She caught the tightening of his lips before he turned away. “I don’t mind,” he said. “If you want a glass of wine. It won’t bother me.”
“No,” she said lightly. “I’ve grown fond of tea since moving here. Cracks me up that they drink it iced even in the dead of winter.”
“Staple of the South,” he said, pulling a large plastic pitcher with a lid out of the bag. “Usually it’s black tea. I have this friend from China who told me that green tea has healing properties. It also clears away some of the fogginess from the drugs.”
“I’ve heard that, too.” She’d forgotten about his injuries. Except for a small limp, he didn’t seem to be in much pain. But she’d met plenty of marines and she knew how tough they were. If he had to take drugs, the injuries were severe. The journalist in her wanted to know specifics, but it would wait.
“Before we eat, would you like to see the house? Actually, most of it is my uncle Todd’s taste. But I have a few touches here and there.”
“I like the stonework on the outside mixed with the pale brick. It blends into the rocky hills behind the house.”
“Yes, that was one of his ideas—for it to blend into the landscape. Though, I think it’s kind of fun that he added a Gothic touch with some of the windows and the roof alignment.
“Did you know my uncle? I mean, you’ve been gone awhile, but before?”
“I didn’t know him. I probably heard his name around town, but I wasn’t much interested in the newspaper when I was a kid. And some might say I was a little self-absorbed back then. I like to say, I was a teenager.”
They laughed.
She took him through the family area where Harley plopped down on her sofa. The television was on Animal Planet, which seemed to be the dog’s favorite along with anything on PBS.
He smiled. “She’s made herself at home there.”
“Oh, that couch is hers. I even had them put extra down in it and then had that wrapped in plastic and an outdoor fabric. Great Danes have joint and bone aches most of their lives. I wanted Harley to have a soft place to rest. Just a minute, I need to change the channel for her.”
Picking up the remote, she set it on one of the PBS Nova specials. Harley grunted her agreement.
She’d learned about the dog’s television preferences earlier in the day when she’d sat with her at her former home. If Macy tried to watch a channel Harley didn’t like, the dog would voice her displeasure.
Not that she was spoiled or anything.
The house was a Texas T shape. The various hallways fed into the center area, which was the main entertaining space. “Down that hall are two bedrooms. There’s another guest bedroom down that hall—” she pointed “—and the master bedroom and study are down that hall,” she said.
It didn’t seem appropriate to take him to the bedrooms. “There’s a loft upstairs with two more bedrooms. But it isn’t really worth the trip up. Let me show you the study. There are a lot of Civil War antiques in there. My uncle was a collector.” The rest of the house had been furnished in rich warm tone-on-tone colors. It was a comfortable place to relax at the end of the day. The only room that was slightly feminine was the master bedroom and bathroom, which Macy had decorated.
Macy opened the door to the study and smiled when Blake muttered, “Woooee. This is a museum.”
His eyes traveled over the glass cases filled with small items and guns from various Civil War battles.
She’d had the estate appraised and this room alone was worth a couple of million. The study had been outfitted with special equipment that would protect it from fire and anything else Mother Nature might throw at it. The whole house was a bunker of sorts, concrete surrounded by stone. The windows could withstand an F-5 tornado. That was good because in this part of the country hurricanes and tornados happened at least once or twice a year.
“I don’t have the heart to auction off these things. Other than the newspaper, this was my uncle Todd’s only passion. I can feel his spirit in here, and I just can’t let go of his stuff.”
Blake blew out a whistle. “I’m no expert, but even I know this is one incredible collection. There are people who’d pay big money for it, but I understand how you feel. My dad collected baseball caps and cards. We still have an entire wall of his hats, some are from teams that no longer exist, and a few are hats his dad had given to him. There’s an original Yankees cap in the bunch, but my mom hides that one when her friends come over.
“It was never even a question if we’d keep them. And I feel the same way about them, as you do.”
She smiled. “Sounds like you really loved your dad.”
Flipping off the light switch, he followed her out the door and to the kitchen.
“Has the interview started?” His voice had changed and he sounded as if he suspected her of trying to get him to talk about his past.
“No. Mere curiosity. I thought I’d feed you before grilling you.” She winked at him.
“Then, yes. My dad was a hero to my brother and me. He’s the reason I went into the military, albeit he was air force. He was a pilot until he decided to retire and help Mom with the feed store. He was a tough old goat, and my brother and I didn’t get away with much when we were kids.”
“I met your mom when I first arrived. I had to get a lawn mower and other gardening tools.”
He chuckled.
She served up the bowls of stew. “Your mother found me frowning as I checked out the lawn mowers. She dug around in her pockets and handed me a card that had the number of a teenager who does yards. Her exact words were, ‘He’s a good kid. For four acres it’ll be about a hundred dollars a week. If he tries to charge you more, tell him I’ll knock him upside the head.’”
Blake laughed. “Yep, that’s my mom.”
“I loved her. She was one of the few people who was genuinely kind to me. I’d heard Texans are a friendly bunch. And, okay, everyone has been nice to my face. But I get the strangest looks. And as I mentioned earlier, they haven’t been exactly welcoming.”
He carried both of the bowls to the other end of the counter where there were stools and place settings. “Like I said earlier, soon someone will move to town and then you’ll be one of the gang. Just give them more time.”
She smiled. “My friend Cherie told me the same thing. I’m not sure why it bothers me so much. I never knew any of my neighbors when I lived in New York, Paris or anywhere in the Middle East. Most of the time I lived out of hotels.”
At the mention of hotels, his jaw tightened. She’d read what she could find on him, and knew that he’d been in Africa when he sustained his injuries. He was protecting a visiting American ambassador there. He and most of his men were hit by enemy fire, but they’d saved the ambassador and other dignitaries that day. The soldiers had earned Purple Hearts.
“Don’t be too worried about it,” he interrupted her thoughts. “Small-town life
