Chapter 16
Chapter 16
A s he had done when leaving her room, he tried to view his space anew through her eyes. Everything had come standard with his employment, the rattan furniture, the beachy, tropical décor. All Jones added was a bevy of pictures of family and friends. Carol eyed those but didn’t go forward to inspect them. Jones let out the breath he’d been holding, relieved. If she had to be in his space, he didn’t want her to nosily inspect his things. Or try to horn in and take over, as women were prone to do. It was sparse and Spartan and simple, exactly as he liked it.
“Tidy,” Carol noted with approval.
“Navy,” he returned, tipping his head to her. “Would you like something to drink?”
“I’d love a cup of tea,” she said, perking a little.
He blinked at her. “You realize I’m a guy, right? There’s no tea, no potpourri or antimacassars. And the toilet seat stays permanently upright.”
“Spoiler alert: it’s impossible to assert your maleness in the same sentence you use ‘antimacassar,’ a word no one has used out of respect for Queen Victoria since her death.”
“Admit it, you’re just shocked a boiling cauldron of testosterone like me knows and uses big words,” he said and, oh, no, did he toss her a flirtatious wink?
“You caught me,” she said, but her tone was dry, and he thought he caught the hint of a blush as she turned away from him. “Good thing for you I always carry my own tea. Would his masculineness care for a cup?”
He scratched the side of his nose and tried to look uninterested, even though a hot cup of tea sounded delightful. “It’s not, like, girly and fruity, is it?”
She opened her bug-out bag and rifled through. “I usually only carry peach and chamomile, but let me see if I have a spare bag of ‘sweaty workout socks’ available for you.”
“It’s lucky for you I consider peach the manliest fruit,” he said, sniffing and flexing.
She laughed, an unguarded sound that made him smile. He followed her to the kitchen and perched on a high stool as she made their tea, not bothering to nudge her in the right direction as she rooted in his cupboards for supplies.
She set the water to boil and spent some time staring in his cutlery drawer.
“If you’re waiting for it to attack, I have to tell you they’re trained to leap only on my command,” Jones said.
“Sorry,” she said, closing the drawer. “I ponder knives. Occupational hazard.”
“Same,” Jones said, and he wasn’t kidding. He had quite the knife collection. Of a different variety, of course. His could be used for cutting knots or humans, while hers were apparently for cutting chicken and fruit.
“The navy must have been interesting,” Carol said, leaning against the counter opposite him.
“That’s one word for it,” Jones said, recalling with fond nostalgia what had once felt almost insurmountably stressful —the training, the sleeplessness, the travel, the impossible assignments.
“What’s the most interesting place you ever traveled?” she asked.
“Some remote parts of Africa. It’s like the new frontier of criminal activity. All the world takes advantage of the fact that no one pays attention to what’s happening in Africa. Lots of illegal trade: weapons, secrets, drugs, humans.”
“What’s the most memorable thing you ate while you were there?” she asked, clasping her hands together as her interest piqued. He found it noteworthy that she glossed over all the crime and went straight to food.
“MRE rations,” he said.
“David,” she exclaimed, jaw dropping as if personally affronted.
He put his hands up, in defense or surrender, he wasn’t certain. “I may not be an adventure eater, but I also never spent a few hours rolled into the fetal position, wishing for death after I consumed some food I can’t pronounce.”
The whistling teapot saved him from her wrathful answer, but not her vengeful glare. She poured their tea and set his in front of him with a sigh and, “You.”
He ignored her and sniffed the tea. The scent of peach reminded him of home and he fought a knee-buckling wave of longing.
“Why’d you take this job?” she asked after a minute of surprisingly comfortable silence. “Clearly it wasn’t for the travel or the food.”
“Money. Most of my friends continued in civil service in some capacity, but it never felt like the right fit for me.” Being in the military was one thing, but continuing the life-or-death spy game in real life was another. “Being head of security at a private luxury resort. Who could say no to that?”
“Were your friends jealous of the cushy new position?”
He barked a harsh laugh, remembering the razzing the guys gave him—and still gave—over his new job. “My friends aren’t exactly the sort of guys who seek cushiness, comfort, or luxury.”
“What do they seek?” she asked.
“Danger, adventure, justice,” he supplied.
“But that’s not you?” she asked.
“No, it is. Just…”
“What?” she prompted when he paused.
“I guess I was more tuned in to what came after. Some of the guys have families, some are unattached. The ones who have families have either moved away from the crazy danger or made peace with the possibility of not seeing their kids into adulthood. I didn’t want to have that worry constantly hanging over me. Someday I want to have a family, and I want to be there for them. Not partially, but fully. Working this job a few years will allow me to retire early, to be fully immersed and present when I’m ready to settle down.”
Carol made no reply but her eyes remained securely on his while she sipped her tea. He felt as if she were taking his measure, trying to decide if she could trust him, if she liked him. Strangely he hoped the answer to both those questions was yes. In some odd way she felt like a connection to home. It was more than the fact that she was American. He saw other Americans all the time. It was that sameness he’d felt earlier or, as she’d described, the fact that she was in his lane.
“What about you? Why’d you get into this line of work?”
Her eyes dropped to her cup. “I already told you. I wasn’t as good at being a chef as I’d hoped, and I wanted to travel.”
“Mm-hmm. And what’s the real reason?” he prompted, waiting her out when she squirmed and darted a longing gaze toward her bedroom and escape. At last she took a breath, held it a few beats, and let it out in a rush.
“When I was nine, my little sister got sick. Really sick, like can’t-leave-the-house sick. My dad, a welder by day, would come home at night and tell her stories. I’d creep into her room and crawl into her bed and listen while he talked. As he talked, he painted pictures on her walls. He was a good amateur artist, good enough to draw trees and animals and clouds and castles. After a while, every space in her room was filled with his pictures.”
“How’s your sister now?” he asked, and a part of him didn’t want to know because he sensed what the answer would be before she spoke it.
She smiled sadly. “Whole and healed, but no longer here. She didn’t make it to her seventh birthday.”
“I’m sorry.” They observed a minute of solemn silence, taking a few sips of their tea. Again the silence was comfortable, even after the stark revelation. “Is that why you do it?” he said at last. “To live the adventures she never got to?”
“That’s what I tell myself,” she said.
“What’s the real reason?”
“After my sister died, my parents’ marriage fell apart. My dad withdrew completely until he eventually stopped calling. He remarried, had more kids. I get a text from him about once a year and a card on Christmas, sent by his wife. I guess,” she paused and set down her mug when her hands shook. “I guess what I’m really hoping for is that someday I’ll feel worthy of all the pictures on the wall, the ones that weren’t for me.” She let out a shaky little laugh and fluffed her hair. “Wow, that got deep fast. Sorry for unloading my psychological trauma on you.”
“Well, I mean, I did ask,” he said, offering her a tentative smile she halfheartedly returned. Now he glimpsed the sameness between them. She had felt left out and excluded by her family; he had felt it from other children. He tipped his mug to her. “To belonging.”
She tipped hers to him and they drained the dregs, setting their mugs on the counter at the same time as if they were doing shots at the bar.
“I’ll clean these up. You must be exhausted,” Jones offered when her gaze darted longingly once more toward her bedroom. Maybe she was tired, or maybe the emotional reveal had been too much for her. Maybe she wanted to retreat and ponder, the same way Jones wanted to.
“Thanks,” she said, giving him a little smile that tugged at his heart for its shyness and sincerity. Sweetie, he thought as he watched her walk away. The name’s beginning to fit.