Chapter 18
18
D inner went nothing like Lina anticipated. The conversation never veered to anything woo-woo, and they spent most of the time discussing ranching, Maya’s art career, and the Falcons. After dessert, Maya took them to her studio, and they toured the metal sculptures she had in progress. Massive and a little ominous, Lina never would have guessed they came from the mind of the colorful, cheerful woman. In a weird way, the darkness of her work lent a sort of credibility to her precognitive tendencies. That didn’t make logical sense, but it was what it was. Later that night, when she lay curled into Jackson’s side, she even admitted that maybe she shouldn’t refer to it as “woo-woo” anymore.
Jackson. Yeah, she also decided not to think about how much she liked sleeping beside him. Or how she hadn’t given it a thought before rolling over and setting her head on his shoulder, her arm around his chest, and her leg over his thigh. Or the fact that they’d both fallen asleep within minutes. Or that they’d woken up in the same position.
No, sitting on the Hugheses’ front porch, wrapped in a blanket, and watching the sunrise wasn’t the time she’d think about that. She’d rather watch the mist play over the fields, listen for the gurgling of the brook, and wait for the sun to peek over the horizon.
The front door opened, and footsteps that weren’t Jackson’s sounded on the wide planks.
“I brought you coffee. With cream and sugar,” Clint said, handing her a mug. She wiggled a hand out from under the blanket and took the warm cup from him. She inhaled the scent, the steam warming her nose and the smell waking her body more than the chilly morning.
“I come out here most mornings,” he said, taking the seat next to her. Rather than a blanket, he wore a long duster and, now safely outside, his hat. “I figure I may not see it tomorrow, none of us might, so I should appreciate it now.”
“A dark thought for an early morning,” she said.
He bobbed his head once, the brim of his hat dipping. “A lot of people think so, but I disagree. When we accept that death may be right around the corner, it’s easier to appreciate the moment. Including the hard ones. It’s when we stop thinking about death, when we start taking life for granted, that we really lose our humanity, lose our perspective.”
She considered his words as the sun’s rays began illuminating the horizon in a spectrum of yellows and golds. He wasn’t wrong. Not that she wanted to think about death all the time, but her relationship with her father might have developed differently if she viewed tomorrow as a gift rather than a given.
She was self-aware enough to recognize that even if she embraced that philosophy, she’d still harbor some resentment over his absence from her life. But would she have set it aside if she’d known he’d not see the next sunrise? Would she have tried to talk with him? Build a relationship with him? The answer to those questions was “yes,” so why hadn’t she done it sooner? Because she’d taken the next sunrise for granted. And in doing so, she’d lost her chance.
“It’s not your dad you should be thinking about,” Clint said.
She turned and looked at him. “I thought Maya was the only one with…abilities.”
Clint chuckled, then took a sip of his coffee. “Didn’t take any special talent to see that you regret not saying goodbye to your dad. We all feel that way when we lose someone important. That’s why we should make sure we tell them what they mean to us every day.” He paused, half a smile playing on his lips. “Mind you, it ain’t always easy, but we do the best we can.” He took another sip. “Like that man of yours.”
“He’s not my man,” she said.
Clint leveled her with a look. She shifted. He didn’t move. She fought the urge to twitch, and while a second denial hovered on the tip of her tongue, it wouldn’t come.
“Maybe,” she finally conceded before jerking her gaze away and taking a sip of her coffee, her lips puckering at the sweetness.
“When you first realized you needed help, how long did it take for him to pop into that head of yours?”
She thought the question a rhetorical one, but when he prompted her with a nudge, she grumbled and shifted away. But she answered, “Less than a second.”
“And when you called? How long did it take him to agree?”
“I didn’t call, I texted.”
“Lina.”
She huffed. “I hear what you’re saying.”
“Good, now I want to hear you say it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and almost asked why. Only her innate dislike of sounding like a whiny teenager kept the words from spilling out.
“He didn’t hesitate.”
“And how did you feel when he agreed?”
“You are sounding an awful lot like a shrink right now, Clint.”
“Hazard of our business. Spooks have to get into people’s minds.”
Yet again, he had a point. Only she’d spent all of her time analyzing other people, never herself. Having the tables turned wasn’t a particularly comfortable feeling.
“Were you relieved?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied truthfully and without hesitation.
“Ever ask yourself why?”
Of course, she hadn’t. That was the good stuff—the hard stuff—Clint was pushing her to consider. She’d spent less than twelve hours with Jackson before texting him from Redding. Yet he’d been the one she wanted to have her back. Not any of her friends or past colleagues. Jackson.
Why?
A lot of practical and true reasons came to mind. He was former Spec Ops, had a flexible schedule, and was easy to be around. But so were a lot of people she knew. And still, he’d been the one she called. The one she wanted.
“Your instincts—and maybe your heart—are way ahead of your brain on this one, darlin’.”
“I don’t believe in love at first sight. Lust, sure, but not anything lasting.”
“It’s not about love at first sight. It’s about something primal inside you that recognizes when someone is meant to be a part of your life. Sometimes that’s as a friend. But seeing the two of you together, that’s not your path.”
She wondered what gave him that impression. She and Jackson had barely touched in his presence.
“It’s the way you move together,” he said.
“Could you stop reading my mind,” she muttered.
He chuckled. “You’re broadcasting it. Hard not to.”
She fiddled with her blanket, then took another sip of coffee. The sun itself now peeked over the trees. Within five minutes, it would hit them full-on.
“Fine,” she said on a huff. “You want me to ask, so I’ll ask. What do you mean, it’s in the way we move?”
He chuckled again. “You’re aware of each other in a way that people who are just friends aren’t. It’s the way he helped you out of your coat when you stepped into the house. The way you held out your hand to steady him as he toed off his boots. The way he leans toward you when he senses your frustration or fear. And the way your eyes light up when he laughs.” He took a sip of his coffee. “And for what it’s worth,” he said with a smile, “Maya said your auras are very compatible. Already blended together. But you don’t believe in that.”
She didn’t, but she couldn’t deny the energy around her changed when Jackson was nearby. It shifted to something steady and strong, but at the same time, aware and curious—almost anticipatory. She wouldn’t attribute it to auras, but maybe Maya’s abilities weren’t so far out there.
The sun released its final hold on the horizon and slid into the sky, heating their bodies and shining on their faces. They both squinted and ducked their heads away from the light. A cow lowed in the field and somewhere, a rooster crowed.
“The world awakes,” Clint said. “Or at least my little corner of it.” He rose, shaking out his duster. “Think on what I said. We may live long and healthy lives, but we’re not here for all that long. Maybe it’s worth grabbing onto the good things and holding on.”
And with that, he disappeared into the house. Only Jackson passed him on his way out and joined her, taking the seat Clint vacated.
“Maya mentioned you were out here,” he said. Then, with a smile, he added, “Not because she ‘saw’ it, but because she and Clint heard you head out earlier.”
“I’m not sure what to think about Maya’s abilities, but I like her. And Clint,” she said, turning her face away from the direct sun.
“They’re a little quirky. Still not sure about Clint’s accent, but they seem like good people. Maya offered to help the Falcons with our work if we need it. She said the ranch is as secure as it gets and if we ever need that kind of place, we shouldn’t hesitate to ask.”
“I didn’t realize you told her about the work you do for people like Roxanne’s son.”
Jackson took a sip of coffee, resting the mug on the arm of the rocker when he finished. “I didn’t.”
Lina groaned. “It’s fucking weird. But maybe you’re right. Maybe I should think of it as the good kind of weird.”
“You grew up with a family of spies, didn’t you? Other than your dad,” he said. Her gaze jerked to his at the abrupt change of subject. “When we got here yesterday, Clint said he knew your mom through your grandfather. And all this”—he gestured to the space, the armed men going about their business—“screams retired, and paranoid, spy. Or military, but the accent kills that option. No way would a Spec Ops soldier adopt a random Texas drawl while living in Washington. That’s weird-ass spy shit.”
She chuckled, then sobered as she considered telling him what she’d never told anyone else. Glancing over, his eyes met hers, steady and curious. Open and willing to hear whatever she wanted to share.
She wanted to share all of it.
That thought shot through her like a bullet. For someone trained in the art of secrecy from the cradle, not once had she considered bringing someone into her life so fully. A secondary thought flitted out there, too. She’d harbored secrets her whole life and been raised to guard them. Perhaps she’d become too good at compartmentalizing. So good that it kept her from having any true, authentic relationships. With friends and lovers.
Neither possibility had crossed her mind before—her life had just been her life. But as Jackson waited for her to say whatever she felt comfortable saying, she wondered what it would be like to have something deep, something meaningful, with another person. There were things she couldn’t tell him. But he couldn’t share the details of his classified missions either, and of all people, he’d understand. What would it be like, though, to have someone in her life who knew her? Not the details of her missions, but the fact that they were a part of her.
“It goes without saying that this is still confidential, but yes, my mother was a spy. So was my grandfather—maybe still is, despite being in his eighties. Both MI6.”
Jackson didn’t look the least surprised, so she continued.
“My grandfather is a legend in the agency. One of the best of the best. By the time my mom joined, he’d moved into strategy, deploying agents around the world like chess pieces. He is brilliant and has a knack for knowing who should be sent where and when. He also has an uncanny ability to spot a rogue agent before an agent even considers that path.” She paused, memories of her grandfather filling her mind. Him sitting behind his massive desk playing Dungeons & Dragons with her—a game she considered a game but now knew was his way of instilling the beginnings of strategy planning—him speaking to her in nothing but Arabic until she dreamed in it. In total, he’d taught her seven languages, and he still liked to switch between them in the same conversation. He said it kept her mind agile. She was pretty sure he did it to annoy her.
She sighed. “If you ask anyone from the agency, they’ll know him. They won’t admit it, of course,” she added with a soft laugh. “My mom was one of his favorites. He trained her from the day she signed her acceptance letter at age twenty. They worked together for almost twenty years.”
“And then?” His voice held a hint of worry. A top agent doesn’t leave MI6 without a reason.
“Another agent from another country gave her up. Not intentionally, they slipped, and the wrong people were listening at the right time. She had to get out.”
“How does your dad come into this?”
She slid him a wry smile. “In a weird way, but here’s the short story. My grandfather’s wife was Japanese—a nuclear scientist he met during the early days of the Cold War. She died before I was born, but from everything he’s said, he loved her deeply. He brought her to England, where they lived together for several years, but it’s dangerous being the spouse of someone like him. When she got pregnant, he sent her to the US to live and raise their son. My father grew up in Boston and stayed through his MD/PhD program. Then, my grandmother passed away, and my grandfather considered his son unprotected. This all came about at the same time my mom needed an exit. She agreed to marry him and watch over him, but she wanted a child in exchange. In vitro was arranged and, voilà , you have me.”
Jackson blinked. “How do you know all this? Based on what you’ve told me about your mom, this doesn’t sound like something she’d share.”
She chuckled. “No, she didn’t share. I found both the informal contract between my mom and grandfather and the information from the clinic when I cleaned out her things after she died.”
“Contract?”
“She wanted assurances for me,” Lina said. “Assurances that if anything happened to her, that whoever was sent to watch over my dad next would do the same for me. At the time, I don’t think she thought that person would be me. Not that I did a great job of it.” She’d let her mother down, no question, but a small part of her recognized that maybe being her father’s keeper shouldn’t have been her job. Maybe if her mother had encouraged her to accept her father for who he was rather than what he wasn’t, they could have navigated a relationship that worked for them. One that would have brought her closer to him as his daughter rather than as his caretaker.
Something to think about when the dust settled around the mystery they currently found themselves mired in.
“She also wanted assurances that my grandfather would recognize me as his,” she said. “A risk, but also a safeguard for my future.”
“Your future as a spy?”
She made a face. “No, not that. That was never in question, although we did have a big row about it. He wanted me to join MI6. I wanted the CIA. I won.” She smiled, remembering that argument. All three of them—her grandfather, her mother, and herself—had gathered in his study that afternoon. Her grandfather spent two hours insisting on MI6 and stressing the importance of upholding the family legacy. She’d been as adamant about joining the CIA, leaving him speechless when she pointed out that as an American, the concept of a family legacy held little meaning to her. Her mother had stayed silent, watching the fireworks.
“My grandfather comes from a wealthy family,” she continued. “The safeguard my mother wanted for me was the traditional kind, money.” She waited for him to ask how much, but he never did. Instead, he turned his face to the sun, now almost blocked by the overhang of the porch.
“Do you regret any of it? Being raised as a spy-in-the-making?” he asked. Not the question she expected. With the exception of the past hour, she didn’t do a lot of navel-gazing so didn’t have a ready answer.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I think mostly, I don’t.” Also a true statement. But her father’s death and spending time with Jackson were also making her realize that how she’d been raised impacted her in ways she’d never considered. Or had reason to examine.
She took a sip of her tepid coffee and laid her head against the chair. “Even if I don’t regret it, that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a cost, and I never considered that before. Never had a reason to.” She took a deep breath—mental and physical—and added, “Not until recently.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she chanced a glance at Jackson, who still faced the sun, although the side of his mouth tipped up into the hint of a smile. Without a word, he held his hand out, palm up. She stared at it, then, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart, telling her this moment was more important than it appeared, she slid her hand into his. His long, capable fingers closed around hers, his skin warm against hers. And there they sat, finishing their coffee and letting the silence say everything they needed.