Tonight’s rehearsal had been the longest four hours of her life. Jamie forced her mind from the exotic blue eyes of Sean Wolfe and back to the music, to the moves, her form. Thankfully, when he’d escorted her to practice last week, Martin had left in a hurry, telling them to practice alone. But tonight… she still couldn’t shake Sean from her mind.
Oh no. Was that a narrowed gaze from Martin? She mentally traced her lines, determined to give one hundred percent to this session.
Wounded. That was the only word that hung with her even now. Seven days had only agitated her thoughts over him. His comment about Wolfes only being close to ghosts worried her. What ghosts did Sean have?
The music faded.
Martin aimed the remote at the player. “Jamie—where is your mind? Again.”
“On a six-two, blue-eyed, dark-haired hunk,” Monet muttered as she passed behind Jamie to her starting position.
Jamie speared her friend with a sharp look as she retrieved a towel, wiped off, then returned to her spot with her partner, Claude. When he smiled at her, she could only wonder what Sean Wolfe’s smile looked like. He hadn’t broken one the entire time—well, one almost sneaked past his barrier, but he’d smothered it.
Music streamed through the studio.
She hurried into the dance, missing a step.
“Jamie—à la seconde!” Martin clapped frantically. “No! No, again!”
Shaking out her arms and legs, Jamie moved back to Claude.
“Jamie!” Martin’s voice held the French accent that had thickened his words. “Where is your mind? I need it here, yes? Allegro!”
She nodded and looked to the side, her right arm extended and her feet in second. But as she did, she remembered Sean’s hand dropping to the ground when he’d passed out. What caused that? It’d been short lived and embarrassed him. But hadn’t surprised him. Was it related to whatever happened to his neck? And why didn’t it bother her? Because something about him draws me in. Was that true?
The music snapped off.
Jamie stopped in the middle of the polonaise with Claude.
Waving his arms, Martin growled. “Go—out of my studio.” He brushed her away. “Come back with your mind! You are better than this.”
Guilt should make her want to stay, but Jamie left the floor with the others, grateful for the chance to explore the thought that capsized her focus. She’d never been drawn to a guy before. In the locker room, she slid onto the bench and untied her slippers. As she plied them off, she winced at the sting in her toes. Bloodied, they’d need to be soaked at home.
“So, what’s his name?” Monet stuffed her gear in her bag as she slipped on her shoes.
“Sean Wolfe.” Jamie dressed then donned her boots and coat.
“Exotic,” Monet said with a giggle.
“His eyes are—but there’s something haunted about him.” She packed her dance clothes away. “Want to grab something from Mario’s?”
Monet shook her head. “Sorry, Claude and I have a date.”
“Again?” Jamie sighed. The two were forever exploring dating. But didn’t have a bone of fidelity in their bodies.
“You haven’t had a date since high school, Jamie!”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
“Craig Mueller.”
Jamie froze. Had it really been that long?
“Just because you’re holding out for Prince Charming doesn’t mean I have to.” Monet grinned. “Besides, Claude is fun.”
“He’s a flirt.” Burying the hurt and shock at what her friend had said, she started out of the room.
“Exactly!”
Shaking her head, Jamie shuffled out of the studio. She’d never understand Monet’s penchant for dating the wrong men. On the other hand, Jamie just… didn’t date. “Jamie-girl, you’ve given up your whole life, all your dreams to help me….”
Had she really?
Sure, she’d given up her scholarship to attend The Juilliard, but that’s what family did for each other, right? Alone, Uncle Alan didn’t have anyone besides her when he went through a serious health scare. Nearly losing him—the only family she had left—well, it was too close to home. Too familiar a pain, having lost her parents. So the decision had been easy for her.
But it’d been six years. Now at twenty-four, she found herself jobless, thanks to his closing the shop, attending night dance school to keep her skills fresh and performing with a local civic ballet troupe, and… alone.
There was nothing wrong with making tough choices for loved ones.
Unless it’s a cover for your fears.
Jamie’s gaze rose to the sky as she slowed. Fears? What fears?
Fear of losing someone you love.
All at once, she saw the double caskets on that May afternoon. Felt Uncle Alan’s arm around her. Remembered his words that they would make it together. But if he found Gail…
Blowing out a hard breath that made her lips flap like one of the Central Park horses, Jamie trudged across the tree-littered lawn. Was she living in fear? If she helped Uncle Alan find Gail, he’d have his true love, and Jamie would’ve been part of finding a piece of his broken life. How was that living in fear of losing someone she loved?
It’s no risk when you think it’s impossible.
Ouch. Admittedly, she’d harbored the idea that if he couldn’t find Gail after almost forty years, nobody could. The thought of his being gone, not being there for her, of the fuzzy warmth of his laughter…
“I hear You, God,” she whispered, her breath puffing out in front of her face. “But… what do You want me to do?”
Bow Bridge loomed to her right, tucked aside and austere, elegant. Uncle Alan was supposed to meet Gail there….
Sean Wolfe surged to the front of her mind, the eyes that held both pain and gentility, the deep voice that was smooth yet terse.
“Okay, Lord,” she said as she detoured toward the bridge, “if You want me to get to know Sean, let him show up here.”
Fleece praying wasn’t the best route to knowing the will of God, but…
“‘It’s no risk when you think it’s impossible,’” she said, repeating the words she heard in her heart. Yeah. Sean showing up here, at nearly ten o’clock? Impossible. Leaning on the stone rail, Jamie gazed out over the lake, glistening and reflecting the lights of the city hovering nearby. With a sigh, she set out for her apartment, for her Bible. She needed to dig out some answers about not living in fear. And spend some face time in prayer. Fingers trailing the rail, she admired the blanket of stars and the Fingernail-of-God moon.
Peace filled her. She sighed and stepped off the bridge.
“Jamie?”
Sean slowed to a stop, his breath chugging. Hand on his chest, he tried to still his pounding heart. And it wasn’t from the rigorous run he’d just taken. She looked amazing, even with shock written all over her face. Bent, he held his knees to catch his breath, peering up at her through his brows.
“Sean?” She wet her lips. Looked around. “What… what are you doing here?”
“Out for a run,” he said as he straightened. “Wanted to clear my head.”
After meeting with his friend and getting a job—sort of, if you called tinkering on junkers a job—he’d made his way back to Aunt Mitzi’s condo. Sitting there, nothing to do, no transportation, no purpose, drove him to reading those letters. But that had pushed his irritation through the roof. And he found himself here. Staring at her retreating form. Though he’d told himself not to say anything, his body—again—betrayed him by calling out to her.
“At ten o’clock at night?”
He lifted a shoulder then motioned at the path. “Headed home?”
She glanced down the sidewalk for several seconds. Long seconds. Then looked at him. Why did she look frightened? Had something scared her? Something primal rose up in him.
“Want me to walk you home?”
“I…”
So he’d been wrong. What he’d taken for interest, for understanding, was pity. “Know what? Never mind.” Sean ducked his head. “I’ll catch you later.” What an idiot. Thinking she’d like him. One would think a piece of shrapnel had hit his brain, not his neck. His sneakers grated on the dirt as he shifted back the way he’d come.
“Did you read more letters?”
He slowed at her words. Turned.
She stood, a hand on the balustrade, eyes wide. Her long, graceful throat processed a swallow. Was she scared? Of him?
“You know—the letters I gave you, from your grandfather. Did you read more?”
How did she know the letters had pushed him out of the condo and into the cold night? “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did.” Using his arm, he swiped the sweat from his face.
Jamie took a few rigid steps toward the path then glanced back at him.
A silent invitation.
Sean acknowledged her cue, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he joined her. Man, this felt good—right. Too right. His insides squeezed and left his courage in the fetal position.
“Earlier you’d said the letters brought up bad memories. I’m surprised you read more.”
“Well, like someone told me, we need the bad to see the good.” In fact, the conviction he felt from those words nudged him to delve into the past. He didn’t want to open up this can of worms, but then again, he needed someone to talk to about all this. And he sure wasn’t going to do that with his aunt. She went cold every time his parents’ names came up.
“I assume ‘clearing your head’ is related to the letters.”
Smart girl. “He…” Wow. Didn’t think it’d be this hard to talk about it. “My, uh, my dad died when I was four—killed himself.”
Jamie’s head lifted, her beautiful brown eyes lit with pain. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” Her compassion felt good, like a balm on a decades-old wound. “My grandfather told me some things about my dad that I didn’t know.”
“Like?”
He hesitated—but realized he didn’t feel defensive with her. “Like he wasn’t a loser, that he loved me and my siblings. That he went to war and came back changed.” Sean watched a leaf tumble from a branch and flutter to the ground. He felt a lot like that leaf right now, tumbling and fluttering through life. “That I can relate to.”
“Is that what happened to your jaw and neck?”
“IED hit our Humvee. Killed three of my men.” The memories of the day that shattered his career threatened, so Sean quickly redirected the train wreck waiting to happen back to the letters. “My grandfather then said my mom was mentally unstable.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Makes sense, I guess. When I think back to her erratic, irrational behavior…” He shrugged. “Mom could be real mean without ever raising her voice. She made it clear I was the reason my dad died.” Why on earth was he telling her about all this?
“How awful! I can’t imagine a mom ever saying that to her own child.”
He’d lived with that burden since… forever. “Everyone said it was true.” Another shrug. “But my grandfather claimed my father was a hero, that he’d just been broken by my mom’s ranting and accusations.”
“Seems a father would know his own son. Do you think he was right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Probably. That made more sense than the stories his mom fed him. “I hated my dad for a long time for taking his life, so it’s hard to know what to believe.”
Jamie adjusted her bag as they turned toward Seventy-Third. “My uncle talked nothing but stars and sunshine about Patrick Wolfe.” Vehemence laced her words as she stopped him, touched his arm, and stared into his eyes. “Mr. Wolfe was my uncle’s mentor, and my uncle doesn’t trust lightly. So if your grandfather said those things, you can believe him.”
More than anything, Sean wanted to accept that as truth. To know his father was a good man, that he didn’t hate Sean and want to be free from the responsibility of taking care of a family. And even more—to know that Sean hadn’t been the reason his family fell apart. But was it only a desperate hope?
He pulled away and started walking again. It felt like progress: a comfortable, steady rhythm—with her by his side. A mental image of something mentioned in the letter popped into his mind. “Oh, hey. Did your uncle have a Civil War-era coin in that stuff you found?”
Jamie shook her head. “No, I gave you the bundle. There are other trinkets—I can bring them to you if you want—but nothing like a coin.”
Sean frowned, a curious ache inside him.
“Is it special?”
“My grandfather said it had been passed down through the Wolfes since one of my ancestors, William Wolfe, who served in the Civil War. Said it was a very important piece, and that should I ever marry and have a son, I needed to be sure he carried on the legacy.” They’d reached the edge of the park. Across the street and down a half-dozen blocks, their conversation would be over. Inwardly he winced at the thought.
“You don’t have the coin?”
He dislodged the feelings. “No. Never even heard of it.”
“Did he tell you where it was in the letters?”
“No. I haven’t gotten through all of them though.” He squinted ahead. “You’d think if it was so important, I’d know about it.” He scratched his jaw and cringed at the mangled flesh. “My brother might have it, I guess.”
“You have a brother?”
“And two sisters. They took off when Mom died. I think they were in as much a hurry as I was to get away from the memories.”
“Is that when you went into the Army?”
“Signed up at seventeen, my aunt signed a release.”
“Your aunt?” Her eyes widened as she slowed in front of an apartment building. “Aunt Gail?”
Hadn’t he already told her he didn’t know a Gail? “Aunt Mitzi. And she’s my godmother. Not blood related.”
“Oh.” She climbed a step, her nose wrinkled.
One foot on the step, Sean cocked his head, noting that she was now the same height as him. “Why do you keep asking about this Gail person?”
She gave a sheepish grin. “She’s my uncle’s long-lost love. They were to marry when he returned from Vietnam. She was supposed to meet him on Bow Bridge but never showed.”
“Is that why you like that bridge?”
Sparkling eyes met his. “Mostly.”