“Wine?”
“Your grandmother had wine with lunch every day,” Keenan said, frowning. “Was that a vacation thing?”
“Oh. Never mind,” Jack said, feeling like a bigger ass.
“Keenan, you really shouldn’t have,” Grannie said, advancing on them, her eyes on the flowers. “Tulips, how lovely! Are these the variety we saw in Istanbul?”
“They are,” Keenan said easily. “I brought some bulbs, too. Maybe you could plant them in the fall for next spring.”
“So very thoughtful,” Grannie said.
“Hello, Keenan,” Rose said.
His sister was definitely not sitting behind the solid farmhouse table in the kitchen, nor was she wearing the apron he’d shoved at her. She was standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest, her hair spilling forward over her shoulders.
“Hi, Rose,” Keenan said.
Rose looked at him. “Jack, we need to—”
“Not while my roast is cooling,” Grannie interrupted. “Everyone into the kitchen, now.”
They ended up around the table, Jack at the head, carving a pork roast like the head of the household while Keenan listened intently to Grannie’s chatter about the flowers he’d brought and Rose passed plates and poured wine.
“Keenan, how are you finding Field Energy?” Grannie asked.
Jack cut off a piece of perfect tender roast and waited to see what Keenan would say about giving up on the contracting work in the Middle East.
“It’s interesting, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to learn about the business side of the operation.”
“He’s already made some great suggestions for security at the storage facilities,” Rose said.
“Low-hanging fruit,” Keenan said with characteristic humility. “When your primary method of protection is to situate them in the middle of nowhere—Oklahoma—there’s nowhere to go but up.”
Rose ran operations for Field Energy. Jack put two and two together and came up with, “How closely are you two working together?”
“Close enough to increase security while decreasing operational costs, which are our jobs,” Rose said, every inch the professional despite her extremely feminine outfit.
“And you?” Grannie said. “How’s school, Jack?”
One of the worst things about family was the way a single phrase or question could take twenty years off your age. Jack experienced a dizzying sense of déjà vu, all the way back to high school, when he’d sat in this kitchen, thinking about his total lack of interest in school and which girl he was currently in trouble with. “It’s fine,” he said.
Rose gave a little snort, and he knew she was thinking the same thing. “What’s her name?”
“There is no girl.”
Keenan shot him a look.
“There’s always a girl,” Rose said to Keenan, who diplomatically avoided answering by inserting a forkful of roast and horseradish into his mouth.
If Jack didn’t know better, he would think Rose was using his reputation to divert attention from her own questionable behavior, except Rose never behaved questionably. She was elected president of the student council and the Latin club and was Homecoming Queen. She planned dances and fundraisers and blitzkrieg trips through Turkey. She never had anything to hide.
“Class is going fine, Grannie, thanks for asking.”
“What are you taking?” Keenan asked.
“It’s a Psych class. I’m working on my final paper.”
“What’s your topic?” Rose asked.
“PTSD treatments from a veteran’s perspective.”
That halted conversation at the table fairly effectively. Grannie, bless her flower-loving, rump-roasting, my-grandkids-do-or-die heart, said, “You don’t have PTSD, Jack.”
“I’ve got something,” he answered as he held out his hand. Everyone stared at the tremor.
“That’s not PTSD,” Grannie said.
Keenan and Rose kept quiet.
“PTSD isn’t always going psychotic and picking people off from a clock tower,” Jack said quietly, thinking of the way his whole body used to shake, the raw nerves in his chest and head that fired every time he had a cup of coffee, the feeling like someone took steel wool to his skin. “It’s subtle, and insidious, and hinders all kinds of veterans in all kinds of ways.”
“Well. You’re getting better,” Grannie said. “When you came home in January you looked awful.”
“Thanks, Gran,” he said over Keenan’s quiet snort, Rose’s giggle.
“And now you look better. Even in the last week or so, your color’s better. Which is good, because you’re all invited to the Garden Club’s reception to welcome the high school’s Hall of Fame athletes. Jamie Hawthorn is the guest of honor.”