A Candle for a Marine (Always a Marine) (4 page)

“Shannon….”

“Don’t you
Shannon
me. If Brody heard him say something like that, I’m pretty sure he would have punched him. Hell, I want to punch him. I don’t care who this guy is, Z. He shouldn’t get a free pass to be an—” Shannon paused and scanned the room, even though none of the kids were there yet. “An asshole.”

“Sweetie, we have a history.” Yeah, the excuse sounded weak to Zehava. Hard to explain to someone who hadn’t been there.

“Forgive my choice of words here, but again—screw history. You’re being way too understanding of truly douche-like behavior.” The sculptor flipped open one of the cardboard boxes and began to unload the containers of pottery mix. “In fact, if I had time, I’d march right down to his house and give him a piece of my mind.”

“I’m really glad you don’t.” Picking up a second box, she joined Shannon in the unpacking effort. “Have time, that is. Really, really glad. He’s home for a few days, and it’s the first time in years. He deserves a little understanding.”

Shannon put a hand on hers. “How do you do it? How are you this calm? The man verbally slapped you, so don’t dismiss it or try to dress it up. That’s abuse. It drives me crazy.”

She’d met Shannon during a life study class and discovered a mutual passion for art, but Shannon always retreated from intense social situations and men—definitely men. That had changed a little over a year before when she’d met a Marine named Brody. While she didn’t reveal how they met or anything really of their few days together, she’d been so different since then. She talked about him all the time. For once, Zehava wished she’d change the subject back to her Marine.

Clasping her hand, Zehava gave it a squeeze. “Because I made peace with my decision. I always knew he didn’t like it. He’s been sitting on that anger for a long time, but—” She shook her head when Shannon opened her mouth to interrupt. “But it’s more than that. Our history has some really dark moments in it and some really beautiful ones. My freshman year in high school, a couple of men with guns walked into my family’s store and demanded everything out of the register. My father didn’t challenge them or try to fight, just gave them the money and asked them to go. They shot him anyway.”

Shannon paled and her grip tightened. Tears swam across Zehava’s vision. It didn’t take much to catapult her to those years. “The police came to school. They asked me to step out of class. For some reason, Isaac and I were in the same class that year, I don’t even remember which one. He saw the police in the hall, left his seat, and followed me out. When the police asked me if I knew how to reach my mother, I remember thinking,
she’s at my grandmother’s in Florida
. I didn’t have a cell phone, but I knew the number…. With great regret, they told me what happened.”

Standing in the hallway in front of the lockers and just a few feet away from her classmates, Zehava struggled under the tidal wave of grief threatening to drown her. “Isaac? Just a guy from the neighborhood, the Jankos’ son. I didn’t know him any better or less than any of the other kids, and he put his arm around me and started asking questions, a lot of them. I remember his tense voice, so much deeper than I’d expected. He never let me go. The teachers couldn’t release me because my mother wasn’t there and my older brother had left for his freshman year in college. Isaac called his grandmother, and she came down to the school. They walked me home. Isaac never left. He was my rock.”

Zehava swiped a hand against her cheek and blew out a breath. “What’s funny, is everyone thought we were dating by the end of that year. We weren’t, or maybe we were? Isaac came over for dinner with my mother, kept me studying even when I didn’t care. When I started working at the store after school, so did he. We have history, Shannon. He was—he
is
—my family. Family doesn’t run away when one is angry, they let them be angry.”

“That’s kind of beautiful.” Shannon sniffed once. “Okay, maybe I like him. A little. But I still think he needs to apologize.”

“As it happens, I agree with you.” The warm, masculine baritone washed over her, and Zehava spun. Isaac leaned on the doorjamb to the art room. She hadn’t even heard him come in.

“Well, then….” Shannon blinked and dusted her hands. “I think I’ll go.” She grabbed her purse and gave Zehava a quick hug. “I’m flying to Boston late tomorrow afternoon to get ready for my show. I left you Liam’s number, and you have my cell….”

“Okay.” It happened too fast for Zehava to stop her. Shannon paused at the doorway and eyed Isaac sternly.

“You
will
be nice to her.” The implicit
or else
hung in the air and, to his credit, Isaac didn’t smirk or laugh.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Take care, Shannon!” Zehava called after her. The front door banged a few moments later, leaving Zehava alone with him. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Pretty much all of it,” he admitted, entering the room slowly, hands in his pockets. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he looked like he had in high school—just older and maybe a little more careworn.

Nerves jangling, she returned to finish unpacking the supplies. Better to keep her hands busy, even if she couldn’t stop glancing at him. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”

“Well, it seems I’ve been delivering my share of rude this week.” Instead of keeping his distance, Isaac picked up a box and carried it over. “Z—”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I behaved like a jackass.” He didn’t touch her, but fixed her in place with a steady gaze. “A real jackass and you didn’t—and don’t—deserve it. Your friend is right; I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”

Just like that, he became her Isaac again, the boy who’d held her hand on the worst day of her life. The one who made her smile even when she was sad, who made her feel beautiful when she complained about her too prominent nose or lack of boobs or—worse—the day she realized she’d inherited some of her mother’s features. In his eyes, she’d always been the most beautiful version of herself, and he made her believe it.

If Zehava kicked him to the curb, he wouldn’t be surprised. Yet she did nothing of the kind. Instead, she studied him with gentle, liquid black eyes that saw right down to his soul. “Okay. Those jars need to go on that shelf.”

He glanced down at the grayish powder and shifted to reach the shelf she indicated. “What is this?”

“It’s for pottery. They mix it with water and make stuff.” She grimaced. “It’s for Shannon’s class.” Wrinkling her brow, she stumbled over her words and broke down the box she’d emptied with jerky movements.

The temper he’d chewed on for five days sat like a sour rock in his stomach. “Zehava.”

“I know you have things to do, it’s fine. I need to go check on the snacks for tonight….” Tears glittered in her eyes, and he caught her arm before she could escape. Tentative as hell, he kept his grip light.

“I really am sorry.” He felt like his hat should be in hand. “If anyone else spoke to you like that, I would have kicked the crap out of them. As it is, I think someone should kick me.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he should have expected her reaction, but the dampness in her eyes undid him so he barely saw her foot move before it connected with his shin. He winced at the strike and let go of her arm. A faint smile curved the corners of her mouth. “You’re right. I should have kicked you. Thank you for pointing that out.”

Isaac laughed. “You feel better?”

“I do.”

He finished with the box and collapsed it. “So you think we can start over at the top of this week?”

“How so?” She reached for the third one, but he beat her to the cardboard, emptying it before flattening it like the others. When she would have picked up another, he claimed it and jerked his chin to the door. “Where do you want these?”

“I can do it. Look.” She rounded on him and a spark lit in her eyes. “You don’t have to clean up or help. You apologized, and that was thoughtful. You’re here to see family….”

“I know. And you
are
part of my family.” He raised his eyebrows and waited for her to argue against it. Grateful when she didn’t, he nodded. Hadn’t she said exactly the same thing to her friend? “That’s what I thought. Now, where do you want these? And what else can I do to help?”

Exasperation twisted her smile, and she chuckled. “I keep some for projects in a closet in the hall. If you could stick those there, the rest can go out to the recycle can. I have some other supplies that came in with the mail yesterday. I want to unpack those, too. Then I need to move the Toys for Tots collection box up to the very front.”

“Okay. I’ll get on it.” He headed out to the hall to find the closet and paused in the doorway. “Oh, and Zehava?”

“Yes?” Color warmed her cheeks, and the spark in her eyes dried her tears.

“We
were
dating that first year. I don’t care what anyone else said or thought. You were my girl.” He held her gaze a heartbeat longer and then left her to digest the news. It didn’t take him but a minute to find the closet with the supplies in it—including a stack of collapsed cardboard. The Toys for Tots collection box sat at the end of the hall, only about a quarter full. It proved more awkward than heavy when he carted it toward the front.

Not entirely sure why he’d wanted it clear he considered that first year a year they dated, but in truth he’d left little doubt for any other potential parties that she’d been off the market. Absolutely no doubt.

After getting the collection box in place, he found Zehava hoisting a heavy carton of mailing labels and postage off a stack just inside the door. Plucking it out of her hands, he lifted his brows. “Same room with the pottery cra—er—stuff?”

“Yes, please.” It didn’t surprise him when she grabbed another and followed. Together the work went quickly.

“Need them opened or closed?” He carried the last three in together, ignoring her growing frustration. Irritating her was fun.

“Open. I have—” She stopped when he pulled his pocket knife out and started slicing the lids open. “Well, since you’re into granting wishes, I need to sweep up and check the candle supplies. I want every child to have their own menorah tonight, if they want to light one personally.”

“Okay, I’ll get this unpacked and come find you.”

The contents turned out to be sketchpads, pencils, oil paints, watercolors, and brushes. The number of art supplies varied, and an invoice stuck to the top of one indicated they were also pretty pricey.

Sorting the items into stacks and putting like with like, he didn’t miss the fact that instead of heading off to take care of her chores, she remained and watched him.

“Isaac, what are you doing?”

“Um, trying to figure out what this is.” He turned the plastic-wrapped black brick over.

“They’re charcoal pencils for shading.” She drifted over to stand next to him, teasing him with the sweetness of her scent, a combination of apples and brown sugar and something floral—gardenias maybe. The scent was simply Zehava to him, and his shoulders tensed. The urge to wrap an arm around her and pull her close so he could bury his face against her neck threatened to overwhelm him.

“Isaac?”

The butterfly-light caress of her fingers on his bare arm sent a shock through his system. Close enough to kiss, her parted lips were like a red flag waved at the bull of his restraint.
Son of a bitch, Zach is right. I don’t hate her
.

He never had. Angry, disappointed, frustrated, and confounded with her—absolutely. But he didn’t hate her.

“Yeah?” He bit off the
babe
he wanted to tack on. She’d never liked being called babe, and he only ever used it when he wanted to rile her up. As much fun as it would be to see anger flush her face and heat her gaze when he aroused her temper, it wasn’t a good idea. If the mental image of it played hell with his equilibrium, the reality would carry a dangerous weight for both of them.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the help. I do.” She rested a hip on the table and folded her arms. “But please forgive me when I ask why?”

A number of answers tumbled through his brain, and none made it to his tongue. She stared at him, waiting. He decided to rely on the truth. “Because you invited me and I missed you and it’s Hanukkah. Somewhere in there…maybe there’s a way for us to be friends again.”

“I’d like that.” She straightened and tapped the supplies. “These go in the cupboards behind me—they’re all labeled.” Hesitation marked her movement when she brushed his cheek with a kiss. The shock of it ripped through him and he froze. “If we get done early, I’ll buy you a slice of pizza.”

She vanished before he could react.

Yeah, I want to be friends
…. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten and sucked in a deep breath. Trouble was, he didn’t quite believe he wanted to be friends with Zehava—at least, not just friends.

Isaac’s unexpected, sweet attentiveness weirded Zehava out. He’d worked with her the entire afternoon, tackling every task she could find—even a few she made up on the spot. With his help, the center was readied for the first night of Hanukkah far too quickly. The afternoon sprawling out in front of them held too many empty hours.

I’m a coward
. She’d escaped to a local grocer to pick up supplies she didn’t need and left Isaac changing any number of bulbs that didn’t have to be replaced.
A big fat, stinking coward
.

His temper? She’d imagined it for years and prepared for it. His rejection? Definitely on the list of behaviors predicted likely to occur. Solicitous apologies, flirting, and a warm smile that sent thrills fluttering into her belly like a mad scientist’s experiment with butterflies gone wrong? No, that never appeared on any imaginary list.

She’d had no idea how to respond, so she bolted at the first possible opportunity. Unfortunately, her short list and lack of business in the grocery meant she finished in under ten minutes. The owner had apparently taken the day off and left a part-time employee in charge, a young man Zehava barely knew, so she couldn’t even use the excuse of local gossip to linger.