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“What’s in the bags?” He took one from her, apparently possessing at least some gentlemanly tendencies.
“That’s cleaning stuff, obviously not necessary now. This one is groceries.”
“I’ve got food.”
“Not this food.” She took the bag into the kitchen, aware of him limping after her.
“So, what, you’re taking over my life now?”
“Every bit of it, yes.” She put the bag on the counter and started unloading. He was still playing cranky, but his tone didn’t sound quite as bitter as the day before. More progress. “How’s your knee today?”
“Better than ever.”
“Still in pain, huh.”
“I love pain.”
“That’s lucky.” Always the tough guy. Funny how grief affected people so differently. Some closed up, like Jameson. She called those Turtles. Others, like herself, plunged into activity to alleviate in others what they were suffering themselves. She called those Avengers. Then there were Pancakes, utterly flattened by the experience, and Curators, who turned their memories and memorabilia into museums of those they’d lost, and on and on. “Your home exercises going well?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” She didn’t really need to ask. His type would want to get better as quickly as he could. Athletes, military, anyone who depended on his or her body would be driven to stay in the best shape possible and didn’t mind the work it took to get there.
She’d just try not to think about how his body was already in the best shape possible—broad shoulders, flat stomach, long legs, no doubt impressive muscles all over...
Ahem. Kendra had a job to do, and it didn’t entail standing around imagining Jameson Cartwright naked.
“I’ll make you a basic spaghetti sauce. You can eat some, freeze the rest when you’re sick of it. You like to cook?”
“Haven’t done much lately.” He seemed huge in the small kitchen. She’d have to get him sitting on the other side of the counter so she didn’t bump into him every time she moved.
“It’s easy. I’ll show you. You can make this. Anyone can make this.”
She pointed to the ingredients neatly laid out on the counter. “Ground beef, carrots, onions, tomato puree, beef broth and cream. Want to chop onions?”
“Chopping onions will help me come to terms with losing a year of my life, Kendra?”
She gave him another unreturned smile, not surprised by his sarcasm—she’d heard it all—but shocked by the jolt of sympathy. That was a switch. She’d spent her grade school years, coached by her parents, vainly trying to feel sorry for Jameson Cartwright when she didn’t want to, and now she was feeling sorry for him automatically—though she still didn’t want to. “I think you’d be surprised what can help.”
He shrugged. “You’re the expert.”
“That is so true.” Kendra found a cutting board already out on the counter and selected a knife from the magnetic strip next to the sink. She’d spent last night researching ACL surgery and the recovery process. Long and slow, the worst kind of sentence for a man like Jameson. Nine months, on average, to recover normal use of the knee—though many people were never back to 100 percent—and often pain lingered after that. “You know how to chop onions? If you don’t, I’ll show you.”
“I know how.”
“Yeah?” She pointed to the chair by the stretch of counter that doubled as a table. “Have a seat there. I’ll pass you stuff to do.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sat.
“Did you help your mom in the kitchen?” She passed him the board and knife.
“Sometimes.”
“She a good cook?”
“Average.”
Kendra turned back to the sauce ingredients. Yes, she was getting one-word answers, but at least he was answering, and no sarcasm this time. One of her clients had been so depressed, Kendra would show up at their early appointments and pretty much talk to herself.
“My mom was an amazing cook.” She ripped open the red plastic net holding the onions. “Always experimenting with other cuisines. We had Thai food, Indian, Chinese, you name it.”
“Was an amazing cook?” For the first time, his voice lifted to a normal conversational tone.
“Yes.” Kendra put a large onion down on the cutting board in front of him. The news of her parents’ deaths had been pretty big locally. Ken and Sandra Lonergan had been active in the Palos Verdes Estates community and in the schools. She would have expected Jameson to hear somehow, even having been away at college in Chicago. But maybe he didn’t have long catch-up chats with his parents the way Kendra had had with hers. Or maybe he’d heard and forgotten, since it wouldn’t have meant much to his life. Hard to imagine sometimes, since it had pretty much imploded hers. She understood so well when clients said they’d wake up day after day, surprised the sun was still shining. “My mom passed away a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” His words were clearly heartfelt.
“Thank you.” She couldn’t look at him, still found it hard to speak when she talked about the accident. “Chop the onion whatever size you want. Doesn’t really matter.”
“Okay.”
She set about peeling carrots, feeling his eyes on her, her throat still tight. Music would help. Kendra generally liked an uplifting soundtrack around clients to mitigate silences when they occurred and lessen the pressure to produce constant conversation. “Does Mike have any CDs?”
“Yeah, I think in the cabinet under the TV.” He was already on his feet, hobbling into the living room.
Well. Doing something nice for her. Another hint that he was capable of pleasant behavior. Unless he was terrified Kendra was about to do something girlie and horrible, like cry. “Thanks, Jameson.”
“Uh-huh.”
She turned back to her carrots. Baby steps...though it bothered her he was still limping two months after surgery. Maybe it was the nasty jolt he’d given his knee the day before when she was here, but by now he should be able to—
A horrific blast of death metal came over the speakers. Kendra yelled and jumped, then flung herself toward the kitchen door to peer into the living room. He could not be serious.
The music went off. Blessed silence.
“Uh.” Jameson was grinning, crouching in a rather painful-looking position in front of the CD player. “That was not on purpose.”
“I am glad to hear that.” She put her hand to her chest, this time smiling genuinely instead of in polite encouragement. He was ten times more handsome when he wasn’t scowling, though he managed to turn even the grouchy look into an appealing bad-boy aura.
But this...if Kendra didn’t already know her heart was pounding from the scare, she might think he was affecting her. But, um, of course it wasn’t that. “I think they play that music in hell.”
“Wait.” He actually chuckled. “You know this CD?”
“God, no.”
“It’s called Satan’s Soundtrack.” He held up three fingers in a Scout’s-honor pledge. “Not kidding.”
“Nice.” She stepped farther out of the kitchen toward him. “What’s the band called?”
“Flagrant Death Meat.”
Kendra cracked up. “You aren’t serious!”
“I am.” He held up the CD, chuckling.
“That is just too weird.”
Their laughter trailed off. Their gazes held. He stayed crouched. She stayed in the doorway. A dozen yards apart, they might as well have been chest to chest.
Kendra swallowed. Moments of intimacy with her clients could be important. Sometimes they allowed people the safety to talk about something real. All she wanted to do was hurl herself back into the kitchen to escape Jameson and the strong pull he exerted.
He turned abruptly to the TV cabinet. “I’ll find something else.”
“Great, thanks.” Kendra fled to the sink, shaken by her inability to take charge of the moment. She could not back down from a connection that might prove helpful to Jameson. That was the core of her practice—inspiring trust, creating a safe environment into which clients could dump their innermost fears and feelings.
Instead, Kendra had stared at him as if he were a bug pinned to a foam board.
The smooth strains of an entirely different type of music filled the apartment. The Lumineers. Just the right atmosphere.
“Better?” Jameson limped back into the room and took his seat.
“Much, thank you.”
Chopping and peeling sounds filled the kitchen. Kendra took a deep breath, determined to get back on track. “Have you been out of the house since I saw you?”
“‘Go outside and play. Get some fresh air.’” He did a high-voiced mom impression.
Kendra cracked up. “Your mother?”
“That’s her.”
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