Forgiving Jackson (38 page)

That was hard to argue with. “And you’re sure about this?”

“Miss Amelia loved to tell her stories and I loved to hear them. She told that one more than once. You’re probably surprised that I remember it, when sometimes it seems like I don’t remember where the garbage goes. I know I don’t catch on as quick as I could but I’m smart enough to file away what’s really important.” He tapped his temple. “I didn’t know your daddy, but a lot of people around here thought a whole lot of him. When Miss Amelia told that story, I thought that was the right way to go about things if you were raising boys—or girls. Give them responsibility but if it’s something that might hurt them, check up on them to make sure they did it. I thought that’s how I’d want to do things, if I had kids.”

“I can’t believe it.” But what if it was true, that he was innocent of that, at least?

Sammy took that literally. “Did your daddy seem like the kind of man who would go to bed while his kids were sitting outside awake, around a live fire?”

The truth in that shook Jackson to his core.

“No, Sammy. He wasn’t that kind of man.”

“See, what you call complicated was really pretty simple to figure out.”

“I wonder why Aunt Amelia never told me.” What a difference it would have made.

“I expect she would have if she’d known you had such a fool idea. Did you tell her?”

“No, I never did.”

“See?” Sammy got up and put one foot on the bottom rung of the stepladder. “I don’t know about all that stuff with you not being able to sing or about what happened in L.A. Seems to me you must think you’re a whole lot more special than you are if you think you caused all that or could have stopped it. That is, unless you’re somebody like The Flash who can be everywhere at the same time and you just decided to be lazy.”

“No. I’m not The Flash.”

“Few are,” Sammy said. “Just Dirk. I’m guessing if you’ll take what you know and try to think of it in a simple way instead of complicated, you’ll figure out the rest of it, too.”

“Sammy, do you know how wise you are?”

Sammy wrapped the mug he’d been holding before and put it in a box. “Maybe you ought to call me Solomon.”

“No. Is that answer simple enough for you?”

The date at the top of the report Emory printed out told her it was October 1. She sighed. She’d needed a coat this morning but at home it would be a beautiful autumn day, at least ten degrees warmer.
Home.
She had to stop that.

She started to read over the report again, though there was no need. She understood it all perfectly and was ready for her meeting. It had taken her a little time to get back up to speed, but this still came easy to her—not like calming a bride who had suddenly decided her dress made her look fat or moving a debutante party inside in fifteen minutes when the skies opened up and delivered an unpredicted flood. But nothing would top the engagement party where the mother of the bride opened a closet door and found her husband with her daughter’s fiancé.

What a night. And oddly enough, it seemed there would be more of those nights at Beauford Bend. Jackson had relented about closing Around the Bend. Gwen and Christian had scheduled a few small events—though they seemed to be coping rather than thriving on the work. When she’d asked why they hadn’t hired someone to manage the business, they’d been evasive.

But not her problem, not her
job
.

Worrying for Jackson wasn’t her job either but she still did. No matter what, she would always be grateful to him for helping her find her way back from her deep pit of fear. Some of that fear had returned when she’d returned to New York but the counseling and the support group were helping.

Jackson’s retirement announcement had caused a huge stir in the press but she hadn’t heard anything recently. As always, something else had come along.

Gwen and Christian insisted he was fine when she asked but would say little else. She didn’t press them. They wouldn’t know the things she wanted to know anyway: Was he sleeping? Was he writing and playing, even if it was just for himself? Had he found any peace?

She turned over the report on her desk and did what she always did when she couldn’t stop thinking about him—she started planning a party.

This would be a wedding. The bride would be a former University of Tennessee cheerleader who was now an interior designer and the groom would be a football coach. Wait. No. They would never get married during football season. But it could be their engagement party, held on a Saturday night when UT played in the afternoon. The party would be fun and casual. Orange and white checked tablecloths, of course. They might even have some televisions scattered about so guests could watch other games. How many televisions were there at Beauford Bend? But wait. This was a fantasy and she could have as many televisions as she pleased.

Her desk phone buzzed. “Yes, Reuben?”

“Ms. Lowell, there’s a gentleman in the lobby to see you. He says it’s personal.”

What now? She had made clear to that tax lawyer she’d met in line at Starbucks that she didn’t want to go out with him. Might as well go tell him in person,
again.

“Tell him I’ll be right down.”

She had eighteen minutes until her ten o’clock meeting. She hurried to the elevator bank and, mercifully, one came right away.

To Emory’s surprise, the lobby was working alive with people. What was going on? And where was Mr. Starbucks? She needed to get this done and get back upstairs.

“I don’t know,” she heard someone say. “He just walked in with an amplifier in one hand and a guitar case in the other. No one seems to know why.”

What? It couldn’t be.
Stop it!

She had to stop connecting everything she heard back to Jackson.
There’s a movie poster. Poster starts with p, just like pig. Pig makes pork and there’s pork in bologna. Jackson likes bologna so that movie poster is all about Jackson.

She was pitiful.

“Surely it’s not really him,” another voice answered the first one. “I read that he announced his retirement in Nashville back in the summer.”

Emory froze. Then she heard the strum of a guitar and she followed the sound, pushing people out of the way and elbowing her way through until she got to the center of the room where the huge modern sculpture stood. She’d never liked that sculpture.

But she liked what stood beside it.

His hair was a little longer but not as long as before the fire. He looked healthy and tanned. She hoped that meant he was sleeping nights and seeing the light of day. She badly wanted to kiss the back of his neck.

“There she is.” He was miked! “I knew she’d find me. You doing okay, Emory? Nobody will tell me how you’re doing.”

She nodded but she had no idea if she was telling the truth.

“Do you remember that song I was playing the night we danced on the porch together? The one you wanted me to sing and I wouldn’t? I said it wasn’t finished. I’ve finished it now. And I’ve come to sing it for you. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” Unlike his, her voice couldn’t be heard in every corner of this space.

But he heard her and that’s all that mattered.

“Folks, y’all are welcome to stay. I’m delivering a singing telegram to my girl. You’ll be the first to hear this song. It’s all about how I hope things can end up for us.”

My girl.

When he started to play, all the background chatter stopped. They knew they were hearing something fine and special. Then it got even finer and more special when he started to sing.

Emory’s tears were flowing freely by the time he went into his guitar solo. She stepped forward and waited for him to throw his head back, close his eyes, and go to his private place. But this time he didn’t. He leaned forward, opened his eyes wide, and shared the moment with her. He played from his heart and soul in a way that let the world—and her—know how much he meant those words.

Then he smiled. When she let her heart show in her return smile, he paused, lifted his eyes to heaven, and shook his head. “It gets me every single time.”

When he slid into the chorus, he picked up the tempo and the crowd went wild.

The applause broke out but he didn’t acknowledge it. He put his guitar down and walked toward her with his arms open. She didn’t make him walk the whole way.

The applause continued as their mouths met and Emory celebrated the only place she’d ever want to be.

He pulled away a bit. “I said some things to you that I didn’t mean. I didn’t even think I meant them then. I wanted to drive you away for your own good.”

“You are a stupid man.” Even she could hear the love in her voice when she said those words.

“Yeah. I’ve been informed of that by more than one person by word, action, and deed.” His voice went soft. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “Like the song says, when I offered you my love it came with a guarantee.”

“I wanted to come to you sooner but I had to work out some things. And I had to face that I have post-traumatic stress disorder. And I had to learn something about forgiving Jackson.”

“Oh, honey.” Her heart wanted to cry because she’d left him to go through that without her but her head knew he’d had to get there alone.

He shook his head. “It’s okay. That fire in L.A. wasn’t my fault. And neither was the one that killed my family.”

“You thought that?” She was horrified.

He nodded. “And I couldn’t let myself have you until I worked that out, but, Emory, I love you. You have no idea how much.”

“I think I do. I felt how much before you even knew.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “You’re a wonder. I’ll never deserve you but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.”

“I’m going to enjoy that part.” They laughed a little together.

“I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen with my career,” he said, “but I’m not giving up music.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’m writing. I’ve got the band back. Chase, too. We’ve got plans to record. Touring—I don’t know. I’m getting some help so I think I’ll be able to eventually. But I don’t know that I
want
to do another big concert. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to do another big tour.”

“As long as you’re happy.”

“Right now, I just want to be with you. I want to write my songs during the day while you make parties. Then I want to sit on the porch at night and play those songs for you. And I’m thinking one of the parties you make might be a wedding.”

“I know how to make that happen.” It was already taking shape in her mind.
Spring. White tulips. Julie with a basket of rose petals.

He brought her back. “But right now, I really just want to go home.”

Those might have been the sweetest words she’d ever heard.

“Then let’s go.”

He smiled and took her hand and started to lead her toward the door.

“Wait! Your guitar! And my purse, and phone … ”

He laughed. “Sammy’ll get all that.”

Sammy? She looked up and Sammy peeped around that ugly sculpture and waved.

And Emory walked out the door with Jackson Beauford and never looked back.

Alicia Hunter Pace is the psuedonym for the writing team, Jean Hovey and Stephanie Jones. They live in North Alabama and share a love of old houses, football, and writing stories with a happily ever after.

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The smell of cooking fudge is only sweet if the candy maker isn’t dead tired and sick of the smell of chocolate. Lanie Heaven wearily crossed the floor of the Heavenly Confections kitchen to check the temperature of the vat of dark brown bubbling syrup. Almost there. She looked at her watch. 6:20P.M.No time to make truffles, but she could do it when she returned home. There was just enough time to pour up the fudge and pack some candy to take to book club.

There was a knock at the front door. Damn. Why hadn’t she turned off the lights at five o’clock when she’d locked the shop door? Not that it would have mattered. The people of Merritt, Alabama knew she was in here and had no compunction about pounding on the door — or trotting around back and ringing her apartment bell, for that matter. With her luck, it would be Sophie Ann McGowan, who would want a single chocolate star and then complain that it wasn’t as creamy as the ones Lanie’s grandmother used to make. Sophie Ann wouldn’t go away but she could wait; the fudge could not.