Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [96]
As the rotors wound down, Deering felt the reluctance that had kept him from calling home these past weeks. Before he stepped down, he reached to the left seat and gathered up a florist’s box. In the breast pocket of his flight suit rested a velvet jewel case. This morning when he’d dropped Clare off he’d hitched a ride into the town of Jackson.
With a slam of the Huey’s door, he started across the grass. Before he’d gone ten steps, he saw Georgia at the edge of their yard, inside the low, wrought iron fence. Her white terry bathrobe was belted around her, that glorious copper hair curling over her shoulders.
Taking a breath of the wonderfully clear air, Deering waved.
Usually she jumped the knee-high gate, rushed across the street to the landing field, and launched herself at his neck. This morning, she stood still at his approach.
Deering came through the gate and proffered the box. He encircled Georgia with his other arm and aimed a kiss. She turned her head and his lips brushed her cheek.
“Flowers?” she asked flatly.
“Yeah, I know how much you like ‘em in the garden . . . “
Her bright head was down and she busied herself with the satin ribbon. The florist had said that long-stemmed red roses were the most romantic statement a man could make. He wished with all his might that he could come home clean instead of with this dirty feeling.
“I’ll put these in water.” Georgia headed for the house and he had no choice but to follow.
“Hon,” he tried. She was already inside the kitchen, rummaging beneath the counter for the vase he’d sent her roses in twenty years ago. Cheap florist’s stock, no blown glass, she’d kept it all these years. He realized, shamefaced, that he’d never repeated the gesture.
Georgia filled the vase, wiped it with a dishtowel and set it on the wooden table. It rocked, reminding him that he’d promised to fix that shaky leg.
She arranged the roses, cutting them to different lengths with a crosswise knife cut. This time of year, she usually had that vase full of blooms from her garden. Her task complete, she said, “I was just going to make myself some tea.” She sounded as though he were a guest in his own kitchen.
“Tea sounds good.”
Georgia brought out orange pekoe. Deering wondered what had happened to the herb blend she usually liked. With her back to him, she put on the kettle and looked out the window.
He reached to his pocket for the jewel box. Georgia was October born, the opal birthstone, and he’d found a simple gold band set with a glowing bluish-purple cabochon.
He held out the velvet case. Georgia took it.
The teakettle whistled.
She set the case on the counter and removed the pot from the burner. Steam rose from the tea, wafting a sharp aroma. Georgia reached for a cup, stirred and pulled the tea bag onto a saucer. He wondered where his cup was.
“Aren’t you going to . . .?”
She rediscovered the jewel box and slowly opened the lid.
Now, she’d smile and throw her arms around his neck.
Georgia’s mouth twisted. “It’s funny.” She set the case down without removing the ring. “I read in a magazine last week that when your man shows up with flowers and gifts, he’s guilty of something.”
Deering felt as though he stood in a cold draft. “You believe everything you read?” He took her shoulders in his hands. Even through the bulky robe, she felt as though she’d lost some weight.
Georgia backed until the kitchen sink stopped her. “I didn’t have to read about this. Anna convinced me to come up to West Yellowstone and find you. That nice Mr. Karrabotsos let me wait at the airport in the middle of the night until you finally showed up.”
No wonder Karrabotsos knew what Georgia looked like. “So, why didn’t I see you there?”
Georgia reached to one of the roses and plucked off the top. The petals fluttered to the floor. “You didn’t see me, but you sure saw somebody. You put your arms around that woman, the one from the news photo.”
She ripped off the top of another rose and let the petals