Page 22 of Sweet Somethings

Five

Roman had always liked his own company, always felt comfortable by himself, but for some reason the solitude was getting on his nerves and by five Friday afternoon, he was itching to get out of the house again.

He didn't know why; it wasn't like yesterday's trip to the coffee shop had gone that well. And this morning's run-in with the Grayson sisters at Juliette's bakery had only reminded him that he could spend a lifetime trying to defend himself—if he was at all interested in doing that, which he was not.

He suspected that Juliette had gotten an earful from Martha and her sister after he left. She'd already been curious about Doug and the tension she'd witnessed at the coffee shop. Well, she probably knew quite a bit more about him now—or at least the teenager he'd once been. He wondered if she'd believe everything she heard.

Probably. Everyone else had.

With a frustrated sigh, he set down his tools, grabbed his jacket and headed outside. Avoiding the downtown shopping area, he walked toward the water. It was a route similar to the one he ran most mornings, but now he wasn't interested so much in exercise as in taking a long breath of cool, crisp air and getting away from his thoughts.

As he walked past a mix of modest and stately houses, most of which were set on large lots with canopies of trees overhead, he remembered the first time he'd come to Fairhope. He'd thought he'd landed in the middle of a Norman Rockwell painting. It was small town America with a charming downtown area and shop owners who knew each other, people who said hello when you passed by. It was a place where community mattered, where friends and families came together to celebrate holidays and birthdays and even sadder moments.

It had been a huge change from his life in Southern California, with a mother who barely talked to him, much less any kind of family or community to support him.

Deep down, he'd really liked Fairhope, but he'd refused to admit it. He'd been sent there against his will, forced to leave what few friends he had, to live with a grandfather he'd never met. He'd barricaded his feelings behind anger and sarcasm.

But inside he'd been vulnerable, worried that if he got too comfortable, if he liked something too much, it would disappear, because it always had before.

So he'd pretended to resent his grandfather's rules: breakfast at six, school at eight, job after school, dinner at six, homework, then bed. It had been more structure than he'd ever experienced in his life. But it had felt good to actually know what he was supposed to do and when he was supposed to do it.

He just hadn't been willing to let anyone else see that. He'd been judged before he even got off the plane as Vincent's troublemaking teenage grandson, and it had been easier to be that than to try to be anyone else. So he'd acted like he hated the hokey small-town traditions, the busybody neighbors, the town's desire to celebrate everything, the emphasis on culture, on art and design and music and writing. He'd made fun of the artists who painted by the pier, the musicians singing in the square for pocket money, the idea that life could be pretty and perfect, even though in Fairhope it certainly seemed like it could be.

With a sigh, he paused as he dug his shoes into the brown sandy shores of Mobile Bay. Off to his right was the long pier that jutted into the bay. He'd stood in this very spot many times as a teenager, wondering what his future held. Would he go back to California? Would his mother ever get better and come and get him? Would he stay here forever?

The answers had never come, but looking at the water, the horizon, had helped keep things in perspective.

He needed some of that perspective now. Just like when he'd come to town before, he wasn't sure how long he'd stay. He'd left Fairhope to make a life for himself in the Marine Corps. He liked the man he'd become, the job he'd done, the people he'd done it with. To think he might have to actually give it all up was difficult to swallow, but he was too much of a realist not to consider that possibility. He wasn't giving up, though—not yet—not until they told him he was done. But in his gut he knew things were going to change. He would have to decide how he wanted to change with them.

His cell phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket, happy to see Cole Kenner's name run across the screen. Cole had served with him for the past seven years. They'd been through a lot together, and they'd always had an instinct about when the other was in trouble.

"Cole, what's up?"

"Checking in. How's sweet home Alabama?"

"Not home, not sweet, but I'm here." As he made the statement, he realized he was wrong. There was sweetness in this town, and her name was Juliette.

"When do you see the doc again?"

"A week from Monday."

"I'm hoping for good news."

"You and me, both. What about you? How are things going?"

"Same as always. I'm stateside for a few days. Loving a little beach action."

Which meant Cole was probably in San Diego at Camp Pendleton. "I'm at the beach right now, too—different view, though."

"Are you and your grandfather getting along?"

"We are. I'm actually helping him with some construction."

"Your shoulder is up for that?"

"I think it's good to work the muscles." He didn't mention that the shoulder was not as big of a concern as his hearing.

"We need you back, Roman."

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