“This is a great hike, Gideon. How’d you find this place?” Rosie asked.
He had picked up Rosie and Jorge at nine to beat the heat, then taken them to a rarely used trail in the Santa Cruz Mountains. “Some locals told me about it.”
The redwood trees were immense, bathing the trail in cool shade. Squirrels darted between the branches, and a couple of minutes ago, two deer had bounded across the path in front of them. There were no car engines, no gas fumes, just an earthy peace that settled into Gideon’s bones.
The boys were racing ahead, then running back, probably getting twice as much exercise as he and Rosie were. “Watch out for poison oak, you two,” Rosie called after them. She’d had them all put on a protective lotion too.
He felt strangely light after last night, when Noah’s little-boy hug had broken some sort of dam inside him. And following Rosie up the trail added to his sense of lightness. He shouldn’t be looking at the gorgeous sway of her hips, but it was impossible not to notice everything about her. Not just how sexy she was, but that she was a good mom to Jorge, and Noah too. A good friend to Ari. Not to mention smart and talented and dedicated.
“Last night Jorge wanted me to read more of Revolutionary War on Wednesday,” she said, “but I told him we needed to wait for you and Noah. You did such a great job answering their questions the other night.” She turned around and walked backward a moment. “I hope it wasn’t hard for you to read it. I know it’s not about your war, but it could still be disturbing for you.”
“Maybe a bit,” he admitted. “War is war. No matter what the time period is.” He shrugged, trying to make it look offhand. “But I don’t mind telling them.”
She cupped a hand around her mouth conspiratorially. “What was that about sand in your underwear?”
He laughed. And damn if it didn’t feel good. He didn’t want to be grilled, but talking to Rosie was different. “You obviously heard every detail,” he said with a smile. One that felt a heck of a lot easier today.
“I was shamelessly eavesdropping,” she said, then turned forward again to call to the boys, “Don’t get too far ahead of us old folks back here.” Then she spoke to him over her shoulder. “You said some days it was boring over there. Really? Boring?”
“Yeah.” He half snorted the word. “Tower duty could suck. Six hours of watching for anything suspicious. But we did good works too, trying to build trust with the locals. We constructed schools. Even dug a well for a small village whose well had become contaminated.” It had felt good at the time. Worthwhile.
“Did you ever get time off?”
“Not a lot. Idle hands and all that. They wanted to keep us busy. But we figured out how to have fun. Me and my buddy Zach, Zach Smith—they called us Alias Smith and Jones—he was a huge prankster. We both were, to be honest. One time we switched the gear for Shrimp—he was the tallest guy in our unit—with Dozer.”
“Don’t tell me. Dozer was the shortest.” The laughter in her voice filtered back to him, doing things to his insides.
“You got it. So Shrimp tries to pull on his pants and starts cussing up a storm that the locals he’d paid to do his laundry had shrunk all his stuff. And Dozer says, ‘Give me twenty bucks and I’ll let you use mine ’cause they seem to have stretched.’ Swear to God, Shrimp gave him the twenty bucks.”
He hadn’t thought about all that in years. They’d played a whole lot of harmless pranks, and it kept the guys laughing. Over there, laughter had been like medicine.
Talking to Rosie was like medicine now.
“Why did Shrimp have to pay someone to do his laundry?” she asked, holding a low-hanging branch out of the way so it didn’t slap his face. “Didn’t you guys have some sort of unit that did all that stuff?”
“Nope. You did your own. If the base was big enough, you might have a couple of machines or even a real laundromat. But small bases without any running water, you’d have to handwash it all in a bucket.” Or you stank, he mentally added.
“Now I’m feeling all high maintenance for needing running water for my washing machine and my dishwasher and my garbage disposal.”
He thought of Karmen. Before she’d joined up, she’d been a real girly girl, according to Mrs. Sanchez, her mother. But Karmen had lived like the rest of them with never a complaint.
“You’d have done fine,” he told her. Rosie was the furthest thing from high maintenance. “You get used to the food and the routines and the job and the people.” He’d gotten used to it, even the guard tower, though, thank God, he’d eventually been promoted out of that duty. He’d reenlisted a few times and might even have re-upped again.
If he hadn’t lost his team.
In all the time he’d been back, he’d never thought of any of this. Not until now. He’d only thought about that day, the IED, his team, Karmen. But he’d realized when he was answering the boys’ questions the other night that every day hadn’t been a firefight. Sure, there’d been bad times. But there’d been a lot of good days too.
And talking to Rosie about it was as much a release as letting it out with Noah last night had been.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
She stopped a second, looked back at him. “For what?”
“For listening.” And for not asking the hard questions, he thought to himself. He had the sense, though, that when the time was right, he could tell Rosie. She would listen like a friend.
Because, he suddenly realized, she was his friend. She always had been, since the day Ari had introduced her.
* * *
When they returned to Gideon’s apartment complex for an afternoon of swimming, the boys rushed off to Noah’s room to change into their swim trunks. Rosie had her bathing suit in her carryall.
As Gideon went into his bedroom to put on his trunks and she used the hall bathroom to change into a one-piece and a semi-sheer cover-up, Rosie marveled at how differently today had turned out to be. Far from what she’d expected.
After last night’s almost-kiss, she’d assumed he’d tell himself he’d been crazy and resume efforts to block her out. But if anything, he’d seemed more easy and open with her on the hiking trail than he’d ever been before. He’d talked about the war, what it was like in the Middle East, about daily life. He’d even laughed—with her, not just the kids. There hadn’t been dark clouds hanging over him. Twice in two days, he’d opened up about his life over there.
He was letting down his walls, not just with the boys, but with her.
He was starting to see things differently, that it hadn’t been only darkness. There’d been good things too. And he’d shared all that with her. He’d let her help him, taken what she had to offer. Just the memory of it made her heart feel fluttery.
Gideon’s apartment was surprisingly kid-friendly, with bean-bag chairs, a big-screen TV, an Xbox, lots of children’s books, and a toy box full of Lego pieces and robots and dump trucks and cranes and diggers. Noah was a great one for building. Ari said he wanted to be a structural engineer when he grew up. Trust the son of a robotics billionaire to decide at such a young age that he wanted to be something so specific.
Rosie was about to plop down on the love seat to wait for Gideon and the boys when she saw the painting. Right before she almost crushed it.
She tipped her head, looking at it sideways. Then looked at it the other way. The painting was small, a twelve-by-twelve square in a plain frame. But the detail was phenomenal, the two angels rendered precisely. It wasn’t a print—she could tell by the fine lines in the paint that it was old. Well used, well handled, and well loved.
She wondered why such a precious piece of art wasn’t hanging on Gideon’s wall.
It wasn’t until she bent over and examined it more closely that she saw the initials.
Oh my God. It couldn’t be. Could it?
“What are you doing?”
She jumped away from the painting so fast, she almost fell backward. Gideon hadn’t yelled, his voice hadn’t even been harsh, yet she still felt like she’d been caught snooping.
“The painting. I almost sat on it. But thankfully, I didn’t. And when I looked closer at it, I—”
Her words fell away as he grabbed the painting, holding it close to his chest. Agitation had turned his eyes stormy.
“Where did you get it?” she asked softly. How long had he owned it? Did he even know what it was? Maybe it wasn’t real. But what if it was? She had so many questions, it was hard to sound casual.
“A friend gave it to me,” he said, a hint of caution in his voice.
It must have been some friend. “Can I look at it? Please?”
For a moment, she thought he might not let the painting go. Finally, he turned it around for her to see.
Good Lord. “It’s amazing,” she whispered. “Do you…” She had to take a breath before asking, “Do you know the artist?”
He shook his head. “It’s just initials. MFC. I have no idea who painted it.”
She wasn’t an expert, by any means. But she had not only studied art history, she loved art history. And she loved the work of this artist most of all.
“Do you remember Jorge’s favorite painting at the Legion of Honor?”
He nodded. “The scene in the square with the lady. I liked that one too.”
“Did you notice the signature on it?” When he shook his head, she said, “It’s by Miguel Fernando Correa. He always signed with his initials.” She pointed to the corner of the painting, barely able to contain the excitement rippling through her body. “MFC. Just like that.”
* * *
Rosie would never lie to him.
But he still couldn’t believe it was true.
They were all outside at the pool, the boys splashing around with the inflatable rafts Gideon had bought them, while beside him on a lounge chair, Rosie was typing into her iPad.
“I’d never seen your painting before,” she said. “It’s a very different style from his other work that I’m familiar with, but even when I first saw it, there was something about it that grabbed me in the same way Holy Day in Monterrey does.”
“When we were in the museum…” He spoke slowly, as though he was only just beginning to put several disparate puzzle pieces together. “I felt the same way. Like there was something familiar about that painting. Something I couldn’t put my finger on, but couldn’t ignore.”
Gideon had always been careful to put away the painting in the bottom cupboard of the bookshelf. Until Noah’s kindness and empathy last night had made him forget the very thing he never forgot. No one had ever seen Karmen’s painting. Not until Rosie.
She looked at her shoulder, which was turning a little red in the sun. “I think I’m burning.” Setting her iPad aside, she reached into the bag by the side of her chair and pulled out a big tube of sunscreen.
He told himself not to look as she slathered her legs. But his eyes refused to listen to his brain, hungrily tracking every move.
Gideon could feel his breath in his chest and hear his pulse beating in his ears as she smoothed lotion over her arms, her shoulders, the nape of her neck. Then dipped low into her cleavage, making sure she covered the line of the suit.
“Do you need some?” She held up the tube.
Unable to speak, he simply held out his hand. She was still rubbing her lotion in when he was done.
“Can you get my back for me?” she asked.
Touch her? The thought thrilled and terrified him.
She smiled over her shoulder, and he could have sworn there was a challenge in her eyes as she nonchalantly slid her legs to the other side of her chair and presented him with her back.
He glanced briefly at the boys. If they called his name, if they asked him to play with them, he wouldn’t have to find out if his self-control was up to the task of touching Rosie without dragging her into his arms and kissing her breathless. But Noah and Jorge were having so much fun on their own that, for the moment at least, Gideon and Rosie were forgotten.
He squeezed the lotion onto his hand, spread it out between his palms, taking his time, steeling his nerves.
Then he touched her.
Sweet Lord.
Her skin was so warm. So smooth. With a delicious golden glow. As he glided down, down, down, she was fire beneath his fingertips.
And he was burning up all over.
She made a noise, a hum, almost a moan—but that had to be his lust-filled brain playing tricks on him.
“I think you missed right here.” She reached back to point to the base of her shoulder blades, then held her ponytail out of the way.
His hands were actually shaking as he glided up, rubbed the lotion in circles over smooth skin, then up to her nape, massaging her.
“Oh my gosh.” She made another of those sweet little sounds. “I always get knotted up right there.” This time it was definitely a moan. He felt it deep inside his own chest. “Mmm, that’s perfect.”
As he used his thumb on the knot he could barely feel, could she hear his labored breathing? Could she feel the drumming pulse in his fingertips? Did she have any idea at all how much he wanted her? With every last fiber of his being.
Finally, she turned her head to look at him again. “Thank you, Gideon. I feel so much better. Do you want me to get your back?”
“No, I’m fine,” he said so quickly it was almost one word. He was anything but fine. His blood was still rushing like Niagara Falls as he leaned back in his chair.
“Did you ever try to research the painting?” She went back to her iPad as if nothing had happened.
While he was a mess of ragged nerve endings.
“No.” As he watched the boys splashing and laughing, he wondered how he was supposed to explain about Karmen. “My friend—it belonged to her grandmother.” He’d held so much back from everyone for so long, but in the span of these past few days, his carefully constructed barriers seemed to be crumbling one after the other. His throat constricted. He’d heard boa constrictors could swallow their weight in prey—but he felt like he’d swallowed an elephant. “She said the painting was magical.”
He’d never told anyone about the painting, not even Ari. Though his sister knew he’d met with Karmen’s mother, they’d never discussed what happened over there—the sandbox, the hellhole.
But now that Rosie had not only seen Karmen’s painting—but had also seen his painting that was of everything except Monet’s Water Lilies—he knew he needed to tell Rosie.
And it would be as much a release as talking to the boys about the war, as much as telling Rosie about daily life in the sandbox, as much as letting go last night with Noah. Each word out of his mouth was like a revelation, not only to Rosie or the kids, but to himself.
“Her name was Karmen Sanchez. She was a combat medic working with my unit.”
* * *
Rosie had never felt anything as good as Gideon’s hands on her. His touch had been hotter than lying in the sun, sweeter than feasting on vine-ripened grapes. She never wanted him to stop, and for a few blissful moments, she’d focused on nothing but his touch. And yet, though his fingers no longer glided over her skin, this moment, when he was actually trusting her with his story, with his past, with his pain—this moment was monumental.
“She was a great soldier,” he said in a low voice made raw with emotion. “She wanted to join up right after her cousin died in the Twin Towers, but her parents made her finish college. After that, she was in all the way. She wanted to make a difference.”
“She sounds heroic.” Just like Gideon.
“Too heroic,” he said softly. “I tried to get her to stay inside the wire.”
“Inside the wire?” She didn’t want to interrupt his flow, but she needed to understand.
“Back at the base. Where it was safe. She could have taken care of the wounded back there. But she wanted to follow us outside the wire.”
“Couldn’t you have ordered her to stay inside?”
“She wasn’t in my command, not directly. Medics go on patrol with whatever team needs them. But she was with my team a lot—enough that she was one of us. And she was good. Calm under fire. Everyone respected her. She did whatever she had to do, took whatever risk was necessary to save others.”
Karmen sounded like the kind of woman Rosie strove to be for Jorge, even if she often fell short. “She sounds amazing.”
“She was.” He swallowed hard. “She gave me the painting a couple of days before she died. Like she thought I’d need its magic.” He ran a hand over his face. “There was an IED.”
He was so silent, so still, she didn’t know whether it was better to be quiet, or to try to draw him out with a question. Especially when she was almost positive this was the first time he’d opened up to anyone about it.
Yet he continued on his own. “My guys. They got taken out.” He held his breath a long moment, as if absorbing the blows all over again. “And Karmen, she rushed in like she always did. Because that’s what she did, she helped whoever needed her. Regardless of the risk to her own life.” Regret was etched into the lines of his face. “A sniper shot her.”
“I’m so sorry, Gideon.” Rosie wanted to gather him close, hold him the way she would hold Jorge, soothe his pain. “You must have loved her very much.” A woman as brave, as fierce, as fearless as he.
“She was a close friend.”
Though she didn’t believe that was all there’d been to their relationship, she didn’t push. Instead, she said, “I’m so sorry about your friends, your team.”
He stared at the boys splashing their way across the pool, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, his features immobile. Until he finally spoke again. “It’s almost like she had a premonition, and that’s why she gave me the painting. She said I was supposed to pass it on when the time was right. All this time, I’ve been waiting for some sort of sign.” Frustration rose in his voice as he said, “I just wish I knew what the magic is that she was talking about.”
Rosie didn’t want to utter some meaningless platitude like, You’ll know it when it happens. Instead, she said, “If it’s truly magical, then wouldn’t it be the painting’s job to tell you when the time is right?”
He thought about that for a long moment. “I’d have to believe in magic,” he said. “But I suppose if I did, that would make sense.”
Surprised, and pleased, that he didn’t fight the idea of magic for too long—even if he wasn’t completely sure he believed in it—she said, “Whatever happens with the painting, I have faith in you, Gideon. Just as Karmen did.”
He sat in silence as if absorbing her words. After long seconds, maybe even minutes, he turned to her. “I don’t know what I could have done to earn your faith in me. But I’m not going to lie and say I don’t appreciate it. Because I do.”
“Thank you for having faith in me too, and for sharing your story.” She flashed him a smile, trying not to make a big deal of the massively big deal of a conversation they’d just had. “What do you say we join the boys in the pool?”
They jumped into the pool, where they spent the rest of the afternoon playing Marco Polo and doing cannonballs off the diving board. And though neither of them said another thing about the painting, or Karmen, for the rest of the day, Rosie knew in her heart that they’d chipped away great big pieces of the wall that Gideon had built around himself. What he’d experienced had been the worst life could throw at him. But today, during their hike, he’d acknowledged that some good things had happened over there.
It meant so much that he’d been able to share both the worst and the best with her. It meant so much that he’d unburdened himself. It meant so much that he’d let her in. She could already feel the healing begin for him. And she was glad his walls were dropping.
So damned glad.
Because Gideon deserved every good thing life could bring him.
Even magic.