After a quick shower and change of clothes, Jamie stuffed her gear in her satchel, donned her coat and scarf, then rushed from the dressing room. Since the day they’d gone for a burger before class, Sean had “just happened” to be in Central Park, at Bow Bridge, as she made her way home. As she barreled out the door armed with hope that he’d be there again, she collided with someone.
“What is your hurry?” Monet asked, the light from the studio sign reflecting off the hurt in her face.
“Just… gotta get home.”
“Why? You don’t have a job now, you aren’t going to school—what are you hurrying for?”
The words touched a raw spot. The job thing… well, she needed a job, but she wasn’t overly qualified, having spent all her adult years working at an antique store. And she certainly couldn’t tell Monet about Sean without her automatically assuming they were dating. They weren’t. But Sean had waited for her in the park just about every night after practice for the last two weeks. Monet wouldn’t get that they hadn’t been on a date, that they hadn’t done… things. Her friend had other ideas about dating. But this wasn’t dating. Not really.
“You’re seeing him, aren’t you?” The grin Monet sported soured Jamie’s stomach.
“No, I mean—we’re not dating.”
“But that’s where you’ve rushed off to instead of joining us at the Yankee Grill, right?” Monet looked at something behind Jamie. “With a hunk like that, I can understand.”
Over her shoulder, Jamie saw Sean talking with Martin. A strange fluttering erupted in her belly. But she wasn’t sure if it was the sight of Sean or the fact he was talking to Martin. “Catch you later, girl.”
“Yeah,” Jamie said absently as she turned toward Sean, who now strode in her direction. “What are you doing here?”
Hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, Sean shrugged. “How was practice?”
“Painful as always. I think I’ll need to soak my feet extra long tonight.” Her gaze tripped over Martin, who had a curious expression that Jamie couldn’t quite make out. “What… what were you doing talking to Martin?”
“He wanted to know what I was doing messing with his prize pupil.”
She groaned.
Sean chuckled. “Seems I’m distracting you.”
Martin told him that? Jamie wanted to crawl into the manhole she’d just walked over. Her gaze hit his, and she was swept into the squall of those Mediterranean-blue eyes.
They strolled down the street, the November air chilling as Thanksgiving neared. Their troupe would perform a few times right before Christmas, which was the reason for Martin’s rude behavior. Of course, Martin was all about dance and not much else.
Two more cross streets and stoplights and they’d enter Central Park, which had somehow become “their place.” Or at least, it had to her. Sean proved impossible to read, so she wasn’t sure what he thought of her, but she hoped their friendship would grow into something… more.
“Do you plan to go to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade?”
He poked the button for the final crosswalk. “Nah. Crowds, noise—not a good combination.”
“Me, too.” She didn’t like the crowds, but she knew they had a worse impact on Sean. What was it like for him to live in fear of another shutdown from the TBI? Handsome, strong, with a killer smile, the guy had more wit and intelligence than most men she knew. But he rarely let anyone see it. She adored his quiet strength, his stoic mannerisms. A complete opposite from her tendency to be outspoken and opinionated. Which is why she found herself biting her tongue right now. He looked conflicted about something.
The light flicked green with the twenty-second countdown. Jamie stepped off the curb into the flow of foot traffic. A man on a bike whizzed toward them. Sean reached toward her, guiding her by the elbow, then his touch trailed down her arm and entwined with her fingers as they entered the park.
Jamie’s heart rapid-fired. She had to force herself not to gasp or tense. The questions that had plagued her over the last ten days were answered. Warm and large, his hold was tight. As if he was afraid to let her go. Or maybe he was afraid she would let go.
She eased into their walk, determined to relish the moment, the crisp wind, the stars blinking overhead—mostly blotted by the lights of the city—and savor that she was with Sean Wolfe. Touching her ballet slipper necklace reminded her of their dialogue.
“Have you talked with your aunt yet about the pendant?”
“Well, yes and no.”
She wrinkled her nose and waited for him to explain.
“It is the same one, and I asked how she got it, but she wouldn’t talk to me—in fact, she walked out, leaving the meal she was making, which is huge because she considers herself an amateur Paula Deen.” He scratched the side of his jaw. “She has avoided me ever since.”
“What does that mean?”
“Whatever it is, she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“What are you going to do?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If that’s the coin, then she has to know Gail or what happened to her. You’ve got to ask her.”
“No,” he said, “I don’t. She asked me to leave it alone, and I’m going to.”
“Are you—but, you can’t!”
“A Wolfe never goes back on his word.” Sean’s intensity told her he wouldn’t back down, but she couldn’t accept that. “Besides, if you knew my godmother, if you knew how strong and resilient she was—to see her fall apart like that”—he shook his head—“I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.”
“Sean, what if she knows Gail? What if—”
“Jamie, if and when she’s ready to talk, I’ll listen. But I won’t push or force it.” He came around and faced her. “Listen, I get how much you want to find Gail, but I have to give her room. She gave me the space I needed after I returned and wanted nothing more than to die.”
Grief and anxiety over Gail faded as Sean’s words sank into her psyche. Jamie locked onto his gorgeous eyes, her heart aching for him. “You wanted to die? Why?”
“I grew up being told I was worthless, the cause of everything bad. Then after my team gets hit, and they die but I don’t… I wanted nothing more than to not be here. It all felt like a cruel joke—God kept me here just to remind me I was pointless.”
Though he snorted, she heard the pain behind those words.
“Sean.” Her throat felt raw. “You are not pointless. In fact, you’re very important.”
Sean’s brow knotted. His expression changed. Nosedived from pained to intense. The look told her something in him had shifted, his thoughts bounding from his aunt to…
Oh, she didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to get her hopes up. But that prayer. God had brought Sean to the bridge, hadn’t He?
“Jamie…” His gaze bounced over her face. He touched her cheek. “Do I distract you, like Martin said?”
A bubble of nervous laughter trickled past her stunned mind. Her pulse whooshed in her ears. Thank goodness he couldn’t see the crimson color filling her cheeks due to the late hour and less-than-adequate light in the park. She wanted to lie, wanted to say she didn’t know what he was talking about, but the prayer two weeks ago and his showing up told her she couldn’t lie to him. The whole beginning to their relationship had been different, hard.
“I need to know, Jamie.” His shoes scratched on the sidewalk as he inched closer. “I can’t go through it again.”
“Go through what?”
He let go of her hand and started walking. “Right before the IED, I got a Dear John letter from my fiancée. She didn’t want to wait for me, didn’t want to be a military wife.” He huffed. “It was just excuses. She had already hooked up with one of my friends. I realized what she didn’t want was me.”
“Her loss.”
He stopped, staring at the path. Then at her. “I like you. A lot. But I can’t…” He swallowed and looked away. “I can’t do that again.”
“I honestly don’t know what to say. I can’t see the future, Sean. What I do know, what I can see, is that I like you.” Whoa. That was a heady thing to say. “I want to be there for you.”
“What, am I your new project?”
She blinked, feeling slapped. “Excuse me?”
“You gave up a scholarship with The Juilliard to save your uncle.”
Jamie sucked in a breath. “How do you know that?”
“I don’t want to be some pet project, Jamie.”
“There is nothing wrong with making sacrifices for those you love.” She wanted to snatch back that word. Would he think she meant that she loved him? She didn’t. At least… she didn’t think she did. They’d only known each other a month. It wasn’t possible to happen that fast.
“It is when you give up on your own dreams, when you stop living.”
The back of her eyes burned.
“I want you to be happy, Jamie. I don’t want you stuck with a man who passes out when he gets stressed. And I don’t want to get left because you can’t take it.”
“Good grief, Sean! We barely know each other. How dare you accuse me of not living. How dare you impugn me by saying I’d leave you—that is, if this relationship even goes that far.”
“I won’t have you giving up dreams for me.”
“And what about your dreams, Sean?”
The lamppost light danced across his jaw muscle, which popped angrily.
“You don’t even know what your dreams are, do you? What kind of person doesn’t have dreams?”
He sliced a glare in her direction.
“I’ll tell you what kind of man doesn’t have dreams…” Jamie swallowed, chiding herself for letting her anger over his oh-too-accurate words vault to the surface. “A man too afraid to dream.” Stop. Stop pushing him! “What are you afraid of, Sean?”
Steel replaced the rugged look of Sean’s face. “A woman who would berate a man for what he is.” Sean pivoted and strode into the night.
It felt like an ambush along the Iraqi border all over again. Except this time, he wasn’t peppered with bullets, but words. Piercing, taunting words. The fight he’d had with Jamie last week haunted him. Reeked of the same arguments his parents had over and over. Eerily similar to the last fight his mom and dad ever had.
No, he wasn’t going there. Since she’d entered his life, he’d battled nothing but heartache and bad memories. No more. He wasn’t going to live like that, no matter how much good she stirred up in him. No matter how much she made him want to be a better man. Setting himself up for failure wasn’t his idea of a good marriage.
Sean froze. Marriage? Who was talking marriage?
Life. He meant life.
Hands on the grips of the rebuilt Harley, he aimed it toward Harry’s garage. Inside, he flicked the kickstand and cut the engine. Straddling it, he grinned as Harry jogged from the back. “What do you think?”
Removing his Yankee ball cap, Harry smiled. “That’s amazing—beautiful! Gary Meade is going to be ecstatic.”
“Good, just make sure he pays up the rest.” Sean handed over the keys. “I need the money. Ready to find my own place and get back on my feet.”
Harry replaced his cap. “Don’t worry. Meade’s good for it. I’ll call you as soon as he comes in, which I can just about guarantee will be first thing—he’s heading up some committee with the parade, so I reckon he’s down there right now.”
Sean nodded. “Sounds good. Catch you later, Harry.” He strode out and into the brisk November morning. With the parade in a couple of days, a lot of prep went into it. Armed with more letters, he fought the urge to return to the bridge to read them. No sense risking seeing her. They were over, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t need someone pushing him and shoving things in his face.
Okay, so she hadn’t been mean. Not the way his mom had, but it was close. Too close. He couldn’t sort out what was different, but he didn’t want to go there either.
Sitting at an outdoor coffee shop, armed with a hot latte, Sean tugged the letters from his pocket. Though there were only twenty or so letters, it’d taken time to work through them, especially those from his grandfather that tore into the painful past of his father’s suicide. One left, then he’d be on to the older letters, the yellowed ones that bore 1940-era dates and even older.
Sean opened the envelope. Short and sweet, his grandfather had written:
Sean, I found this about a year ago. I think it’s time for you to read it. Affectionately, Grandpa.
Unfolding the other pages, Sean stilled at the penmanship. He frowned. This wasn’t the handwriting of Henry Wolfe. His gaze skipped to the signature. Your son, Patrick.
Heart pounding like a .50 caliber gun, Sean realized his own father had penned this one:
Dear Dad,
Got your letter dated 19 April. Thanks for writing. It’s nice to hear something from home. Glad to know Marcia and the kids are doing well. Wish I could have seen little William “Sean” Henry born. That just tears at me to have missed the birth of my own son. Thanks for tending to Marcia’s and the kids’ needs. I know you and Marcia haven’t been on best terms, so I really appreciate you stepping in to help while I’m away.
It’s hotter than you-know-what here, so everything and everyone stinks. In fact, this whole war stinks, but we are soldiers. It’s what we do. You know that, don’t you, having sneaked off to war at 16 with forged papers.
We’re heading into a hot spot, so I need to make this quick. I know I’ve disappointed you in a lot of ways. Back home, high on myself, I couldn’t see it. But here, a man starts to realize how valuable life is and how much people really mean.
I’m sorry, Pop. I know I made a mess of things. Anyway, if I don’t make it home, that coin you tried to give me at the station… did you give it to Alan like I said you should? You always had a soft spot for him, and I think if anyone could protect the Wolfe legacy, it’d be him. Maybe… maybe someday it could find its way back to one of my sons, but I’d be glad to know it was in the hands of a good friend.