Always Our Love Page 9

  I lifted one shoulder. “Hey, I might be way off-base. I’m speaking from personal experience, more than anything else.” I raised my glass of root beer. “I don’t know how much of my story you’ve heard through the grapevine that seems to run from the Cove up here to Burton. I had a real rough stretch after my wife died.”

  Mason gripped my forearm. “I did hear a little something about that. Guess we have a few things in common, huh?”

  “Yeah, at least one thing I’d never wish on my worst fucking enemy. When your wife died, Mason, what did you do? How did you handle it?”

  He looked pained. “I cursed God, I cursed man, and I got real angry. But I had Piper. When I think what might’ve happened to me after Lu was killed, if it hadn’t been for my baby girl . . . she saved my life. It was because of her that I came back here, started up this place and found a life again. And if it hadn’t been for that move, I never would’ve met Rilla and had Noah, too.” His eyes were glued to the floor. “I don’t talk about her so much anymore, but I still miss Lu. It’s hard, you know . . . to say, God, I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish she was still alive and with me. But if she were, I wouldn’t have Rilla and the baby and the life that I love right now. That’s an impossible choice.”

  “Yeah.” My voice was hoarse. “I get that. But you see, man, you got angry, but you didn’t swan-dive off that cliff. You didn’t abandon your baby girl; you made a new life for her, with her, and you stepped up. Me, I had two reasons for keeping on, you know? Becca and Oliver were little. They’d just lost their mama, and they needed their daddy. But you know what I did? I gave them away. Left them with their grandparents, so I could drink my life away without guilt. Well, without any more guilt, I should say, because I was eaten up with that shit. I was on a fast-track to oblivion. I was heading straight to an end that would’ve made my kids orphans.”

  “But you didn’t.” Mason spoke low, with intensity. “I mean, here you are.”

  “Yeah, but it came damn fucking close. If it hadn’t been for Ryland, I don’t know what I would’ve done. I made the choice, ultimately, to go into rehab and to stop drinking, but when I came out, Ryland had my back. He gave me a job. He gave me the space I needed to heal. But there were others, guys from our crew who’d known me before, and definitely my in-laws, who acted like I was always one bad day away from falling off the wagon. They walked on eggshells around me, and worse, they taught my kids to do the same. It just about drove me crazy.”

  A deep furrow appeared between Mason’s eyes. “You think we’re doing that to Jenna?”

  I spread my hands. “Hey, I don’t know. I’ve only been around her at work, when we’re with people from the society or my own crew. I haven’t seen how her friends treat her, or what it’s like around her family. You’d be the better judge of that.”

  “Yeah. And it’s just like you said—eggshells.” He grimaced. “She always looks so . . . pained around us. Millie and Boomer don’t like to hear about anything negative when Jenna’s around, and they get mad if anyone steps out of line about that.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know the whole situation. Just a thought.”

  “Hey, Mason. You get lost over here with our refills? Need a refresher course in building a beer?” Sam ambled over to us.

  “Sorry, bud. Linc and I got talking. I’ve got your drink here.” Mason handed the filled mug over the bar. “Everything okay, Sam? You’re not usually a second-beer guy. And you’ve been kind of quiet tonight.”

  Sam sipped his beer, not meeting Mason’s gaze. “Yeah, I’m good.” When none of us spoke, he blew out a deep breath. “Meghan went to a specialist today, in Savannah. You know, a . . . woman doctor-type. They’d run some tests last time.” He glanced at me. “She had a miscarriage a couple of years ago, and we’ve been, you know, trying ever since. But no luck. And the news today wasn’t great.”

  Mason clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it, Sam. I just figured you and Meghan weren’t ready for kids yet.”

  “We haven’t talked about it much. Ali knows, and Maureen does, too. We’ve been trying not to worry, because you know . . . we’re young. We’ve only been married a couple of years, and we were careful before that, and hey, no one’s going to complain about the fun of trying. But finally Meghan thought she might as well go get checked out.”

  “What did the doctor say? Surely there’s something they can do, right? You hear all the time about all the advances and shit.” Mason braced his hands on the bar, watching Sam.

  “Yeah, I guess they could, but they can’t find anything wrong. No reason, physical or otherwise, why I can’t manage to fucking knock up my wife.”

  His voice rose, and the conversation at the table across the room died abruptly. There were several long moments of silence, and then chairs scraped as the others joined us, some of them taking seats on barstools and the rest gathering around.

  Flynn was the first to break the silence. “Sam . . . bro . . . why didn’t you say something?”

  Sam snorted. “Not exactly the kind of shit you want to broadcast, you know? Both for Meghan’s sake and mine.”

  I noticed glances exchanged around the room. “You got checked, too, right?” This time it was Alex asking. “So if everything’s working fine with Meggie, you’re sure it’s not your swimmers?”

  “Yeah, I got checked.” His face turned a deep red. “Most humiliating fucking experience of my life. But the doctor said everything was good. My swimmers aren’t having any issues, thank you very much.”

  “Hey, it had to be asked.” Alex gave his friend a full-body nudge. “And I feel your pain. I just went through that myself, actually, a couple of months back.”

  This time, the quiet was astonished and deafening. “Uhhh . . . what?” Flynn stared at his friend. “Why in the hell would you be at a fertility clinic? Does Cal know you’re cheating on him with your hand and a cup?”

  Everyone laughed at that, the tension easing a little, as Alex rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course Cal knows. It was his idea, if you want the whole story. We’re, uh, looking into having a baby, and the doctor we’re working with wanted to check both of our swimmers before we made a decision about who was going to be up to bat first.”

  “Up to bat? What the hell kind of craziness is that?” Sam still sounded rough, but I saw a spark in his eyes and a half-smile forming on his face.

  Alex gave a long, exaggerated sigh. “Look, do you really want me to get into the down and dirty nitty gritty with you guys about this?” He scanned the room, and when no one objected, he shook his head. “Fine. Don’t forget you asked for it. Cal and I have been talking about kids since we moved to the Cove. We don’t want to rush into anything, but at the same time, we’re tired of waiting. We talked about adoption, and it still might be something we do. But first, we’re going to try it this way. We started the process this past spring, and we found a surrogate we both love. Cal and I figured that one of us would donate for one kid, and the other of us would give our guys for another. That way, we’re both furthering our family trees, and we both get that experience.” He picked up a nearby beer and gulped it down. “Not saying our way is the right way, but it’s how we’re doing it.”

  “Huh.” Will, sitting on a stool, wagged his head. “I never really thought about it much. But hey, congrats, Alex. What did you decide, and when is one of you going to get this gal pregnant?”

  Alex laughed. “Turned out both of us have viable, uh, product. So we finally decided we’d go in alphabetical order. I’m going first, and it’s going down—or in?—this fall. The surrogate’s name is Kelly, and she lives in the Cove. So we’ll be able to see her during the pregnancy, and we hope she’ll be part of the baby’s life.”

  “It’s a brave new world.” Smith grinned. “And when did we all go from talking baseball, hot music and hotter chicks and start discussing sperm counts and babies? I think somewhere along the line, I got old and no one told me.”

 
; Flynn poked him in the ribs. “Smith . . . you’re old, dude. Now you’ve been told. Accept it.”

  “Sam.” Mason spoke over the chuckles that followed. “Listen. We all talk big, and we bluster a lot, but we all know how important this is. And if you need to talk to anyone about it, don’t hold back. That’s part of why we’re here for each other, right?”

  There was a general murmur of consensus. Sam ducked his head, though I couldn’t tell if it was in embarrassment or emotion. Maybe a little of both, I decided.

  “And just remember this,” Flynn called out. “When you do manage to, uh . . . what was refined and romantic way you put it? Oh, yeah—fucking knock up your wife. When you do that, and the baby’s keeping you up all night crying, or you’re stuck changing diapers—we’re most definitely going to be here to remind you that you asked for this. I, for one, have no problem singing the I-told-you-so song.”

  Sam slugged his brother-in-law in the arm, as Mason ducked under the bar and pulled out a bottle.

  “Gentlemen, I think this calls for some of the good stuff. I don’t break out the high quality booze for you jackasses often, but tonight I’ll make an exception.” He brought down glasses and poured Scotch into each of them in one smooth move, not breaking his stride even when he stopped before the last one and added club soda to it instead of the alcohol. He handed that one to me.

  Each of the men picked up a drink, and Flynn cleared his throat. “To all of us here—the fellowship of the jackasses. May we always be stronger together, brave enough to conquer sperm cups and wise enough to listen to our women.”

  “Hear, hear!” Will called, and we clinked our glasses together as I wondered how I’d gotten lucky enough to be accepted into this solidarity of brotherhood.

  “THERE’S REALLY NO PLACE LIKE a small town on the Fourth of July.” Rilla smiled at me as we spread a red and white striped cloth over a picnic table. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve stepped right into a Norman Rockwell painting, you know? The red, white and blue bunting everywhere . . . flags waving . . . the parade and the picnic, and everyone gathered to have a good time.”

  “Have you considered volunteering at the Burton Board of Tourism?” I teased my cousin. “You could write up what you said just now and we’d get a huge influx of visitors, just for the holiday.”

  “Actually, I have considered it.” She grinned. “I’ve been doing some pro bono PR work for the board, and we have good ideas. Problem is, we need to have somewhere for all those tourists to stay when they come flocking to Burton. Right now, they’d have to go to the hotel all the way in Farleyville. We could also use a few more eating establishments. We have Kenny’s, Smokey Joe’s and Franco’s—plus the Road Block, of course—but they’d be swamped if we got any kind of decent response to my ads.”

  “Once Oak Grove is finished and ready for visitors, we’re going to be pushing for more advertising from the state and the county. Having a hotel in Burton would be a draw for that, too. You should talk with Joanna Phelps, our PR rep over at the historical society. It would be great if the two of you could work together to promote both the town and the plantation.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Rilla side-eyed me. “So everything’s going well over there? At Oak Grove, I mean?”

  “It really is.” I was ebullient at the progress we’d made so far and at the fact that I hadn’t made any serious faux pas yet. “It’s been absolutely amazing to see it progress from this falling-down old house to something that will remind people of what used to be.”

  “You sound like you love what you’re doing.” Rilla patted my arm as she came around the table to retrieve napkins from the picnic basket. “It’s good to hear that.”

  I paused, considering. “You know, I really do. I don’t think I’ve been this happy since . . .” My voice trailed off. “Well, for a long time. I feel like I’m really doing something constructive. No pun intended.”

  Rilla’s face broke into a huge smile. “Why, Jenna Sutton, did you just make a joke? Oh, my gosh. This is a red-letter day.”

  I dropped down onto the bench. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, nothing, really.” She began folding napkins into triangles. “You just haven’t been very, um . . .” Rilla cast her eyes up as she searched for the word. “Relaxed, I guess. Light-hearted. What’s a word that means liable to make jokes?”

  “Clown-like?” I raised one eyebrow.

  “Noooo.” She shook her head. “I’m not criticizing, Jenna. I’m just saying it’s nice to see you smile. To hear you talk about your work with such passion and—joy, I’d say. We’ve all been so worried for so long that it makes me happy to see you happy.”

  Knowing that my family worried about me wasn’t exactly a news flash. But over the past two weeks, I’d begun to notice a slow change in how some of them acted around me. Mason and Rilla were less reticent about teasing me. They’d pushed me to accept a dinner invitation and then treated me like they used to—giving me a hard time about silly things and not backing down when out of habit, I began to shut down. They’d even asked me to babysit, and I’d had a fun night with Piper and Noah, which reminded me of how much I’d enjoyed those kids.

  My sisters were different, too. Courtney and her husband Ian, along with their son Duncan, had stopped by my house one night unexpectedly and taken me out for ice cream. Carla had taken to calling me more regularly. Even Christy, who seemed to have pulled away from me the most in the aftermath of the Trent situation, had asked to meet me for lunch one day.

  It was a subtle shift, but I noticed. I didn’t know what had happened to change them—or maybe it was me? Maybe it was the shot of confidence from the work I was doing at the plantation? I wasn’t sure. But I liked it. The more they were themselves around me, the more I felt free to let down my guard and be who I really was now—not the Jenna from Before, but the new Jenna. The Now Jenna. The one who’d been through shit, come out the other side and was ready to start living again.

  I wasn’t sure when I’d made that decision—the one to start living again. It had happened slowly, but I was pretty sure it had something to do with the Oak Grove project. I woke up each and every morning, excited about what was planned for the new day. I couldn’t wait to go out and see the work that had been finished since my visit the day before. I liked the fact that I knew what I was doing, and I enjoyed the people who were working with me.

  Of course, it hadn’t escaped my notice that Linc Turner played a big part in this difference. It wasn’t anything huge or overt; it was more in the way he treated me. He never acted as though he doubted I could do what I said I would. And when I expressed concern about my ability to accomplish a task, he offered both encouragement and help. At the same time, Linc never made me feel weak or helpless. He never made me feel less; on the contrary, when I was with him, I felt infinitely more.

  I’d worried at first that maybe I was starting to crush on him a little bit. That would have been disastrous. First of all, look at how my last foray into crushdom had gone. Not well. I wasn’t eager to stroll down that path again. And then there was the fact that we had a professional relationship, one built on mutual respect. Of course, there was the age difference, too, which wasn’t a little thing, and the fact that this guy, no matter how nice he was to me and how wonderful he made me feel, was a widower with two children. The idea of tackling that particular mountain of complications made my stomach turn over. No, Linc Turner wasn’t meant for me that way—in a romantic way—but I surely did appreciate what he’d done for my confidence level.

  I’d even been excited about the town’s huge Fourth of July gathering and celebration. The last two years, I’d stayed away, not able to face the thought of being with the people who whispered about me. I’d had no desire to celebrate anything. But this year was different. When my mom had brought up the picnic, I’d jumped in with both feet, offering to help with the table set-up and decorations.

  “Hey, earth to Jenna!” Rilla caught my attention. “We
need to put up this bunting on the gazebo. Give me a hand?”

  I reached around a tree to grab the step stool my mom had sent out with Rilla and me. Boomer’s Auto Repair sponsored a good part of the town’s Independence Day celebration, which gave us a prime spot on the green to decorate and on which we would have our picnic and watch the parade and fireworks. We’d been occupying this ground on the Fourth as long as I could remember, and I was past master at planning the splashes of red, white and blue. But in years before, I’d done the work with my sisters. This year, Rilla had insisted on helping me, which didn’t seem to have upset Carla, Courtney and Christy at all.

  I balanced on the top rung of the small ladder, reaching to attach the eye of the bunting to the hook I knew from long years of experience was up there. Focusing, I stuck my tongue out of the corner of my mouth and closed my eyes, feeling for the hook. Lost in concentration, I leaned just a little further and heard Rilla’s shriek of panic moments before I felt the unsettling sensation of my footing falling away from me as the step stool teetered.

  I didn’t even have time to cry out. I knew for certain, in one still-cognizant part of my mind, that I was about to fall and hit the ground pretty hard. I was conscious of letting go of the bunting, aware that it would definitely rip if I clung to it, and this was an old decoration that my mother treasured. I’d just felt a surge of fear-induced adrenaline when a pair of strong hands gripped my waist and a familiar voice murmured, “I got you. You’re okay.”

  And then all I knew was the heady feeling of a hard body pulling me close, holding me tight, and arms wrapped around me. I relaxed into the embrace, blissfully aware of nothing but this sense of security.

  “Jenna! My God, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  Rilla’s voice cut into my reverie. Suddenly, I realized I was clinging shamelessly to the arms that had rescued me—arms that belonged to Lincoln Turner.