The Chance (Thunder Point #4)(28)

“Steak soup?” he asked hopefully.

“You’re getting that look again,” she teased. “I’ll make it for you on the next really good soup day.”

“I love soup days,” he said. In fact, he loved it all—her couch, her soup, her sweet body, her passion, the sound of her voice, the blue of her eyes...

She dished everything up, tossing the disposable containers in the trash in the garage, hiding them from view. And while they ate, she talked about food, about how she had lived for those days her mother came home from work early and spent a few hours in the kitchen, preparing her favorite meals. Laine loved to sit on one of the stools at the kitchen counter and watch her mother prepare food. That’s when they had their best talks about cooking, school, friends, plans, boys... Anything from karate to horses to colleges. It was never planned. In fact, there were times her mother had canceled evening plans because her meal was more important, just as there were times everyone else in the family was busy—but that didn’t deter her. She made the meal, robust enough to feed as many as showed up, even if she had to eat it alone and refrigerate the rest. She loved the aromas and the science of it. The work and the flavors relaxed her.

“She was a plastic surgeon,” Laine told him. “She did wonderful work and was completely dedicated. By the time I was twelve and she was fifty, she had cut back on her hours somewhat. She didn’t want to miss our adolescence. She loved her work, but she said that there was lots of time to work. She wanted to see our plays and games and meets and competitions. She wanted to be around when we were struggling with our choices, like colleges and professions. And thank God, because Senior had a one-track mind. We were both supposed to be doctors. Period.”

“But that’s not the way you went,” Eric said.

She shook her head. “And then to further upset him, I didn’t choose a career as an attorney after a degree in criminal justice. I wanted to catch crooks. He’s very disappointed in me. My whole life he always said, ‘Good job, Pax,’ and ‘Laine, not like that—like this!’”

“He’s a fool,” Eric said.

“But you’re a crook!” she said, clearly baiting him. “And look—I caught you.”

“Nah, I never wanted to take from people or hurt anyone. I was just a self-indulgent idiot. It’s a lot harder to recover from being an idiot than from being a crook. I deserved what I got, but I was just stupid. Not evil. Have you been around some evil?”

“Some. A lot more idiots...”

“Hopefully I’ve learned. I take it your mother was encouraging.”

“She was. She loved the idea of what I was doing. It scared her, but she loved it. And she loved Pax’s decision to go to medical school just as much. She had very few vetoes in her. She was so supportive, but more important, she was interested. She was fascinated.”

“And you lost her....”

Her chin dropped. She put down her fork. She nodded solemnly. “Pancreatic cancer, the devil. She had very few symptoms—some heartburn, an occasional pain. She didn’t pay too much attention since her life was hectic and stressed, and don’t kid yourself, standing in an operating room isn’t easy work. Then she passed out at work, had a battery of tests.... She told herself they were ruling out the gallbladder, but the diagnosis was advanced cancer with metastasis to other organs and bones. We were right up against the end. Of course, we tried everything, but she slipped away from us very quickly. And, as is often the case, the treatment appeared worse than the disease and she stopped. She said ‘enough!’”

Laine gave a huff of sad laughter and said, “Right up to the very last weeks she wanted me to tell her FBI stories. She loved them.”

“So you told her?” he said, smiling.

“She’s my mother!” she said. “I told her anything she wanted. Not just my experiences, but cases I was peripherally involved in, just the drama and chaos and hilarity of it all. Very entertaining stuff.” She picked up her fork and smiled again.

“Maybe someday you’ll tell me stories.”

She put a bite of Crab Louie into her mouth. “When I get your security clearance.”

* * *

A few hours later, Laine was gasping, panting, sighing in Eric’s arms. “Oh, God,” she said in a weak breath. “Have you always been this good at sex?”

He kissed her forehead, her nose, her chin. “I think maybe I’ve been underappreciated. Or it’s you and you just think it’s me. That’s more likely.”

“I can’t even describe what you...”

When she didn’t finish he said, “You make me feel that, too. Be careful, Laine. You could be stuck with me longer than you want.”

“Just do it again,” she said.

“It’s late.”

“I let you nap. It’s only sleep....”

“Oh, man,” he whispered. “Oh, man...”

* * *

Eric tried to keep his mind focused on his work and his hands busy, but his thoughts strayed to Laine at all hours of the day. He felt like a fifteen-year-old boy who’d just discovered girls. He had to work at keeping dopey song lyrics from passing his lips. And it wasn’t easy, which only reminded him how totally uncool he was.

Neither were his hours easy. Until he began seeing Laine, he hadn’t minded making sure that the service station opened early and stayed open late, tow truck on call 24/7. Now he had to do two important things—hire one more person immediately and adjust the schedule to make sure he had three nights off a week. Justin, greedy for hours, was more than happy to work until 11:00 p.m., but Eric wasn’t about to leave a minor in charge alone so late. It was a safe town and there was always a deputy somewhere nearby, but it was too much responsibility. He usually got one of the old boys—Norm or Howie—to stay with Justin when he worked late. Eric didn’t mind manning the pumps himself but if someone else did that he could concentrate on mechanics or body work.