Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(90)

“You deserve it, Mel.”

“He asked me to do something that has me a little tense—he’s going to Sacramento for his youngest sister’s birthday—a gathering of the whole family. And he wants me to go.”

“Why would that make you tense? You sprung me on him and it went very well. He’s crazy about me,” she added with a laugh.

“I’m not worried that they won’t like me. I’m worried they might make more of this than there is.”

“Ah,” Joey said. “Holding back a little?”

“Not on purpose,” she answered. “For some reason I just can’t stop feeling that I’m married to someone else.”

“Oh, Mel—go! That other guy—the one you still feel married to? He’s not going to get in the way of this. In fact, if he’s watching, he’s probably glad you have someone special to warm up your nights.”

“If he’s watching,” she said, “I’m blushing.”

Jack convinced her. All the way to Sacramento, she was nervous as a cat. “I just don’t want your family to think we’re in a serious relationship.”

“Aren’t we?” he asked her. “Aren’t you?”

“You know there’s no one else in my life,” she said. “I’m completely monogamous. I just need time…You know…”

“Man,” he said, laughing. “This figures.”

“What?”

“All those years I made sure the woman I was seeing at the time knew I couldn’t be tied down…There are women out there, Mel, who would think I’m getting just what I deserve right now.”

“You know what I mean. It’s just my issues…”

“I’m waiting out the issues. And I’m serious about that.”

“You’re very patient with me, Jack. And I appreciate it. I just don’t want them to get the wrong idea. And we will sleep in separate bedrooms at your dad’s.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m over forty years old. I sleep with you every night. I told my dad that one bedroom would be just fine.”

She sighed heavily. Nervously. “Okay then. But we’re not doing it at your dad’s.”

And he laughed at her.

It was so much hotter in Sacramento in July than in Virgin River. Hotter even than L.A. in July—Sacramento was located on an inland valley and had no ocean breezes to cool the land.

Sam Sheridan still lived in the house where he’d raised his five children—a spacious ranch-style home in the suburbs with a lush yard, pool and a big kitchen. When Mel met him, she looked into the eyes of an older version of Jack—a man of the same height and girth with thick, steel-gray hair, a big smile and a powerful handshake. Jack and Sam embraced like brothers, so happy to be together. The three of them had a nice evening with steak cooked on the backyard barbecue and red wine. The men insisted on cleaning up the dishes, so Mel took her glass of wine and wandered around the house a little bit. She found herself in what passed as Sam’s study, or office or bragging room. There was a desk, a TV, computer, bookshelves and wall upon wall of pictures and awards. All his daughters in their wedding dresses, all his granddaughters, ranging in age from five to eighteen, but the thing she hadn’t given any thought to at all were the pictures she would see of Jack. Pictures she had never seen around Jack’s room—a marine wearing rows of ribbons. Jack and his various squads and platoons, Jack and his parents, Jack and Generals. Jack and the guys who came to Virgin River for their Semper Fi reunions. And cases of medals. She didn’t know much about military awards, but there was no mistaking three purple hearts and silver and bronze stars.

She reached out and gently ran her fingers over the glass case that held the medals. Sam came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “He’s a hero,” he said softly. “Many times over.”

She looked over her shoulder at Sam. “You’d never know that from talking to him,”

she said.

“Oh, I know.” He laughed. “He’s modest.”

“Dad,” Jack said, coming into the room, drying a wine glass with a dish towel. “I told you to put all that shit away.”

“Hah,” Sam said, just ignoring his son, turning his back on him. “This one is from Desert Storm,” he told Mel. “And this—Bosnia. There were downed fighter pilots—

Jack and his unit went into a hot zone and pulled them out. He got shot in Afghanistan, but still managed to get his squad out of danger. And this one—the latest Iraq conflict—he saved six men.”

“Dad…”

“Your dishes done, son?” he asked without turning around, dismissing Jack. Mel looked up at Sam. “Do you think this bothers him? The memories?”

“Oh, I’m sure some of them do. But it never bothered him enough to keep him from going back, time and again. They might’ve sent him anyway, but every bit of training and fighting—he volunteered. This boy has been awarded medals by many generals and one president. He was the marines’ best—and I’m damn proud of him. He won’t keep the medals with him. He’d put ’em in storage or something. I have to keep them here to keep them safe.”

“He’s not proud of this?” she asked.