with her
boyfriend and had left a plate for her niece.

After eating, Jory ambled into the living
room where Amber stood, refreshing her lipstick.

“
Going out with Archie
tonight?”

“
Nope.” Jory flopped down on the sofa.
The journalist had been “dating” Archie for a year, though she
never used that word. After all, they were only friends. She wasn’t
sleeping with him and didn’t intend to.

“
Really?” Amber cocked an
eyebrow.

“
Staying home. Alone.”

“
You’re leading him on, you
know.”

“
No, I’m not.”

“
Yes, you are. You’re not even
sleeping with him, are you?”

“
That’s none of your business.” Jory
pushed to her feet and headed for the stairs, but her sister
stopped her.

“
Archie complains about it to his
friends. Word gets around.”

Just like you get
around.
“Archie has a big mouth.” The journalist
clamped her lips shut.

“
It’s not nice to date a boy and not
have sex with him.”

“
You would know.”

“
What’s that supposed to mean?” The
young beauty placed her hands on her hips.

“
Whatever. Archie’s not a prisoner. He
doesn’t have to spend time with me. Go on your date and leave me
alone.”

The younger woman reapplied her lipstick a
second time and left, slamming the screen door.

Jory mixed a vodka and tonic, added cubes,
and swirled the liquid, listening to the clink of the ice against
the glass. Her sister and her aunt were out living their lives. But
not Jory. Nope, she was in the house, living hers through
letters.

She stretched out on the sectional
sofa and put up her feet. After a big swig, she plucked the thin
envelope out of her purse and eyed it with suspicion.
You’re still writing to me? Why? There must be a
thousand women who’d write you sexier letters.
Always
the practical one, the efficient one, the hard-working one, Jory
had never expected the attentions of the captain of the football
team, or even the debate team. She didn’t have time for the little
niceties of flirting.

During the years she had commuted to college
at night, men had come around, taking her on dates and making
passes. She had enjoyed a social life, her first sexual
experiences, and had her heart broken. When she had received her
degree, she’d gotten a good job offer. Jory had returned to
work—her comfort zone—and left school behind. She had dated from
time to time, but eligible men who drew her interest were rare.

Trent Stevens, a lonely man, had come into
Jory’s life when she was ready to see him. Perhaps Jory had come
into his life when he needed her most. Whatever the serendipity of
the situation, Jory stopped resisting and opened her heart to the
warm, funny man penning letters she couldn’t wait to read, reaching
across thousands of miles to touch her heart.

She slipped her finger under the flap and
tore it open. The thin piece of paper inside had scrawl on both
sides. Another gulp of her drink gave her courage. She unfolded
it.

Dear Jory,

I shouldn’t be surprised to find there
aren’t many birds here. Guess with all the shooting, they get
scared away. But there’s one persistent one. I think he’s a hawk of
some kind. Binocs here aren’t used for bird watching. You know what
I mean. He’s not big, but definitely a raptor. I watch him scan for
mice and rats.

Seems like he and I are both doing the same
thing. I’ve seen him on and off for the past few days. I call him
“Rocky,” cause he’s gotta swoop down pretty low to see between the
rocks. Anyway, he’s tough, and Rocky is a tough name. I miss the
birds at home. The little finches are my favorite. They’re tiny
compared to Rocky, and he’s not even big by hawk standards. But
they are pretty. They come to my feeder and don’t mind if I
watch.

Wish I could be there with you on a stormy
night, I’d hold you until the crashes are over. I’m not afraid of
storms. Never have been. Here there’s too much else to scare the
shit out of you. A little thunder would be a relief.

Had a few other things in mind to do with
you on a rainy night, but I’d better keep this clean. You know
where my head’s at. Hope you don’t meet some normal guy who isn’t
sleeping with a gun and naming birds. Please keep your letters
coming. They give me hope.

Yours,

Trent

Jory put her drink down long enough to wipe
her eyes. Then, she chugged the rest, tucked his letter away in a
scented box, and pulled out fresh paper and pen.

* * * *

Monday, on her lunch hour, Jory drove to
Hanson’s Flower and Feed. She cornered the owner, George Hanson,
and gave him the third degree about finches.

“
Here’s what they like to eat,” he
said, dragging over a huge bag of wild birdseed. “We got a lot of
finches up in this neck of the woods. So, you’re gonna need a
couple of feeders and a shitload of seed.”

“
Okay. Can you give me a break, seeing
as I’m feeding wild birds out of the goodness of my heart?” She
shifted her weight.

“
Nope. How’s things with that soldier?
I hear you write him pretty regular.”

“
What business is that of
yours?”