CHAPTER 21: Maybe

A text from Sara Armstrong broke Grace’s concentration. “Call me,” it said. Grace did.

“We’re still in Seattle,” said Sara. “The whole ordeal of getting to the City, spending most of the day in the hospital, well, Tom’s just wrung out. We’ll spend the night, maybe two, with friends here.” A pause. “There’s a chicken in the fridge,” she said. “Would you mind?”

“I can handle dinner, Sara,” said Grace. “Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, Grace, and I’ll text Jackson. Bye,” said Sara, ending the call.

Grace’s mind remained on the puzzle that was timber as she got the meal under control. Afterwards, she headed upstairs to tidy up.

A few minutes after six, Jackson carried a load of wood in a leather sling through the mud room. Scout, lying in the middle of the kitchen, thumped his tail against the floor. Jackson gave him a good scratch and inhaled the aroma of a chicken roasting and rosemary. He stacked the wood in the kitchen and next to the living room fireplace where he noticed napkins and silverware laid out for two on the coffee table in front of a warm fire. “Anyone home?” he called out.

“Up here,” came Grace’s voice from the guest room. “Down in a minute.”

“OK,” he said, studying the mixture of dirt and oil on his hands and shirt. He’d been pulled in to assess the state of a pesky delimber and ended up fixing it for the umpteenth time.

Seen better days, wish we could replace the damn thing, he thought, but they’d need their cash for a conveyor belt that needed replacing. Banks weren’t loaning to mills anymore. “Too much risk,” they said. Astute bastards, thought Jackson as he loped up the stairs to his room. “I need to wash up,” he called out as he passed the closed guest room door.

“Chicken should be ready in fifteen,” said Grace’s voice.

“Copy that,” he said.

Jackson felt better after a shower. He wrapped a towel around his waist and headed up the hall to his room for clean clothes. He was rubbing his hair dry with a small towel and almost ran into Grace as she came out of the guest room. “Sorry,” he said, holding the towel around his waist to make sure it didn’t slip.

She moved to the right to pass him, but he simultaneously moved to his left, blocking her. He smiled down at her. Grace bit her lip. His chest was strong and his shoulders were muscled from hard work, not from the efforts of a personal trainer like Tony’s. His ribs were bruised from the fight in the parking lot and there were old burn marks on his left shoulder, a scar on his right, fainter ones that ran down his chest and on his arms. The towel was tight around his hips and a slight bulge below his abdomen hinted at what lay beneath. She blushed.

“Excuse me,” he said, as he disappeared into his room.

Grace continued down the hall and walked downstairs, holding the handrail tightly. She crossed the living room and went into the kitchen to check on dinner.

Jackson came down a few minutes later, wearing a dark gray fishermen’s cable knit sweater and a pair of dark jeans. Scout roused himself and found a spot under the coffee table in the living room as Grace set out the meal of chicken, rice and green beans.

“We need wine,” said Jackson, heading to the kitchen where he turned on the CD player. George Strait crooned, the fire in the living room gave off sparks.

I cross my heart / And promise to / Give all I've got to give / To make all your dreams come true / In all the world / You'll never find / A love as true as mine

George Strait abruptly changed to “The Cowboy Rides Away”.

I knew the stakes were high right from the start / When she dealt the cards, I dealt my heart / Now I just found a game that I can't play / And this is where the cowboy rides away

And my heart is sinkin' like the setting sun / Setting on the things I wish I'd done / It's time to say goodbye to yesterday / And this is where the cowboy rides away

Jackson, returned with a bottle. “A nice Walla Walla white,” he said.

“A what?” she asked.

“Walla Walla means water, times two,” he said. “Nice town, worth a visit.” He poured and toasted, “To hope.” That there’s a future, he thought. 

“To hope,” she said, clinking his glass.

George Strait sang on:

We've been in and out of love and in-between / And now we play the final showdown scene / And as the credits roll, a sad song starts to play / And this is where the cowboy rides away

And my heart is sinkin' like the setting sun / Setting on the things I wish I'd done / Oh, the last goodbye's the hardest one to say / This is where the cowboy rides away

Dinner conversation was light: banter about the weather, how they’d each spent their day. The wine worked its magic and they relaxed.

“Oh, hey,” he said. “Frank got a call, out of the blue, from a Texas woman selling raw logs from Mexico. Price and terms sound good. It’s not set, but Frank’s happier than I’ve seen him in ages. Maybe things are changing for the better.”

Grace smiled. “Maybe,” she said.

After dinner, Grace moved to the raised stone ledge beside the hearth while Jackson chose an overstuffed leather chair. They were both quiet, but their minds were not.

Jackson placed his almost empty wine glass on a side table made from a tree trunk. Its rings were mesmerizing; he studied them, glad that Tom had not varnished this table, left it rough and natural. He ran his fingers in a circle around the rings and along a crack in the middle. As he did so, Grace noticed the pale skin on his ring finger, that he was not wearing his thick wedding band.

She wondered, Should I confess about eavesdropping last night outside the wood shop? Should I tell him about Robert Patton/Seamus Boyle? She wondered if she should tell him that she’d thought him capable of arson, that she wondered about Molly—if he would ever be over her. She wondered if she should tell him she wished he would reach out and touch her.

Jackson thought about last night, how Grace had pulled back as if he’d slapped her. No wedding band, he thought, but a pretty girl like her would have a boyfriend. Probably a handsome, rich guy who takes her to movie premieres.

He imagined Grace in a shimmering evening gown with a man in a tuxedo. Champagne and roses, he thought. Not beer and mud.

From the CD player in the kitchen, Larry Fleet sang:

'Cause you don't love me / Because I'm rich / We don't need money / To have happiness / 'Cause when I take your hand / When I kiss your lips / When it comes to love, girl / You'll never get less

The best that I got / All that I can / A good strong back / And two honest hands / If you need solid ground / I'll be that rock / You'll always get / The best that I got

You'll never get less / Than the best that I got

Jackson stole a peek at Grace as she gazed into the fire and thought, She’s beautiful but from a different world, gone in a few days. Best keep your distance, boy.

Grace stood and teetered. Jackson caught her, steadied her. “Careful,” he said, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath in her ear. Scout studied their faces; first one, then the other.

“Shoot,” she said, not looking up. “Foot’s asleep.”

Jackson fought off his desire to kiss her as he helped her to a chair. As he stood over her, he did not act on his urge to touch her hair, to run his hand down the side of her neck and feel the silky smoothness of her skin.

He turned away. “We’d better clean up the kitchen,” he said quietly. “It’s getting late.”