Page 38 of Lightning in a Mason Jar

“Of course,” he said simply.

She angled back to study his face as the wind rustled the branches overhead, releasing a shower of pine needles. “I’ve mentioned my crummy childhood before. But one of the positive side effects from that time? I learned young how to read people. If an adult wasn’t going to protect me, I had to do that for myself. All of those instincts tell me there’s something more going on in that handsome head of yours.”

“Handsome, huh,” he said, deflecting.

She tapped a finger along his forehead. “Don’t hold back because I was hyperventilating a few minutes ago. Sometimes the best way to pull yourself back together is to help somebody else.”

He mulled over her words, not sure if she was right or not, but knowing that at the very least she needed a distraction. If opening up one of his more painful boxes would help her get through the next twenty minutes, then so be it. “Remember when I told you I served in the army, as a military police officer?”

“The scorpions in the boots,” she said with a snort of disgust. “How could I forget that?”

“Fair point,” he said, appreciating her dark humor. Although he suspected she used it as a defense mechanism, like with reading the room. Still, there was no defense against the pain of his most harrowing memory. “My last year in the military, I was guarding a group of incoming refugees in a hangar. A random shooter opened fire. Seven people died, two of them children.”

Relating the facts in news-headline style didn’t begin to mitigate the horror of what he’d experienced. But it was the only way he knew how to share a scene that would haunt him forever.

“Martin, how horrible.” She rested a comforting palm on his stomach, and he quickly clasped his hand over hers.

“It was. I know that I did everything I could.” The official reports on the incident had said as much. His superior officer had underscored that fact, as had two other MPs who’d been there with him. “That doesn’t stop me from hating myself for not being able to do more. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Like how I blame myself for Winnie’s death. Because I fear it wasn’t an accident but that she killed herself over losing Uncle Russell. Every day I wonder what I could have done to stop her.”

He turned to look at her, seeing the loss and guilt in her eyes. Logical or not, that emotional burden was real. “Very much like that.”

A flurry of doves took flight from the trees, drawing her gaze skyward. “It’s just so tough when everywhere I look there are so many memories.”

Silence settled between them, weighted down by grief with nowhere to go. He’d come to this town to give himself distance from his nightmares, but for her, that meant leaving Bent Oak. What a time to realize he would miss her, more than he could have imagined when he’d torn off that warning ticket for illegal fishing.

She rubbed her finger just above her lips, where she’d smudged the menthol. “Do you think the body is Gia’s brother-in-law?”

“Yeah,” he said heavily. “I do.”

If so, he needed to know if the damage to his skull had been caused by rocks or by a human.

1978

Attending Russell’s races had taken on a different flavor for me now that I’d ridden in the passenger seat of his Chevelle. As he fishtailed around a curve, I felt the momentum in my stomach. The excitement in my veins.

And an awakened desire that, before meeting Russell, I had thought I’d lost.

Then my breath hitched until I grew dizzy as one car after another came within inches of scraping his. My hands clenched in fists until my dime-store mood ring cut into my finger, until finally he powered past another vehicle to cross the finish line. The checkered flag swooped through the air to declare his victory.

Attending the race this evening marked another first, in that I’d come alone. Libby and Keith had an end-of-the-school-year function—I’d loaned her my car since she’d baked two dozen cupcakes. Not even Russell’s grandmother had shown up for the race, which was unusual for her, but then Annette had been burning the candle at both ends lately.

This past week, I’d even manned the library’s front desk for her while she drove across the state to help launch a new women’s shelter. I envied her energy and her passion that seemed undimmed by age as she approached eighty years old.

I also admired her. Her opinion mattered to me. Annette hadn’t acknowledged the shift in my friendship with Russell to something more, and I wondered what she thought. Or had she been too busy to notice?

There was no denying, the picnic last week marked a change for us, a freedom to stop tiptoeing around the fact that we wanted to spendmore time together. No more making up excuses to attend the same events.

A roar from the track drew my attention back as Russell finished his victory lap and slid the car into a showboating stop in front of the stands. The Chevelle sported a hefty amount of mud and a fresh dent on the right quarter panel, but Russell’s face shone with pure joy.

Hands in the air, I waved and cheered, my mood ring turning an excited yellow. I dodged through the crowd, past the Tyler family and others from the paper mill on my way toward the winner’s circle. Breaking through the last layer—who knew Bent Oak boasted this many citizens?—I landed a prime spot to see Russell hold his trophy over his head.

Sweat streaked his temples, and his golden-brown eyes glowed. He made a slow spin to face everyone shouting their congratulations, only to pause when his gaze landed on me. I lifted my arms again, waving and whooping it up like I’d never done before. Unladylike, right? I didn’t care.

He extended a hand.

I pointed to my chest, mouthingWho me?

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