He loved her, he loved her.
She’d known that, in an abstract sense. Like she knew the sun would come up in the morning; like she knew they had to keep running. She’d known there was some feeling there on his part, because no one was that selfless, were they? But she’d doubted. She’d wondered. She’d felt guilty for tying him down.
But he loved her.
“You’re sure in a good mood,” Vicki commented, and when Red glanced over at her, she winked.
Red felt herself blush and turned her attention back to the dough. “I am,” she said, hoping for casual.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain someone, would it?”
When Red snuck another glance, the woman was giving her a sly look. The kind of look women gave one another in movies; it thrilled her to be on the receiving end of it. Made her feel grown up in a way that no calendar date could.
“Mmhm, I thought so,” Vicki said. “Here, hon, we’ll add a little lemon zest over the top.”
The knowledge of Rooster’s love carried her through the next hour – a fleet of balloons tied to her heart, making her buoyant and light in her own skin – as they prepped seven batches of cookies, an iced pound cake, and two loaves of banana bread. When her stomach started to growl audibly, Vicki called a halt to baking and dipped them up bowls of homemade chicken noodle soup from the slow cooker working away on the counter.
“You two are coming to the bake sale tomorrow, right?” Vicki asked, like it was already a given.
Red hesitated, spoon hovering in front of her lips. “I’m not sure.” She and Rooster hadn’t talked about it again, but something about their embrace last night, about sleeping tucked under his chin, had felt like acquiescence. She wanted to go.
She wanted, she realized now, to stay in Farley. At least for a little while. To see if they could find work, and maybe a little house like this. To sit on front porches, and make friends with the neighbors, and not have to worry about anything but getting their grocery store coupons in order every week. All the normal little things that most people found boring or bothersome; those were the things she craved.
Vicki set her spoon down, expression growing serious, and Red felt herself do the same. “Listen,” Vicki said. “I get the impression your boy isn’t the type to appreciate being told that he needs help of some kind. He’s like my Jack that way. And, like Jack, I think he could probably stand to let go of a little of the war he brought back home with him.”
Red swallowed hard, and didn’t say anything.
“I don’t mean anything by it, honey,” Vicki said, reaching forward to lay her hand on Red’s arm. “It happens to the best of them – sometimes I think it’s worst for the best of them. They bottle everything up and try to be strong for their families. But inside, they’re hurting. They’ve seen things they can’t get out of their heads. He’s got the ghost eyes, your Rooster.”
Red nodded, and even that felt like a betrayal.
But Vicki smiled kindly at her. “After the sale tomorrow, there’s going to be a meeting. They’re all a real good bunch of guys. Mostly Vietnam vets, but some Gulf War and Iraq War, too. There’s even old Edgar, who was in the Pacific Theater in ’44.”
Red could see where this was going. “I – I don’t think Rooster would go for that.” She knew he wouldn’t, but there was no sense being rude.
Vicki searched her face a moment, gaze narrowing, and Red thought she could read all the things she was trying to keep to herself. Finally, she nodded and turned her attention back to her soup. “Well, I figured I’d tell you about it. Rooster is of course welcome to stay. All us girls are going out for a quick bite while they meet. The boys usually come down and join us at the diner for dessert, afterward.”
She could envision it: melting milkshakes in old-fashioned glasses, the gentle chiding of friends, low laughter, clink of silverware and a sense of belonging somewhere. Being with people who only cared about what you could contribute to a conversation, not about what you could conjure from thin air.
Red took a deep breath. “I’ll ask him.”
“That’ll be good, sweetie. Eat your soup before it gets cold.”
*
Rooster spent the day laying down new floor and staining it. Red brought him a ham and Swiss sandwich at lunchtime and they sat in companionable silence on the new carriage house porch while he ate it. Every so often she’d let her elbow slide over, and his would echo the movement, and it almost felt like holding hands. Then Vicki called her back to the house, and Rooster drained the last of his Coke and returned to his task.
By six-thirty, the white oak floors gleamed beneath a fresh coat of poly, and Rooster’s arms and shoulders burned pleasantly from exertion. He wiped his face with the scrap of rag in his back pocket and looked up when a man-shaped shadow filled the doorway.
For a moment, an initial flicker of nerves, he thought to reach for the gun he’d hidden in the shaft of his boot. Calculated how long it would take to draw and fire, wondering if the intruder was armed and could beat him to the punch.
But the shadow said, “Hey, it’s just me,” and revealed itself to be Jake, from the garage.
Rooster’s heart pounded painfully, and his fingers twitched, but he nodded. “Hey.”
Jake shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped carefully onto the little square of tile just inside the door, which put him closer than Rooster was comfortable with. “Place is starting to look a lot better.”
“Haven’t done much yet.”
“Still. Those floors were awful.”
“Yeah. Had to replace most of the boards.”
It was awkward. The kind of awkward so oppressive it would have been a relief to turn and take a swing at the guy.
“Okay,” Jake said. “This is awkward.”
“No shit.”
He took a step back and leaned a shoulder in the doorway, which put a few more precious inches between them. “Okay, I was gonna try to come at this a little more gracefully, but I don’t think that’s gonna work. So I’ll just say it.”
Rooster sent him an unimpressed look.
“I’m guessing you know about the VA bake sale tomorrow.”
He gave a sharp nod. “Ruby wants to go.”
“I figured she would if she’s in there helping Vicki.” He chuckled. “I walked through the kitchen on my way out here and got diabetes just being the room with that many cookies.” When Rooster continued to stare at him, he pressed on. “Some of us at the VA are gonna help work the event.”
“Us?”
“I go to meetings.” Jake shrugged. “It’s been a help. Even though I didn’t think it would be.” He lifted his brows, and suddenly Rooster knew what he was getting at. “I used to run a place in Cody, and I just transferred here a week or so again, took over for my uncle. Moving around like that, being displaced…” Another shrug.
Rooster frowned. “Look, I don’t need–”
“There’s a meeting after the sale,” Jake said. “We’d be happy to have you if you felt like it. Just. Think it over, yeah?”
Rooster snorted and glanced away.
“You’re not the only one who got blown up,” Jake tacked on quiet. When Rooster snapped toward him, prepared to see derision, defiance, he found only a soft sort of melancholy. And something truer that he didn’t want to examine too closely. “There’s no shame in talking to others about it.” He turned to go.
“What happened to you?” Rooster asked, and wasn’t sure why.
Jake hesitated, one hand on the doorframe, but thankfully didn’t turn around. He gazed out across the yard, its dappled shadows and willow limbs swaying in the breeze. “Head injury,” he said, flat, like he was reading it off a file. “What about you?”
Rooster didn’t answer, and eventually Jake ducked his head and walked off into the evening.
*