His Best Friend's Baby
by Molly O'Keefe
Harlequin Superromance #1385
November 2006
ISBN
0-373-71385-1
| Reviews |
Excerpt |
A man at the crossroads…
Jesse Filmore has a new life waiting for him. There's just one thing he has
to do first--face his painful past in New Springs. This dusty desert town is
filled with bad memories, not to mention the accusing looks of all the people he
once called friends. So as soon as he can sell his mother's house, he's out of
here.
A woman he can't forget…
But then Julia Adams shows up, son in tow. A constant reminder of all the
things he can't have--and even more reason to bury his ghosts here and move on.
But how can Jesse desert his best friend's widow...and the woman he secretly
loves?
Going Back
What if you discovered that all you ever wanted were the things you left behind?
"HIS BEST FRIEND'S BAY
is a wonderful sequel to FAMILY AT STAKE.
Ms. O'Keefe kept up the emotional appeal of the first title, and I loved seeing
how the relationship between Jesse and Rachel unfolded. This one goes on
my keeper shelf alongside the first." -- Romance Junkies 5 BLUE RIBBONS
Top of Page
JESSE FILMORE lifted his fingers from the bar, signaling for another
drink.
"Liquid lunch, huh?" the bartender asked with a nervous laugh as he
poured Jesse another cup of coffee. Black.
"What time is it?" Jesse's voice sounded like something that had been
dragged behind a horse. His whole body felt that way—sore and beat up.
"Twelve-thirty." The bartender leaned against the polished wood bar.
"We don't get a lot of coffee drinkers in here. You want a beer or a
sandwich or something? We've got—"
"What's your name?" Jesse asked. He didn't lift his head, just stared
at the bartender from under his eyebrows. His neck was killing him.
Moving it would send an electric shock through his body.
"My name? Billy. This is my—"
"Billy? I'd like to drink in quiet."
Billy looked stunned, no doubt used to a friendlier sort of drinker
in this crappy sports bar. "Yeah, ah, sure. I'll be down here if you
need me." Billy backed toward the other end of the bar where two guys
shared a pitcher of beer and a plate of nachos while they watched
yesterday's sports recap on the screen in the corner.
When Jesse was a kid, this bar used to be a serious drinking place.
No music. No darts. No pool tables. No damn ESPN. It had been a bar
where men swaggered in after work and stumbled home at midnight, then
fell into bed and slept without dreams.
Jesse wasn't doing any drinking. The pain meds the docs had him on
were bad enough, he didn't need to let go of any more reality.
But a little peace and quiet wasn't too much to ask for.
He'd come here to get out of the sun, stall for time before going to
see what was left of the old house.
He'd come in here because he was a little bit scared.
He blocked out the noise of the television and the buzzing neon
lights and drained half of his coffee mug before setting it down
precisely on the damp circle that stained the napkin. "Holy shit. Jesse
Filmore!"
Jesse turned his head as much as he comfortably could and saw Patrick
Sanderson barreling down on him. In high school, Patrick had tried,
briefly, to keep up with Jesse and his best friend, Mitch Adams. But the
kind of trouble Jesse and Mitch had gotten into wasn't for the faint of
heart and Patrick had definitely been faint of heart.
It was probably for the best. Jesse recalled the night that
Patrick had gone out with them. We got arrested for stealing that
car.
"How have you been, man?" Patrick slapped a clammy hand on Jesse's
back. Jesse fought the urge to shake it off. It wasn't Patrick so
much—though he had never liked the guy—as it was anyone and everyone
getting too close. Even alone in a room he felt crowded. Too many
ghosts.
Jesse shrugged and the gesture apparently satisfied Patrick. "We
haven't seen you in town since...?"
"My mother's funeral," Jesse said carefully, his throat a solid throb
of pain.
"God, right, three years ago. I thought you were still over in Iraq."
Patrick slid onto the stool next to Jesse. "I heard about Mitch.
Terrible news. Just terrible." Patrick's belly strained against his
yellow golf shirt. He ran his hand over his thinning hair. "Agnes and
Ron are all messed up over it."
Jesse didn't smile, didn't in any way encourage this intrusion, but
Patrick didn't seem to need encouragement.
"I'd steer clear of that house if I was you. She'd probably skin you
alive if she saw you." He laughed, as though what he was saying wasn't
the heartbreaking reality of Jesse's life. Luckily, Jesse had grown a
thick skin, from years of letting the casually hurtful and completely
stupid things people said roll off him.
Billy sauntered over and threw a cardboard coaster on the bar in
front of Patrick.
"What can I get you, Pat?"
"Draft and whatever Jesse here is drinking—"
"No thanks," Jesse declined. "I'm good." Billy shot Patrick a look
indicating what he thought of Jesse's manners, before walking away to
get the beer.
"So are you on leave or something?" Patrick asked, turning back to
Jesse.
"Something." Jesse took a big gulp of his coffee, eager to get out of
this place. "I tell you, that war..." Patrick shook his head. "Lots of
good boys dying over there. Mitch Adams, I still can't believe it. He
always seemed to have a horseshoe up his ass or some-thing—luckiest damn
guy. Did you ever see that girl he married?" Patrick whistled through
his teeth and Jesse had the sudden and powerful urge to smash in those
teeth.
"I heard she was gorgeous," Patrick continued.
Time to leave.
Jesse shifted, digging into his back pocket for his wallet.
"Guess old Mitch's luck ran out." Patrick's well of insight was
seemingly bottomless. "The whole town thought it was nuts when he went
into the military after you. He could have done anything, football
scholarship, anything. His mother..." Patrick wrapped his fat fingers
around the pint Billy slid over.
"Will never forgive me. I know." Her name was at the top of a long
list of such people.
I shouldn't have come in here.
Jesse threw a few bucks on the bar, drained his mug then made an
attempt to stand. But his bum knee buckled. Too many hours in the car.
"Whoa there." Patrick laughed, putting up a hand to brace Jesse.
"What'd you have in that mug?"
Jesse's arm jerked instinctually. He stood frozen, knowing exactly
how he could kill Patrick with an elbow to the windpipe or the heel of
his hand to the nose.
Jesse didn't do it, of course, but he was capable of it and that was
somehow worse.
"Hey, man, sorry if talking about Mitch—" Patrick looked nervous but
there was something else in his small eyes, a certain morbid curiosity.
The rumors had made it home.
"Terrible accident."
If Jesse stood here long enough, maybe Patrick would just come right
out and ask what he clearly wanted confirmed. But Jesse didn't have time
to pussyfoot, he had a house to get rid of and a life to get on with, so
he took pity on Patrick.
"I killed him." Jesse said. "I killed Artie McKinley and Dave Mancio.
I put Caleb Gomez in the hospital. And I watched Mitch Adams burn up in
his helicopter." He patted Patrick on the back, like the good friend
Patrick had always wished him to be, and limped away.
Mitch ghost dogged Jesse out the door. The bright sunshine blinded
him. Jesse blinked and gave himself a second to adjust before tackling
the steps down to the asphalt parking lot.
A hot wind blew down from the mountains, carrying the smell of tar
and sun-warmed grass. The scent of the southern California desert
reminded him all too much of being a boy.
He'd grown up in this town on the edge of nowhere, and if it weren't
for the damn house his mother left to him in her will, he would never
have returned. The war had kept him occupied for three years, but now,
thanks to the discharge papers, he could no longer ignore this little
obligation.
All he had to do was get rid of the house and he could leave. Chris
Barnhardt, a buddy from before the war, waited for him in San Diego with
more construction work than he could handle and an interesting
proposition that included the word partner.
If Jesse were a smart man, something he'd never claimed to be—he'd be
halfway down Highway 101 on his way to the rest of his life. A life he
could taste like clean, cold water after years choking on dust in the
desert.
Instead he was in New Springs. Just him, more dust, the dumb dog he
couldn't get rid of and the ghosts.
The bright spot of reflection bounced off his Jeep's windshield
sitting the corner of the parking lot. A small woman stood next to the
vehicle. Her brown hair blew out behind her like a flag. Like a warning.
He lurched to a stop.
Not this, Jesse thought, panic kick-starting his heart. Not
her.
She pushed away from the Jeep and Jesse forced one foot in front of
the other, inching his way toward his sister.
She had a lot of nerve. A lot of goddamned nerve tracking him down
this way, ambushing him when he hadn't been in town long enough to get
his bearings.
"Hello, Jesse." Rachel took a few steps closer. He tried not to
notice the chin she thrust out as though she were ready for whatever he
might throw at her.
It was exactly the way he remembered her. Even at thirty-four, she
still looked like that eighteen-year-old girl who'd been so damn fired
up to take on the world.
"How'd you know I was here?"
"You know small-town gossip. Mac and I got word the second you drove
into town." She tried to laugh, but it came out all wrong. Broken in all
the important places.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and he was struck by how
short she was. How fragile she appeared. He almost laughed as he thought
it. Fragile? Rachel? As a boy he'd believed she was the biggest,
tallest, strongest thing on earth.
But now she didn't even come up to his shoulder and he could easily
snap her in two.
He never figured his perspective would change.
Top of Page
|
