One of These Nights (11 page)

He watched her for a long moment, and she could tell there was a lot going on in his mind, even if he didn't say anything. When he finally spoke, it was with careful deliberation.

“Come up with a different nickname,” he said, “and I'll work on the assumptions.”

“Cool. Start with the assumption that I mean anything bad by the nickname. I love Tolkien. Ents are cool. They're also trees, which I have sometimes suspected you are, considering what you track into my gallery.”

Jason grunted, which she supposed she could take as either positive or negative. Or possibly something between the two. Thinking about it, maybe? That she'd managed to get under his skin so easily surprised her, considering how long they'd been doing battle. Big and stupid? Was that really what he thought she'd meant? Zoe felt as though he'd cast aspersions on her honor. She also felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the man sitting across from her. She'd thought him big, gorgeous, and fairly well impervious to everything life might throw at him—failures, insults, the elements, large rocks—but here he was with a busted leg and hurt feelings.

The thought that he might have gotten the “big and dumb” thing from other people provoked a flash of protective anger that flared white-hot before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. It might have worried her, if she'd had time to think about it, but a voice carried to them from the front of the restaurant in a sharp singsong.

“Hey, you two! Sorry I'm late!”

“Oh God,” muttered Zoe. When Jason snorted with laughter she realized she'd said it out loud. Apparently, this was not her day for discretion. She blamed him. Him and his puppy-dog eyes and his damned yummy cologne. She touched her forehead with her hand, then allowed herself a brief face palm before peeking up at him. On the upside, he didn't look upset anymore. Actually, he looked pretty entertained. At her expense.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Molly making a beeline for them.

“Don't be,” Jason replied. “I'd be more worried if you didn't have that reaction.”

“Well. But it's still your mother.”

“She sure is. Which makes me an expert on the subject.”

Molly arrived at the table in a rush of perfumed air, tossing herself into the chair next to her son with a dramatic flourish. “You wouldn't believe,” she said, “who I ran into at the gas station!”

“The tank was full, Mom.”

“Never hurts to top it off,” she admonished him. “And I wanted to run into the mini-mart. Anyway, who should be pumping gas next to me but Janie Fredericks! You remember, Tommy used to go out with her daughter, Kristin.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Nice girl, but he didn't need to be tied down back then. You could just tell she was always going to be a local, and he was on his way to bigger things.”

“Nothing wrong with staying local,” Jason said, and though his voice was cool, Zoe could see the tension in the way he held his head, in the set of his jaw.

“I know that,” Molly replied. “You know I loved living here. But small towns are so limiting. Your father had a hellish commute for years because he wanted more. And look where we are! Sun all year, amazing shopping, friends who've
lived
 . . . There's just so much more opportunity. And money. It doesn't buy happiness, but it sure as hell helps.”

“It helps, but it isn't everything. I wouldn't like the city, Mom.”

“As if you ever tried it,” she shot back, an edge creeping into her voice. “You never pushed yourself.”

“Sure. That's why I was a straight-A student.”

“There are other ways to push yourself. Out of your comfort zone, for instance. The football coach wanted you—”

Jason groaned, cutting her off. “Jesus Christ. I'm thirty-one. Could we not have this discussion again? I liked running, not football. So I ran. I'm not outgoing. Oh well. I love the outdoors, so I got a degree I could roll into a job that let me be outside. And stay here. Because I like it here.” Each word was enunciated perfectly, his speech slowing. Zoe picked up on it immediately. So far, it was the prime indicator he was agitated or upset.

Oddly enough, she'd never noticed it when he came into the gallery. Apparently he really
did
enjoy coming in to argue with her.

“Well, Tommy—”

“I'm not Tommy.”

“Of course you're not. I swear to God, Jason, you're not even
listening
.”

Zoe looked between them and noted that Molly seemed pretty oblivious to the emotions she was inspiring in her son, focused instead on her own frustration with what felt like a well-worn argument. Jason's hands rested on the table in front if him, and Zoe watched his fingers flex, as though he was trying to keep from simply balling them up. She felt herself tensing in response, a natural reaction that was difficult to stop. She'd always been good at picking up on other people's emotions, a boon where her business was concerned. But in uncomfortable situations, it sometimes made her want to crawl out of her skin. She'd trained herself, over the years, to tune some of it out, at least enough to get through the day. Then she'd curl up and decompress. She was well aware that people not built the same as she was didn't understand, that she sometimes looked antisocial. Or snobby.

The flicker of annoyance that thought provoked was quickly banished when Jason caught her eye. In that single look was frustration, weariness, and apology. She might have imagined him apologizing for mucking up her floors from time to time, but this was one thing he didn't need to be sorry about.

“Oh, look, here's our server,” Zoe said, giving the waitress who'd been hovering hesitantly a couple of tables over a warm smile. The girl looked relieved at the signal to approach, and Zoe knew she'd been listening to the escalating argument. It was nothing she'd want to get in the middle of, either, but here she sat. And because she wanted to try to enjoy the food she was about to order, it behooved her to find a way past this ugly little spat as soon as possible.

Long experience told her exactly what was needed.

“So, Molly,” Zoe said, turning all of her attention to the woman whose mouth was pressed into a thin line as she fiddled absently with her rolled silverware. “Jason tells me you used to sit on the Harvest Cove Arts Council. I guess I have you to thank for some of the things I enjoy so much about our little downtown. Are you an artist yourself?”

It was the right call. Molly blushed with pleasure. “Oh! Well, no, not exactly. I mean, I've always gotten compliments on my decorating. My friends say I have a good eye for what works in a space. They're the ones who insisted I should be on the council, really, and it did turn out to be fun. Bringing some beauty and culture to the Cove, you know. I was more of an athlete, of course . . . Jason probably told you that, too. Basketball. I still play in a league, actually. Have to keep in shape somehow, and it's fun to smoke some of the younger ones who don't think old ladies can play. Not that they think I'm old,” she added quickly, eyes rounding. “They can never believe it when I tell them I'm in my late fifties. I've gotten to be such good friends with some of them, and they're
so
fun . . .”

“Sorry to interrupt, but are you ready to order?”

Molly barely took a breath to order her food before resuming her monologue, and Zoe listened with half an ear, smiling and nodding in what she knew was a reasonable facsimile of rapt attention while quietly keeping an eye on Jason. He ordered a sandwich and fries in a low voice, probably so as not to disrupt the flow of words coming out of his mother's mouth lest she return her attention to him. His hands still rested on the table, though the fingers had relaxed and gone still.

It was silly, Zoe thought, to want to reassure him. The man was obviously used to this, and he didn't seem to have a problem fighting back. Still, that look he'd given her refused to let her be. So because it was in character, and because she had no other way of telling him it was okay, she slid her hand over to cover one of his, giving it a gentle squeeze. It was all she could think to do. And if she was being honest with herself, it was what she wanted to do.

His hand was warm, and Zoe felt her heart stutter just the way it had the first time a boy had ever held her hand. Silly, maybe, but no one had to know. She started to pull her hand away, since holding hands at lunch seemed like it might be overkill after they'd already shared that strange, slightly amazing kiss earlier to show off their “relationship.” At the first hint of movement, though, Jason turned his hand over to thread his fingers through hers, capturing her hand and holding it in place. Keeping them connected.

Zoe risked breaking eye contact with Molly just once, unable to resist a look at Jason, unable to shake the feeling that he
wanted
her to look. He seemed focused on his mother—probably as concerned as she was that things be kept as pleasant as possible—but he must have sensed her gaze. His eyes met hers, sending an electric little thrill of awareness through her. Molly's voice faded to a background drone, completely secondary to the overwhelming awareness of Jason's warm skin against hers, of the faint but unmistakable pulse of his heart. His eyes seemed to darken, full of their own heat, before he looked away as though nothing had passed between them.

Zoe forced her gaze back to Molly and immediately set about trying to convince herself that she'd imagined what she'd seen in Jason's expression in that brief moment. That her neglected libido was playing some nasty tricks on her, making her acting job a little too method for comfort. It was hard when her hand was still captured by his. It became impossible when his thumb moved in a single, gentle stroke against her finger, up and then down. Such a tiny motion—and Zoe knew that if she'd been standing, her knees would have buckled.

This isn't real,
she told herself, even as her heart began to pound.
He's just playing a part.
Except she hadn't seen any acting ability from the man yet, and that tiny thumb stroke, the small but delicious twist to his kiss, wouldn't have registered to any audience but one.

Her.

Which meant that at some point very soon, she might need to rethink just how imaginary this whole thing was . . . for both of them.

J
ust had to bust my driving leg.

It was a thought that occurred to him multiple times a day, varying depending on how badly things were going. By Wednesday afternoon, the idea had occurred to him several hundred times. He could limp screaming into the forest, he guessed, but poor Rosie was not a woodsy dog, and if she stayed home she'd probably end up locked out and relegated to the doghouse his mother had helpfully shown him on her tablet. So affordable! So warm!

So completely unacceptable yet totally predictable!

He wanted to go to work, but he wasn't cleared for it yet. It was raining, so he couldn't hide out in the yard. He wanted the TV off, but that wasn't going to happen, and besides, it kept his mother busy. Sort of. She'd baked him cookies earlier, and he'd felt like an ass for being grumpy beforehand. The guilt lasted only about twenty minutes or so, though. Then she'd started in on the doghouse thing, absolving him of any ugly feelings he might have toward her for the rest of the day.

By two, she was just about vibrating.

“Let's go out to Withrow's Farm!”

“Why?” Jason asked. He looked up from where he was doing bills on his laptop at the table. It was boring, but at least it was keeping him busy.

“Maybe they have apples or something. Or pumpkins. Or a wreath for your door. You could use a wreath!”

“Not really,” he replied. “I don't do wreaths.”

“That's a great attitude,” she complained, rolling her eyes. “This place needs a woman's touch. I've been saying it for years. If you're going to insist upon living in the woods, you could at least decorate. Your house in town—”

“I didn't decorate that. As you know.” He looked down and kept working, with a silent wish that she'd find a different subject to distract her soon. The little house on Moonstone, an old Craftsman that had the kind of charm that meant a lot of repair work, had been decorated well according to everybody. Everybody but him. He hadn't hated it, but it had never felt comfortable, maybe because he'd had no part in it. The décor, in fact, had been one of the only things his mother and Sara had agreed on. They'd had a lot of stuff. A lot of
fussy
stuff. Even he had been afraid to touch it, and with good reason. Sara had just about had a nervous breakdown over a crystal saltshaker he'd bumped onto the floor. Plus she'd ignored every hint he'd dropped about wanting a comfortable recliner to flop in at the end of the day. But yeah, he supposed the place had looked nice.

So did museums. But he didn't want to hang out in them.

“Why doesn't Zoe do something with it?” his mother continued. “She works in art. This house must make her crazy!”

So much for wishing she'd let this drop. He couldn't quite keep the faint smile from his lips, though. On the list of things that made Zoe crazy, his house was probably way down right now.

“Zoe isn't going to redecorate my house, Mom. We haven't been together that long, and I wouldn't let her anyway.”

“Then she won't stick around,” she warned him. “Girls like her need to have nice things.”

He bristled, even though he knew he shouldn't let it bother him. Taking the bait was always a pointless exercise. Didn't mean he could always help himself, though. “Guess she thinks I'm nice enough or she wouldn't be around.”

“She left pretty quickly last night.”

“She came for dinner. She was tired.” That she'd shown up at all had been a pleasant surprise. After Sunday, he'd been positive she'd run while she could. Instead, she'd worked, called, kept tabs on him . . . and yesterday, at his mother's invitation, come by after work to eat. His only complaint was that she hadn't tried to hold his hand again, and the only kisses he'd gotten were quick pecks when she knew he wouldn't see them coming.

She was avoiding him without actually avoiding him. Zoe was the only woman he knew who could be capable of such a thing, and she was good at it. His only consolation was that it had to mean she'd felt something. Whether the something was good or completely repulsive was the question, and he hadn't been alone with her to ask. Not that he probably would. He'd rather just take action.

What that might be—at least if he didn't want any chance of her punching him in the face—was still a work in progress.

“Are you even listening to me? I know she was tired. That's not the problem.”

Jason eyed her, wondering what kind of scenario she'd conjured up to get dramatic over.

Better to defuse it now than let it fester all day.

“I don't think she likes me. She didn't say anything about the pork chops.”

“Only if you don't count when she said thank you, and that dinner was good,” he replied. This was what he'd been hoping to put off. The competition. His mother had an intense need for immediate adoration, and if she didn't get it, things got weird very quickly. Zoe had a natural reserve about her that he actually kind of liked—it gave her an air of “don't mess with me” he could appreciate. But she was unfailingly polite, on top of being beautiful, both of which he'd thought his mother would respond well to. Apparently that wasn't going to be enough.

“She was just saying that to be nice. I can tell.” She leaned against the wall and tapped her fingers on her hip. “Why do you always end up with the ones who don't like me?”

Jason had to swallow a groan. “That's crap, Mom. You haven't even given her a chance.” Guilt tried to twist itself into a knot in his stomach, but he wouldn't let it. So what if it had taken him a while to figure out that Zoe wasn't exactly the cold snob he'd thought? He was busy. Things took time.

Yeah. Years, even. Genius.

“Maybe.” She affected a long face. “Tommy's girlfriends always like me right away. Angela and I go shopping all the time.”

“Oh, is that the flavor of the month's name? I lost track.”

That earned him a glare. “Not everyone is ready to settle down at his age. He has a career to think about.”

“Uh-huh.” He decided to drop the subject, since he didn't want to talk about his brother, or the latest in the long string of silicone-enhanced wonders he was dating, or why he was supposed to be the one who settled down and stayed that way because obviously he had nothing better to do. There was also the danger she'd start talking about shopping, and he didn't want to do that, either. There were a few blissful moments of silence, but they didn't last.

“Let's go somewhere,” she insisted again. “Why don't we drive out to Mel and Pete's? We can go to lunch!”

“We went to lunch yesterday, and I already ate.” That was the one thing he could always count on—the eating. For her it was more about seeing people and being seen, he knew. For him, it was just about food. He was going to have to watch it. Without being able to run, he would blow up like a balloon eating this way. In some twisted way, it might make her happy. She'd have another thing to needle him about, anyway.

“Maybe the Tavern? Do they still have a good lunch?”

In that moment, he missed his grandmother with a strength that still carried with it the painful echo of his feelings when he'd lost her. Nanny had been fiercely protective of him, her house his refuge. He knew she was the reason why he wasn't far more screwed up than he was. Unfortunately, she never could spare him from everything, and he'd known since before he could remember that nothing he did, no one he chose, would ever be quite right for his mother. Worse, while she was criticizing him, she would never be able to sit still.

“Yes. And no, I'm not going anywhere.”

She clucked her tongue in disgust. “Nice, Jason. Did they give you grumpy pills when you broke your leg? No wonder we've barely seen your girlfriend.”

Maybe he could send her to the store for something, Jason thought, if he could come up with an item he needed. She'd gone crazy at Fresh Pride yesterday, though. It would be years before he ran out of either olive oil or tissue. Now she was just bored, and that was a problem. Her compulsions, her weird mix of love and disapproval, and her fixation on what everyone else thought of her had pushed Jason right back into the tangle of love and complete exasperation he felt whenever they spent time together. It was as exhausting as it always was, and it had only been three days.

Zoe would lighten things up when she came by tonight. That was what he had all his hopes pinned on, and what made wading through the day so excruciating. She'd made yesterday better. She would make today better. He didn't want to depend on that, but he didn't see where he had much choice. It was that or implement his half-assed running-away idea, and frankly, he wasn't feeling all that motivated.

“Well, we're going somewhere,” his mother announced. “It's not good for you to be cooped up in here. You need to move around and get some fresh air, see some people. I came here to take care of you, and that's what I'm going to do. Get your shoes on. We can at least go down to the harbor.”

Jason briefly considered refusing. After a few moments, though, he blew out a breath and closed up his laptop. She was right—it wouldn't hurt him to get out. Besides, it looked like a decent day outside. Maybe the fresh air would make his bones knit faster. At the very least he wouldn't have to listen to this stupid talk show. He glanced at the television, where someone was very involved in making something out of pipe cleaners and a gourd.

“Fine,” he said. “There's some new stuff on the square since the last time you were here. I can park it on a bench somewhere if you want to check it out.”

She clapped her hands together. “Perfect! We can stop into Zoe's gallery, too! I really want to see it.”

“Uh, sure.” He knew he should have seen that coming. A trip to the gallery to investigate had probably been her aim from the start. It wasn't something he could really get upset about, though, considering that it actually sounded better than just waiting around here. “Just don't get weird, okay?”

She stopped in the middle of putting her jacket on. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just be friendly. She likes you fine.”

“I'm always friendly,” she sniffed. “I was friendly yesterday.”

“And you're already inventing stories about how she doesn't like you. Maybe just take it down a notch or ten and try to relax. She's nice,” Jason said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. He'd considered her tough, beautiful, and difficult. Genuinely nice had been pretty far down on his list of expectations, and yet it seemed to be one of her defining characteristics.

Not that she was any less tough, beautiful, and difficult in her own special way. The thought, rather than irritating him, made Jason smile.

“I'm nice, too,” his mother retorted. “Are we going? You should put the dog out back so she doesn't pee on anything.”

Rosie, who had been sound asleep on the chair, opened one eye to regard Molly warily. Jason hobbled over to get his shoe, ignoring the suggestion.

“Are you really wearing that?”

“Yep.”

“But your sweatpants have
paint
on them.”

“Probably because I painted in them once.” He wouldn't normally have worn them out, but he refused to buy an entire wardrobe full of clothes featuring elastic waistbands. Besides, a part of him enjoyed her irritation about it.

Jason sat on the bench by the front door, often a repository for shoes, coats, and whatever he might have an armload of at any given time, and shoved his foot into a beat-up old sneaker. He looked longingly at the other sneaker, wiggled the toes poking out of his cast, and sighed. Just about four weeks left of this, as long as he continued to heal right. At least he'd be out of the cast before the snow fell, but it pissed him off to lose the fall to his injury. This was his favorite season in the Cove.

If his rotten luck held, though, he might have to revise his opinion.

Jason didn't miss the way his mother eyed his sweats one last time before they headed outside. It was the same old story—in his family, he was the big one, the awkward one, the quiet one. The one who was always, for reasons he'd never completely understood, just a little bit embarrassing to his parents. He'd gotten used to it. He could even joke about it. But on days like today, when he was already worn down, it still managed to sting the way it used to.

Zoe, at least, would expect him to look like this, even if she didn't like it. But her stink-eye would be subtle, and whatever sort of welcome he got would be genuine. It wasn't much, but he didn't need much. Just a friendly face. And maybe a stingy kiss he could obsess about later.

Clinging to the thought that his day had nowhere to go but up, Jason jammed his crutches beneath his arms and headed out the door.

*   *   *

Two Roads gallery was quiet when they arrived, but for a couple of browsers who looked a little too dressed up to be local. Jason sized them up as he clomped in, announced as much by his noisy crutches as by the silvery tinkle of the bell above the door. He was so accustomed to dealing with out-of-towners by now that he could almost smell the difference on them. These two were day-trippers who'd probably taken the day off to escape the sprawl of suburbia and soak up a bunch of small-town charm. Tourism was the lifeblood of the Cove, so it was hard to complain much about visitors.

“This is gorgeous,” the woman was saying to the man she was with, waving her hand at one of Sam's recent paintings that hung on the wall. Jason angled his head to see which one it was—he was in here often enough to have more than a passing acquaintance with the work on display—and smiled. It was a summer dreamscape, an impression of a garden in surreally vivid bloom, soaked in what might have been a passing silvery rain and lit by the glow from a single, tall lamppost. There was something otherworldly about all of Sam's work, and Jason had wondered more than once what sort of filter she saw the world through to create images like this one.