Isabel Sharpe - Back in Service

He clenched his teeth. If she knew it and he knew it, why bring it up? “Yes.”

“If your surgery is unsuccessful, you will most likely be honorably discharged. Since you’re planning to be a career officer, how would that feel?”

“Super.”

“Uh-huh. I thought so.” She scrawled something triumphantly. “Okay, moving on.”

“How long is this going to take?”

“You have somewhere to go?”

He held her gaze. “This is an intrusion into my day.”

“Of...”

“What do you mean?”

“Your day of what? Pain? TV watching? Brooding? Unbearable waiting?”

“Yes.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “It’s all I have right now.”

“Doesn’t have to be that way. What are your hobbies?”

“Oh, for—”

“Okay, okay.” Her laughter at his exasperation made him want to smile, too. Instead he glared at her, because that was much safer in a way he couldn’t quite comprehend and didn’t want to. Not while she was in the room smelling like a flower garden and making him hard with a few strokes of her hands, which none of the PTs at Keesler hospital had come close to doing. “One more question.”

“Promise this is the last?”

“Cross my heart.” She made a graceful gesture that brought his attention to the dark shadow of cleavage at her neckline.

He must be going completely nuts. “Shoot.”

She leaned forward, pinning him with her lovely green eyes. He held her gaze, keeping his cold, impersonal, not wanting her to know how she got to him—a weird reversal of their roles in grade school. “What are you most afraid of, Jameson?”

A laugh broke from him. Oh, no. No way. She wasn’t getting that stuff out of him. “That’s easy.”

“Go on.” She looked hopeful, but wary. Smart woman.

“I’m afraid...” He leaned forward to match her posture, ignoring the complaint in his hamstring. “That you’ll never, ever get the hell out of here.”

To his surprise, she burst out laughing, a musical cascade that shone some light into his darkness and made him feel taller, straighter, lighter himself, though he kept from laughing with her, or even smiling.

Kendra stood and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder on her way past him. “I think that was the first straight answer I’ve gotten all morning. Except about you not being impotent.”

“Could be.”

“Okay, you win. I’m off. Don’t get up.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

She was still smiling, tall and slender and graceful, her legs shapely and strong looking under the short full skirt, sandals with some sparkly metal on them emphasizing the pretty shape of her feet. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You bet.”

She tipped her head, looking at him mischievously. “It was very interesting seeing you again, Jameson.”

“Surreal.”

She nodded once, then walked away, the way she’d said his name lingering behind her. The closer she got to the door the darker the space around him felt. In another three seconds she’d be gone and he’d be back with the pain, the brooding, the agony of waiting, his fate in someone else’s control.

At the door, she lifted a hand. He clenched his jaw, stifling the absurd desire to stop her.

Then she disappeared through the door and closed it behind her.

Click.

The room went dead, devoid of sound and light and life.

Jameson hauled himself up and limped into the kitchen, his knee still pissed at him for the thumping he’d given it, mood reverting to its earlier foulness, only now it seemed even less bearable. The reason made him angrier and more frustrated and stir-crazy.

He had no idea when or whether Kendra was coming back.

3

MATTY CROSSED THE alley behind the Pasadena Playhouse and stepped through the artists’ entrance onto El Molino Avenue. The show had gone well tonight; she was pumped. The usual stage-door crowd had gathered to see the actors emerge, but given that she had such a small part, Matty put on an impersonal smile and didn’t even hope to be asked for her autograph. That way she couldn’t be disappointed, and the few occasions she had been asked were a real surprise and pleasure.

The night was cool, mid-sixties, she’d guess, a beautiful night to be out. She had a sudden impulse to drive to the ocean, maybe Santa Monica, which wasn’t far from where she lived in Culver City. Hang out on the pier and have a drink. Maybe her roommate and longtime friend, Jesse, would want to come with her.

She was digging in her purse for her cell when it rang. Kendra!

“Hey, Kendra, how are you?”

“Fine. Is this a bad time?”

“No, it’s perfect. What’s going on?” She tried not to sound too anxious, which was hard, considering she was...too anxious.

“Your brother is definitely having a tough time.”

Matty grimaced, stomach sinking. “I know.”

“But all is not lost. He’s in pain, physically, which will dissipate, and emotionally, which will be harder. But I think—think—he’ll let me help him.”

“And will you?”

Kendra gave a low, dry chuckle that came from somewhere Matty didn’t understand. “Yes. I will.”

Relief exploded out of her in a long exhale. “Thank you.”

“I might live to regret it.”

“No, no, you won’t. That is...” She laughed breathlessly. “You will live, you won’t regret it. What will you do for him?”

“First? Clean up the place and cook him some decent meals. Then we’ll try getting out to reconnect with some of the world he knows and introduce a bit of a world he doesn’t. See what works. It can be a slow process, but he’s not past help.”

“Oh, my gosh, Kendra.” Emotions jammed in Matty’s throat. Hearing that Jameson was not in true despair, that he wasn’t going to do something crazy like kill himself...ugh, she couldn’t even think about it. That wasn’t an option. “I have no idea how to thank you.”

“Really, don’t be too excited. I haven’t done anything yet but piss him off.”

“Ha!” Matty nodded sympathetically. “That’s not hard these days. Even I can do that.”

“We’ll see if I can get around the mood. I’ll give it a try. For old times’ sake.”

Matty caught the bite of irony. Hmm. There might be something there. “Kendra...did you and Jameson ever date?”

“Date? Jameson and me? God, no.”

“Huh. Okay, sorry.” Matty frowned. Pretty violent denial. The main reason Matty had such huge hopes Kendra could help Jameson was because she’d been sure Jameson had had feelings for her back in middle and high school. Maybe she’d been wrong.

“I’ll stay in touch and let you know how things are going.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I—” Matty rolled her eyes. “I can’t stop thanking you.”

Kendra laughed. “Not a problem. Talk to you soon. Take care.”

Matty ended the call and stood, pressing the phone to her cheek, trying to contain her excitement. This could be good. This could be really, really good. She wanted Jameson free of pain, but also free of the family pressure to be something he might not be. She’d done her medical research, she knew ACL repair surgery could be unsuccessful, that there was a small chance Jameson could end up out of a career in the Air Force, the first Cartwright discharged since God knew when.

But maybe for him that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Maybe Kendra could help him rediscover living life his own way, as he’d been doing in Spain, working for a U.S. company, taking art and English courses at St. Louis University in Madrid and dating a dancer, before their father had reached his patience limit and dragged him back to the U.S. and the Cartwright Plan for Life.

A hand bumped her arm. She automatically moved away.