Texas Wedding. Nancy Thompson Robards
to joke that there was nothing like a brush with death to make a man feel truly alive. But tying a man like Shane to a desk gave him too much time to think. That’s when he fell apart.
He smirked at the absurdity of his thought. They were just a bunch of smart alecks and he shouldn’t give them the satisfaction of responding. His reaction proved he was bone tired. This outing would clear his head, reset his mind.
With temperatures in the mid-seventies, fall was already making its presence known. Even though it was still technically summer—the equinox was two weeks away—the punishing heat of summer had given way to mild days and nights that were downright cool.
Shane drew in a breath through his nose, expecting to smell a loamy scent, autumn’s calling card—it was a reflex whenever he thought of his favorite time of year—but instead, he was tantalized by the aroma of A Taste of Celebration.
His stomach growled in response. The distraction—or reminder that perhaps he and this place might reach common ground through the food—helped him reframe and redirect his thinking.
So what if the job was boring? His objective was to serve out his MOUT duty and get the hell out of Dodge...or Celebration, as the case may be. What lay on the other side of construction hell was a plum European tour where he intended to exorcise the demons that had haunted him far too long.
In the meantime, he needed to get a hold of himself and calm the monkey mind that was wearing him down. “Monkey mind” was what his mother had called it way back when he’d been prone to similar restlessness as a boy, when his mind jumped from notion to notion as a monkey swings from tree branch to tree branch.
He swiped a hand over his eyes as if the gesture could scrub away the recollection. But his mother’s sweet smiling face was freshly imprinted on his mind. Memories like this were landmines that he preferred to avoid. He blew out a breath and looked around for something to refocus on.
The possibility of running into AJ again. That should be enough to grab the attention of any red-blooded man, he thought as he walked. And thinking of her did make him feel marginally better.
So, with seeing her to anticipate, what the hell was wrong with him? Feeling of loss like this hadn’t hit him this hard in twenty years. Maybe it was the impending anniversary.
Twenty years. Wow. It seems like yesterday.
After the explosion that had killed his family, he’d learned to shut down his thoughts when the mind apes got restless. He knew from experience if you loved too deeply you got hurt; if you dwelled on the hurt it ended up eating you alive. So, he’d become a specialist at isolating the enemy emotion, neutralizing it so that he didn’t have to give it another thought.
Shane had become an expert at feeling nothing. It made him a damn good soldier. Wasn’t that all that mattered, since he had nothing else to live for?
He’d been eighteen years old when he’d lost his family—his mother, father, sister and brother. Gone. In the snap of a finger, they were gone and his world was shattered beyond repair.
Why am I alive? Why did they have to die? Maybe if I hadn’t stayed behind in Italy?
In the first few years, he’d asked himself these questions nearly every day, until it had gotten to the point where the what-ifs had threatened to bury him. That’s when he’d to lock it all away.
Why, all of a sudden, were the ghosts he’d so carefully sequestered haunting him again?
As he continued his journey up the tree-shaded sidewalk toward the square, he glanced at the small clapboard houses that lined the walk. His mood darkened with each well-manicured lawn he passed. After several tours of the Middle East and living in government bachelor digs when he was in the States, it was no wonder this homey little town was bringing up issues. It reminded him so much of his childhood.
Fort Hood was just far enough away that it was more practical for him to stay in a rent-by-the-week efficiency. It wasn’t much, but at least it was closer to the construction site than commuting from the base.
This assignment was only temporary, he reminded himself. He’d be out of here soon enough. Then came Europe. And after that...he’d wait and see what life and the U.S. Army dictated.
In the meantime, distant strains of country music and aromas of delicious food beckoned him. His stomach growled again. Starving, he inhaled deeply, trying to discern among the mélange of inviting scents if there was a grilled burger in his near future.
It smelled promising.
As Shane closed the distance between his appetite and the town’s offerings, the sound of a bouncing basketball grabbed his attention. In the driveway of a two-story brick house, two boys were engaged in a game of Horse. The sound of a blaring car horn made one of them miss the basket. A mangy looking mixed-breed dog darted across the sidewalk, having narrowly dodged the honking car. Shane watched as the mutt, who seemed unfazed by his near brush with death, loped up to the boys, barking and dancing around them, licking their faces and wiggling in delight.
“Hey! You’d better put a leash on your furry friend,” Shane called to the boys. They froze, ceasing their whoops and giggles, staring at him warily as if they’d just noticed him. “He almost got hit by that car.”
The boys said nothing. They just stood there, the dog in between them and the stranger.
Shane didn’t mean to scare them. See, that was one of the things he hated most about small towns like Celebration. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone was accounted for...part of a family or at least the fabric of the community. It was just like where he grew up.
The boys didn’t answer, so he kept walking, hoping they would heed his suggestion to curb their pet. Loss hit hard when you lived in a sheltered world that fostered a false sense of immortality. By the time he reached the next driveway, the whoops of laughter and barking began again.
In the distance, he saw the town square, a park dotted with white tents. The source of the delicious aromas, he suspected. He waited for a couple of cars to pass before making his way across Main Street.
Closer to the square, the street had been blocked off with large traffic barriers to allow for free-flowing pedestrian traffic. It appeared that the entire town of 1,288 had turned out for the food fest and that everyone was here milling about.
Did the square have room for 1,289?
Shane bought his ticket and entered the fray. The first booth he came to was a restaurant called Quiche Me Quick. They offered a sampling of quiches.
Quiche?
He hesitated. But since the samples were cut into small pieces and he could take it and eat while he kept walking, he grabbed a plate and did just that.
In fact, he walked right past the next booth. Petite Four, was offering an array of bite-size cakes that were covered in shiny, pastel-colored icing and decorated to look like little presents. Too sweet for an empty stomach. The sight of them made his teeth hurt.
The third booth was even less promising. It was Deloris’s Delicacies, offering what looked like fluffy pink icing that smelled like fish. As if the appearance wasn’t unappealing enough, the smell nearly did him in.
Judging by the first few booths, it looked like the festival was about froufrou food; he craved something substantial. He inhaled again to make sure the delicious smell of something cooking on the grill hadn’t been a sensory mirage. It was still there. It made his mouth water.
“Hi! I’m Deloris. Care to try my salmon mousse?” A petite, middle-age woman, who looked like she would be more at home in a Junior League meeting than hawking fishy fluff, held out a white plastic spoon heaped with the unappetizing stuff. “I made it myself. When I bring it to parties everyone just goes wild over it and asks me for the recipe. They always say, ‘Deloris, you should go into business and sell that mousse of yours.’ So I did. Here, hon, have some.”
She seemed so proud. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her feelings. He wasn’t picky, but the fact