7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
While Addy’s poulet basquaise braised in the rental cottage’s oven, she stretched out on the squashy sofa, propped her feet on the sea chest coffee table, and opened the journal Liv had assigned her—still mostly empty, except for a few pages devoted to Kieran.
If this sweet little cottage were home, she could take her time figuring out her feelings about him, her next steps, and her pain-in-the-ass family.
But “home” was a bland, golf-course condo chosen for its proximity to the base.
Funny how this rental made her feel more at home than she ever had in that ultra-modern building.
A line at the top of an empty journal page caught her eye: The decisions you make are a choice of values that reflect your life in every way. – Alice Waters
What a weird coincidence, to encounter a quote by a famous chef on the first day in ages she indulged her love of cooking. An eerie tingle danced down Addy’s spine.
She tapped her pen on the page. “Okay then, values.”
Snoot looked up and thumped his tail on the floor.
“Right you are, my love. I value…”
The dog held her gaze, his liquid brown eyes rapt.
“Time with Snoot.” Grinning, she jotted that down. “What else?”
Her buddy heaved a noisy sigh and rested his chin on his crossed forelegs.
“Big help you are.” She clicked her pen rapidly for a moment before adding
Service
Duty
Loyalty
“Yeah, but to whom?”
She scribbled family , then scratched it out. Then wrote it again.
Since honesty was another of her values, putting family on this list grated like sand in her undies. She chewed on her pen. “Not family per se, but…community? Family of the heart?”
With a snarl of frustration, she scratched through family yet again, pressing so hard she tore a hole in the paper.
“Damn it,” she growled, then turned the page and printed SELF CARE in block letters. After all, Liv insisted she indulge herself on this trip. But what counted as self-care?
Last night had left her feeling very cared for indeed—also seen, heard, even protected. Other than Liv, no one had made her feel that way in ages—not her therapist, and definitely not the hospital’s PTSD support group that clammed up as soon as a Lieutenant Colonel entered their circle.
But she couldn’t drag Kieran to her next assignment. The sweet, hunky lighthouse keeper had already found his home, and she needed to find hers.
Ironic—cruel, even—how the universe threw a “keeper” like Kieran across her path at a juncture where keeping him was out of the question. If she let herself linger on that thought, she’d get so bogged down in regret she’d be unable to tackle the urgent problems before her.
She nibbled her pen. “I dunno, Snoot. What makes me feel cared for besides hanging out with you?”
The dog sprang up, fetched his tennis ball, and dropped it at her feet.
“Exercise. Good one.” She jotted down the word, twisted in her seat, and tossed the ball down the short hallway. Snoot scrabbled after it.
Outdoor time, she added to the list. Didn’t get much of that with her long hours in the operating room.
Connection? Friendship?
When the timer dinged, she tucked her journal away and returned to the kitchen, opening drawers until she found a pair of oven mitts shaped like sharks. Cute.
The chicken was almost ready. She popped it back into the oven, planted her hands on her hips, and glanced around.
She’d love to live full time in a place like this, colorful and cozy, with plenty of natural light even on an overcast day, and so full of personality.
Even the kitchen junk drawer brimmed with tchotchkes that made her smile: a mermaid bottle opener, a lighter shaped like a lighthouse, and a pen printed with a stern sea captain who, when you tilted the pen, shed his pea coat to reveal a buff, bare chest.
Of course, her inner horn-dog pictured Kieran doing the same.
And the refrigerator magnet collection! There must’ve been one from every business in Trappers Cove. Her favorite was the UFO from Souvenir Galaxy, complete with an alien flashing a peace sign.
A hippie-dippy sun catcher sparkled in the window above the sink, and over the dining table hung an amateurish painting of the castle she’d spotted on a bluff above the north end of the beach.
Addy peered closer. Could she do something like this?
For years, she’d wanted to try her hand at painting, but her expensive watercolors remained unopened.
When was the last time she’d done something creative, just for the hell of it?
Speaking of creative, she’d need to pull together some kind of Halloween costume for the party Kieran invited her to. She made a mental note to visit that vintage shop on Main Street, the one with flashily dressed mannequins in the window.
She tapped her tablet to check her recipe for Basque-style braised chicken with peppers.
She’d fallen in love with this dish, and the picturesque coastal town where she encountered it, on a trip to the South of France before her first deployment.
After that sumptuous meal, she walked along the harborside promenade, relishing the soft, salty air.
As the sun slipped below the horizon, she’d promised herself that someday she would live by the sea.
A strange, falling sensation yanked her back to the present, as if the ground were shifting under her feet. Heart galloping, Addy gripped the counter. Earthquake?
Her stomach rumbled.
“No, genius, you haven’t eaten since breakfast.” She cut a slice from the crusty sourdough loaf she bought at Sweet Dreams Bakery, slathered it with butter, and stuffed it into her mouth.
Right on cue, her phone blasted the chorus of ELO’s “Evil Woman.”
Crap on a cracker, Mom again. If she moved to Nebraska, she’d have to give up the snarky ringtones she’d assigned to her family members: Darth Vader’s “Imperial March”, Elton John’s “The Bitch Is Back,” AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.”
Screw it—she was here to relax and ponder, not placate and pander, so she let the call go to voicemail and moved to the bathroom to touch up her minimalist makeup—a swipe of mascara, a dusting of blush, and lipstick in a subtle shade of rose.
She was misting on cologne—orange blossom and lemon verbena—when the phone shrilled again. And again.
Well, crap. Perhaps there was a real emergency for once.
“About flippin’ time,” Betsy Connor squawked in Addy’s ear. “I was about to call the base commander.”
“You’d never get through to him, Mom.” Keeping her voice carefully neutral, Addy flipped her hair upside down and brushed it until it crackled. “What’s up?”
“Well,” Mom huffed, “this morning, I saw a piece on Wolf News about that PTSD stuff. Terrible! Nightmares, flashbacks, public meltdowns, suicide.” Her tone oozed into a saccharine coo.
“I’m so worried about you, baby girl. You’ve served long enough.
It’s time to come home to your family. Let us take care of you. ”
Addy barely suppressed a snort. “Mom, I’m forty-one. I handle my business just fine on my own.”
“Forty-one? Impossible. I’m too young to have a daughter that old.”
Addy dug through her jewelry case and selected a pair of freshwater pearl drop earrings. “Last week, you told me you were too old to manage on your own.”
“Don’t you get fresh with me, missy,” Mom snapped. “You may be a fancy Army officer, but you’re still my little girl.”
That was the crux of the matter right there—Mom loved babies, but the adults they grew into?
Not so much. When Addy became old enough to have ideas of her own, Mom simply made another baby.
And another, and another, until the doctor told her the next pregnancy would probably kill her.
That’s when the “Make me some grandbabies” campaign began.
Addy was the only one of her siblings who hadn’t obliged, another black mark on her name.
A sharp bark from Snoot gave her the perfect escape. “Gotta go, Mom. My company’s here.”
“Company? Who—”
“Talk to you soon.” She disconnected and trotted to the front door where Snoot lay flat, tail whipping as if he’d discovered an exciting scent.
Another kiss from Kieran would be the perfect remedy to the bitter taste Mom’s call left behind.
“Self-care, self-care, self-care,” she whispered as she fluffed her hair and brushed crumbs from her sweater. “And if I’m lucky, one hot night with the sexy ginger keeper.”