The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel (11 page)

“Not as personally as Granny,” he said matter-of-factly, but she chuckled. “I didn’t choose this place for the snow.”

“So . . . you chose this place
because
of Dickens?”

“It intrigued me, yes. I googled Victorian bed-and-breakfasts. The name of this one caught my attention. And here I am.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “here you are.”

After supper she invited him to watch a movie with her and Granny. She didn’t have to talk him into it, even though she’d warned him that it was a chick flick. Still, he wasn’t terribly bored. It did have a good plot, and for some reason he was feeling more romantic and sappy than usual these days.

On Monday Jackson went into town again. He bought more liquor, almost feeling a little unnerved to recall what Chas had said about it. But not unnerved enough to not buy it. Then he found the right store where he could purchase the right Christmas card. Looking through other cards just to pass the time, he found one that made him almost laugh out loud because it was so perfect, or at least it would be with a minor adjustment. He kept looking and found another that would do well, even if it was a bit gutsy. Maybe something gutsy would stir things up a bit. So he bought three cards and went back to the inn. Preparing the card to send to his family, he was once again haunted by Chas’s words. Instead of just signing his name, he wrote below the printed message,
I hope you are all doing well. Merry Christmas, Jackson.
He wrote the address on the front from memory and took it down to the office where he found Polly working.

“You know where I can buy a stamp?” he asked.

“Just one?”

“One will do, yes.”

“Oh, just put it in the pile,” she said, motioning to several pieces of mail that were not yet stamped. “It’s bill day.”

“How fun,” he said with sarcasm.

“I’ll make sure it gets mailed,” she said. “It’s on the house.”

“Thank you,” he said.

He then went to Granny’s room to find her awake and reading. “I got you something.”

“A present?” she asked like a child.

“Not exactly,” he said and handed her the card. “You’ll either laugh or hit me, but I just had to buy it.”

“I might do both,” she said, breaking the seal.

He waited expectantly and hovered where he could read over her shoulder while she was reading it. On the front it said,
This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship . . .
And inside,
If you weren’t so old.
Granny didn’t disappoint him when she laughed even harder than she had when she’d showed him her favorite coffee mug. It had originally said
Happy Birthday,
but he’d written a big “un” before the second word, then wrote,
Thanks for all the good times. Jackson.

“I was hoping you’d like it,” he said.

“I love it!” she insisted. “It’s dandy; just dandy.”

“What’s so funny?” Chas asked, appearing in the doorway.

“Jackson gave me a card,” Granny said as if she’d won the lottery. She handed it to Chas, who gave him a skeptical glance, and he shrugged. Chas read it and chuckled. Then she chuckled again, handing it back to Granny.

She looked at him, her eyes far more serious than they should have been for the humorous moment. His eyes questioned her silently, and she said, “Does that mean you’re leaving?”

“Did I say I was leaving? I would really mess up the weekly rate by leaving in the middle of a week, wouldn’t I?” Was that relief he saw in her eyes? He hoped so. Pulling his hand out from behind his back, he said, “I got one for you, too.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“I went card shopping and got carried away. It had your name on it.”

“This was already here?” she asked, pointing to where he’d written ‘Chas’ on the envelope.

“Funny,” he said with no humor. “Open it. I can’t stand the anticipation.”

He watched Chas as closely as he’d watched Granny when she’d opened her card. He didn’t want to miss even the slightest evidence of how the implications of the message affected her.

As Chas broke the seal, her heart quickened. His countenance and body language were not anticipating humor. She felt Granny watching them like they were a couple of mice in a maze, and she wished they were somewhere else. She held her breath and read, not knowing what to expect. On the front was a watercolor picture of a beautiful house with a white picket fence, and it read,
I never believed in storybook endings . . .
And inside,
Until I met you. Happy Anniversary.
In his handwriting it said,
Thanks for a great week! Sorry I’m a day late. I’ll try to do better next time. Jackson.

Chas looked up at him, surprised at how much she was hoping that he’d not intended it to be funny. His seriousness was comforting. He really had intended it to be sentimental. “Thank you,” she said, “it’s very nice.” In one moment she felt so overjoyed she wanted to throw her arms around him, and in the next moment she was terrified at the thought of him leaving. In order to push away both feelings, she added facetiously, “I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything. I was thinking you’d come in on Tuesday, for some reason.”

He smiled and she returned it, then they both looked at Granny who had that look on her face, as if she knew something they didn’t, but she wasn’t going to tell.

CHAPTER 8

At the very moment when Chas thought she had her emotions completely under control, unexpected tears stung her eyes, and she hurried out of the room before Granny—or, more importantly, Jackson—could see them. She opted to go upstairs where it would be easier to find a place to hide until she could figure this out. But she’d barely put her foot on the third stair before she felt a hand grab her arm, and she hadn’t even known he’d followed her.

“What’s wrong?” Jackson asked, but she kept her face away and couldn’t answer without letting on to the growing threat of tears.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked. “Was it something I said?”

“No!” she managed to get the one syllable out in a fairly steady voice.

“Then why are you trying so hard not to cry?” She turned farther away, like an ostrich digging deeper into the sand. He let go of her arm and leaned on the banister. “Come on, Chas,” he said gently. “Let’s just stop trying to pretend that we’re not falling in love with each other.” Chas’s heart quickened, and she sucked in her breath. But she still couldn’t look at him. “Talk to me. Don’t tell me what you think you should say, or what you think I want to hear. Don’t try to find some other point of reference in your life that will help you know how to handle this . . . or how to feel. There isn’t one. Face it. Neither one of us have tasted pineapple before—not like this.”

A little laugh jumped through her lips, but it also set the tears free. “Look at me, Chas,” he said with perfect kindness. “I’ve seen women cry before. I just need to know why
I
made you cry.”

Chas wiped her hands over her face before she turned to look at him. He smiled, and his words echoed in her mind.
Let’s just stop trying to pretend that we’re not falling in love with each other.
“Is it true?” she asked.

“Is
what
true?”

“That you’re falling in love with me?”

She perhaps expected him to try to negate what he’d said, or worm his way around it. But he made eye contact with her, at the same time shrugging. “Falling, fallen, fell.” His voice lowered, his eyes intensified, his countenance became firmer. “Hard and fast. And I’m done trying to pretend I don’t feel this way.” He shook his head. “It’s just too exhausting to pretend, Chas.” He wiped a thumb over her face that was still wet from tears. “I don’t know what it is with you. I’m usually the man who can’t say anything if it doesn’t need to be said. But when I’m with you, I turn into a babbling idiot. It’s like you have some magnetic force that won’t let me keep my mouth shut.” She smiled, and he wiped the other side of her face. “If I’m going to babble I hope to be able to say something that will make some sense. I just want you to know that this doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not I was hoping to sleep with you, or how long I’m staying, or that you’re a Mormon, or that I might have a criminal record, or—”

“You’re babbling, Jackson. Just tell me what it
does
have to do with.”

“I’m not sure I know,” he said. “All I know for certain is that I just want to be in the same room with you, and I want to do anything that would make your life easier or better. I feel like I could . . .” he actually clenched his fists, and then his teeth, as if the sentiment would devour him, “. . . like I could stick my head in a guillotine if it could make you happy.”

Chas widened her eyes and tilted her head. There was only gentle wonderment in her voice when she said, “What a very Dickensian thing to say.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“And it’s probably one of the most romantic things anyone has ever said to me.”

He chuckled. “Only a woman who runs a place like this would ever say such a thing.”

“You know the story well,” she said.

“What story?”

“You tell me. Only a man who knew the story well would be able to put its principal point into an emotional metaphor—
and
know the title of the book it came from.”

“A Tale of Two Cities,”
he said with no hesitation. “And yes, I know it well. ‘It was. . . .’” He said only those two words before she joined him and they quoted the beginning of the book together perfectly. “ . . . the best of times, it was the worst of times. . . .” He added, “Yes, I know the book well. What I need to know now is . . . whether I’m Sydney Carton or Charles Darnay.”

She offered a slight smile. “I only have one man in my life, Jackson.” She sighed and touched his face in return, surprised to realize she’d wanted to for a long time. “I just don’t know if I want to feel this way about a man who will inevitably be leaving my life.”

“Is that why you were crying?” he asked.

She nodded. “I guess that about covers it. More than anything, I’m just . . . confused, Jackson. Afraid, maybe.”

When it became evident this conversation wouldn’t be over quickly, he urged her to sit on the stairs, and he sat close beside her. “I’m not even certain yet
when
I have to leave,” he said, “or if my staying away will be permanent. Surely we can enjoy what he have here—now—and not be so concerned with the future; at least for the moment.”

“I know you’re right,” she said, sniffling. “It’s not just that; it’s more complicated than that.”

“Which is exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“What do you mean?” She looked nervous.

“It’s probably about Martin, and the baby, and growing up without a father, and—”

“What does
that
have to do with anything?”

“Don’t get all defensive on me. It’s a part of my job to put people together based on what I learn about them. It’s a cold, hard fact that children who grow up without a father in the home are more likely to struggle in life than those who do. And then there are abusive fathers, who are worse than no father at all.”

Chas heard the personal reference laced into his words and felt a little more on even ground with him. To know he was making a point that included both of them didn’t leave her feeling quite so vulnerable.

“All I’m saying,” Jackson went on, “is that . . . your father left you . . . Martin left you. It would be ridiculous to believe that you wouldn’t find it difficult to form any kind of attachment to me—or any man, for that matter—especially when it all seems so temporary.”

Chas paused to check her own emotion and the context of the conversation. Was this really happening? Should she be doing something to try to stop it? In a split second all of her prayerful questions and the answers she’d been given in return came back to her. It was easy to say, “I agree with you on at least one point, Jackson.”

“And what would that be?”

She took a deep breath, tested the temperature of her gut instinct, and just said it. “I’m tired of trying to pretend that I’m not falling in love with you.” He smiled, and his eyes sparkled with something hopeful and warm. She almost expected him to kiss her and wasn’t certain she felt ready for that. Instead he gave her a tight hug, the kind that a dear friend would offer after being parted for a long time. At first Chas felt reserved, then the reality of his closeness began to sink into her, draining away the loneliness she had been battling for so many years. She tightened her hands against his back and just held to him, never wanting to let go. Her mind went again through the high points of the conversation, and got stuck on one word in particular. She eased back just enough to see his face when she asked, “Does it
have
to be temporary?”

Jackson sighed and looked down. “That depends on a lot of things, Chas. Once we get to know each other better, you might prefer that I leave. We don’t know each other well enough, or for long enough, to know if we might consider something permanent. If we both come to a point where we agree on a future together, then we would have to consider all the facts and decide how to compromise enough to overcome the gaps between our lives.”

Again Chas checked what she was hearing and her own sanity. She had to ask, “You really did just say that to me, right? I’m not hallucinating or anything, am I? We’ve only known each other a week, and . . . you really did turn this conversation into speculations over sharing a future together.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “If you knew me the way the guys at work know me, you would think I was completely out of my mind. No one is more well-known in Virginia for being a confirmed bachelor.” He touched her face again. “But, yes . . . I really did say that.”

She smiled and sighed. “It’s nice . . . to know you feel that way. It’s nice to know I feel that way, too.”

“Yes, that
is
nice.”

“Were you worried?”

“Yes, actually. As far as I knew, I was just another guest at the inn; someone to practice your charity on.”

“No, it’s much more than that, but . . .”

“But?”

“These feelings are wonderful, but not very realistic in the grand scheme of life. This inn
is
my life, Jackson. I don’t know that I could ever leave here.”

“And you shouldn’t. This isn’t just a job, or a house. You’re right. It’s your life. Your history is here. I would never ask you to give it up.”

“But when this investigation is over . . . and you’re no longer hiding . . . then what?”

“If they’ll let me have my job back, I’ll have to decide whether or not I want to take it.”

“Why wouldn’t you? Your work is your life. I’ve seen how antsy and lost you are without it.”

“I can’t deny that. But it’s a young man’s work, and I’d like to retire before I have no choice but to remain behind a desk. I don’t think I could take it. I think retirement is getting closer for me. I suppose I just need to be sure that I get out when it’s right, because it’s something I’ll have to live with the rest of my life. I have to know I did my time.”

“And if the investigation finds something against you?”

“The only way that’s possible is if somebody in the Bureau is doing something illegal, but then
that
is the heart of the problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jackson sighed and pressed his fingers together, setting his forearms on his thighs. “The shooting . . . I told you about. I can’t share details with you; I wouldn’t even if I could. But it all went wrong; my gut told me there was something wrong even before the bullets started flying. The people over me concluded that there was only one way it could have gone the way it did. They believe there’s a traitor on the team.”

“As in . . . one of the people you work closely with . . . and trust . . . is a mole?”

“A mole?” He chuckled. “You watch too much TV.”

“I spend too much time with Granny.”

“Yes,” he said, “a mole; somebody taking money from some scumbag who’s trying to avoid the FBI, and putting our lives in danger in the process.
I
know that person isn’t me, but nobody else knows it. I’m the quiet, mysterious one, so a few bigwigs have naturally assumed that means I have something to hide. I wasn’t surprised when they took my gun. They always inspect the weapons after they’ve been fired in an incident. But when they asked for my ID and showed me the warrant, I was thrown off a little.”

“The warrant?”

“I hadn’t even gone home since the incident. I still had blood on my clothes from being so close to . . . Dave.” It had been difficult for him to say the name ever since the shooting had occurred.

“The man who was killed?” she asked with compassion and took his hand.

He looked into her eyes and squeezed her fingers with his. “Yes,” he said. “They had a warrant to search my apartment, my computer, everything. I could only go home accompanied by an IA officer to pack a few things, and those were thoroughly searched. I spent a few nights in a hotel and came here.”

“So, you felt violated
and
betrayed, without even a moment to grieve for the loss of a friend.”

“That’s right,” he said, his voice turning gruff.

“And what if they believe it’s you?” she asked, feeling afraid.

“I don’t have anything to hide,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“What if someone is trying to frame you. What if they planted evidence to make it look like—”

“You
have
been watching too much TV.”

“Isn’t it possible?”

“Possible but not very likely. Someone in the Bureau would have to be awfully smart to frame someone else in the Bureau—because they’re all really sharp, and figuring those things out is what we all do for a living. Besides, nobody can keep a secret forever, and the people I work with all know that. I’m not worried about being framed; I’m really not. It’s just . . . the principle of the whole thing. It’s knowing that Dave is dead, and it feels like everything I knew and thought I could trust died with him. They’ll find out I had nothing to do with it, and they’ll find the person responsible.”

“You think they will?”

“I
know
they will. It won’t be easy, but they will.
I will.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, sounding panicked.

“I mean that they’ll probably find out I’m innocent before they find out who’s guilty. They’ll need
me
to figure it out. And when I do . . .” He didn’t finish. Instead he took a deep breath. “I’m not worried about job security. Even if I were, the very worst thing that could happen would be an early retirement, and that might not be so bad.”

“But you want to work long enough to find out the truth.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“And what will you do when it
is
the right time to retire from the FBI?” He gave her a smile that came with a sparkle in his eyes. She smiled back and added, “What would you have done if you’d never met me?”

“I have no idea. It’s not like I need to work—at least not for financial reasons. Of course, I want to always stay busy and active. But I stopped working for the money a long time ago. I don’t spend what I don’t need, and I’ve made some good investments. Money is not the issue.”

“That’s nice then,” she said and chuckled. “I look forward to that day around here.”

“It’ll come,” he said, glancing around with overt fondness for the inn.