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Once in the alley she collapsed on a wooden crate near the wall, and the tears spilled down her cheeks. She appreciated seeing the happier side of adoption, but the encounter with Naomi and Matt still dredged up memories she’d rather keep buried. More than it should. Her emotions regarding the adoption hadn’t been this raw in years. She shouldn’t be sitting here falling apart and feeling as if she’d been run over by a truck when she’d made the right decision.
The back door creaked open, and Emma swiped a hand across her eyes. The lie that she’d come out to get fresh air and the wind blew something into her eye perched on her tongue—she turned expecting to see someone bringing out the garbage or sneaking out for a smoke. Instead there stood Jamie, concern radiating from his gaze.
Those eyes could hypnotize a girl or make her spill every secret she held close.
“You okay?” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I was concerned when the guys were onstage, but you weren’t.”
“I’m fine and dandy.” She flashed him her best I’m-pretending-I’m-on-top-of-the-world smile. “I’m gathering my courage for the next audition.”
She stared him down, and suspected he was trying to decide whether or not to call her bluff. Come on, fold.
“Your eyes give you away.” He stepped closer. When he stood in front of her, his hand cupped her face and his thumb brushed across her skin. “There’s a tear on your cheek.”
She closed her eyes, savoring his touch. The simple comfort of it. It would be so easy to step into his arms, to find reassurance and strength there, and his concerned gaze told her he was more than willing to offer those things.
Instead she leaned away from him and crossed her arms over her chest. She couldn’t do this; she refused to feel anything for him. She had her goals. Her plan mapped out. Nothing would get in her way. Least of all, a man.
He nodded toward the door. “That had to be rough for you. I never knew you gave up a child for adoption.”
She nodded. “He turned seven this week.”
As Jamie sank onto the wooden crate beside her, she could tell he was doing the math in his head. “What were you? Eighteen or nineteen when you had him?”
She nodded, and shoved the memories into the back of her mind before they bubbled over again. “Deciding to give him up for adoption was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I knew there was happiness and joy, the thrill of the new life ahead of them as a family on the other side, but I never saw it until today. It wasn’t real.”
“Seeing you in there hit home for me how hard the decision could be for the birth mother.”
So they’d both learned something. “Rumor around town said when you first contacted Kimberly, it didn’t go well.”
He chuckled, she sensed more out of nervousness than humor. “That’s an understatement. The Titanic’s voyage went smoother.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It hurt at first, but finding out she doesn’t have much to do with Mick, either, helped. I realize now it’s not my problem. It’s hers.” He leaned toward her. “Despite knowing that, every once in a while something happens, and I get kicked in the teeth. Kind of like you did today.”
He understood in a way no one else could. “It’s been weird the past couple of weeks. My son’s been on my mind more lately. I’ve got this funny feeling. I can’t put it into words, but it’s almost like I’m worried something’s wrong.”
“Contact his parents.”
For the first time since she’d given up her child, a person failed to stumble over the phrase.
“Closed adoption, remember?”
“Circumstances change. Deals get renegotiated all the time.”
“I agreed to that condition for good reasons, and those haven’t changed. Coping with a birth mom as an adult has to be hard enough. You discovered that. But as a seven-year-old? I don’t want this being about me and what I need. It has to be about what’s best for my son.”
“It takes a helluva person to realize that.”
She clasped her hands in her lap to keep from picking at her nail polish. “I’m not sure being involved with him is what’s best for me, either. Would it be like trying to eat half a cookie? I’ve never been good at moderation.”
“So you’d work on the issue, get better at it.”
Life had a way of throwing enough hardships that could land a kid on a therapist’s couch without her tossing stuff at her son. That’s what worried her most. “How old were you when you found out you were adopted?”
“I was in third grade. We were studying probability in school. I remember Mrs. Little talking about recessive genes and eye color. She said when two brown-eyed people have children there were three possible outcomes. She drew this table on the board to show us.” His forearms braced on his thighs, he leaned forward, staring straight ahead, his gaze hooded and distant. “I asked what the probability of two blue-eyed people having a brown-eyed child was. Mrs. Little told me that couldn’t happen.”
“Your parents both have blue eyes?”
He nodded. “That’s why I was so sure she was wrong. When I got home, I found out Mrs. Little had called my mom to tell her what happened. That’s when my parents told me I was adopted.”
“How would you have felt if you were seven and someone showed up saying she gave birth to you?”
“I don’t know what I would’ve thought. At that age, all I thought was that the person that had me couldn’t raise me so I got different parents.”
“What about your parents? How would they have felt?”
“That’s a tougher question. They were very supportive when I contacted Kimberly and Mick, but I was eighteen.”
“And by then your relationship was established.”
“Exactly, and I told them searching for my birth mother wouldn’t change that.”
“What about your birth father?”
“Kimberly isn’t even sure who that is.”
Now she’d really stepped in it. She tried to think of what to say, but words failed her.
“Don’t feel bad about asking. It is what it is.”
“I wish I knew what to do. How to shake this odd feeling I’ve had lately.”
“At least call the parents. Explain how you’ve been feeling. Tell them all you want to know is that your son’s okay.”
She’d never considered that option. Once she knew her son was fine, that nothing was wrong, her life could return to normal. Reminders of her child would pop up some days to throw her off stride, but then the ache would recede again. “There’s one problem. Since it was a closed adoption I don’t think the agency will give me any information on the parents.”
“If they won’t, I can help. I’ve gone through that kind of search.”
“You’d do that?”
“Why’s that so hard to believe?”
She thought about his question. Why was it so hard to believe someone would offer to help her? Probably because she wasn’t the type of person everyone rushed to assist. Her family assumed she could take care of herself. After all, she’d held her own growing up with three older brothers. She came from strong stock, and that’s how everyone treated her. “I appreciate the offer.”
She could at least contact the agency to tell them if the adoptive parents expressed interest, she was open to exploring a relationship, as well.
A knock sounded on the door, followed by Luke poking his head outside. “Our next audition’s here.”
She nodded. “I’ll be right there.”
When the door closed again, she turned to Jamie, wanting to say something to thank him for his unexpected kindness, but she couldn’t find the words. What he’d done by listening and really hearing her had helped her process what she’d been feeling.
When was the last time anyone other than Avery had really listened to her? The past two years it seemed as if when anyone called or stopped by to chat it was because they needed something. Her dad called when he ran out of meals in the freezer. Her grandparents, excluding her Grandpa G, called when they needed a prescription picked up or a ride to a doctor’s appointment. Her brothers called, well, never.
But no one other than her best friend called to just talk or to see how she was doing.
Until Jamie.
Before she could change her mind, she jumped up and wrapped her arms around him for a quick hug. “Thanks for everything. For listening.”
Then she darted for the door and the safety of the restaurant.
* * *
WHEN JAMIE WALKED back inside he watched Emma dash across the restaurant, his body still humming from having hers pressed up against him. His gaze locked on the sway of her hips and he smiled. Who’d have guessed cowboy boots could put the same special something into a woman’s walk that high heels did? He was accustomed to women in designer jeans and expensive stilettos, but he was gaining a new appreciation for a simple pair of Wranglers and boots. They made a woman look real, accessible and damn fine.
“You ready?” Mick asked when Jamie joined him behind the bar.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Jamie pulled his gaze away from Emma. “Is there anything else we need to go over before the dinner rush hits?”
“It still gets pretty crazy in here on a weekend night, but don’t worry. Usually no one’s in a big hurry, especially when we’ve got a band. They come for dinner and to spend time with family and friends. Then they hang around to listen to music and dance.” Mick nodded toward the stage. “I sure hope Emma can find someone to take Molly’s place. All that girl’s ever wanted to do was sing country music.”
“You two gonna stand here jawin’ all afternoon, or can one of you deal with the liquor delivery out back?” Gene said as he stormed out of the kitchen.
“I never should have made you day manager. You always were the power-hungry type,” Mick joked.
“Fine. It’s not my business that’ll suffer when we run out of whiskey.” Then Gene turned and headed back through the swinging double doors.
“Come on, Jamie. I’ll check the order, and you can do the heavy lifting.”
The rest of the afternoon went faster than Jamie expected, and then the dinner rush hit. After a couple of hours he felt as though he’d met or gotten reacquainted with all of Estes Park’s eight thousand residents while manning the bar. Jamie flexed his hand, stretching out the tight muscles. He’d been amazed how much the repeated motion of picking up glasses had worked his hand, and except for the one dropped glass, he’d done well.
But his hand wasn’t the only thought plaguing him tonight. His mind kept wandering back to Emma. Instead of leaving after her auditions, she joined a couple of girlfriends at a table that always managed to stay within his sight no matter how many people crowded around the bar.
As Jamie handed another patron his beer, Mick’s cell phone rang. When his grandfather ended the call a few seconds later, his face lined with concern, he turned to Jamie. “That was tonight’s band. Their truck broke down. They won’t be here for at least an hour.” Mick glanced around the crowded restaurant. “The natives are getting restless, which means they could start leaving. Which means their money walks out with them. How about you play something to settle ’em down until the band gets here?”
Jamie stared at his grandfather and thought the man had lost his mind. Had he forgotten about his hand? He leaned closer so the customers clustered around the bar wouldn’t hear. “I’m not ready for that. I dropped a glass today because my hand cramped up.”
“Hell, that happens to everyone.”
“Even if I felt comfortable playing, my music isn’t the stuff this crowd wants to hear. There would be a stampede for the door.”
“Then don’t play your fancy fiddle. Use the karaoke machine. You got a good voice.” When Jamie opened his mouth to object, his grandfather continued, “And before you start saying you don’t know how to sing any country-western songs, I heard you singing along to the Willie Nelson songs Gene played in the kitchen this afternoon. Sing one of those.”
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