Jane of Austin Read online

  “And you were hooked?”

  I grinned. “I was hooked. So my first plants are ones I brought back as seeds.”

  “You made green tea. Do different plants make different kinds of tea? Is there a black tea plant?”

  “Well, yes and no,” I answered. “All tea—all true tea—comes from the same sort of plant. It’s what you do with the leaves that changes what kind of tea you can make. But some plants are cultivated more for use in black or green, not unlike wine grapes.”

  I was about to explain the differences between oolong and black tea, when an elaborate chime sounded.

  “He’s here!” Nina said, sitting up and finger-combing her hair. “I knew he wouldn’t miss dinner, not with forearms like that.”

  I caught Mariah’s eye roll, but noticed that she stood taller in anticipation as well.

  Ian hastened into the house for the door, and the rest of us waited. Moments later they stepped outside, the strung lights glinting off Sean’s hair.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, his voice warm, and the hair on my arms stood up. “I wanted to bring something nice, and it took more work than expected.”

  The dogs rushed to greet him, swarming around his feet and jumping on his legs until Mariah called them off.

  He patted them before walking toward me and Celia, hat in hand, and I saw that my memory had been truthful. If the Austin Chamber of Commerce put him on a poster to promote tourism, I had no doubt of their success.

  In his hand he carried flowers, and my eyes widened as I realized what they were. He held them out to me. Well, me and Celia, but he looked directly into my eyes. “Texas bluebonnets and California poppies.” He leaned close. “They might not be California poppies, but they were the only poppies I could find in the city.”

  I beamed up at him. “They look awfully Californian to me,” I said.

  “Welcome to Austin,” he said.

  The way he looked at me felt like the best day at the beach and Christmas morning, all rolled into one.

  But Ian interrupted. Naturally.

  “Glad you could make it! You remember my wife, Mariah, and my mother-in-law, Nina.”

  “Of course,” he said, with a friendly, polite nod.

  “And this is my friend Callum Beckett, who’s staying with us. Callum recently retired from the United States Marine Corps.”

  Sean shook Callum’s hand. “Thank you for your service, sir.”

  Callum didn’t answer, only nodded back.

  We took our seats around the patio table, and I found myself seated with Sean on my left and Celia and Margot on my right, Callum across from me, and Nina next to him, with Mariah and Ian holding up the ends of the table.

  “What do you do, Sean?” Celia asked as Pilar rolled a cart across the patio, telling the dogs to scatter in Spanish.

  I watched, fascinated, to see that the cart bore plates of food. Pilar set one plate in front of each of us efficiently; I looked down to find a salad composed of avocado slices and grapefruit, crowned with arugula.

  Sean picked up his fork. “I’m a musician,” he said. “Musician for love, sound engineer for money.”

  “Jane studied music in college,” Celia offered.

  Sean turned to me. “Did you? I should have majored in music, but I stuck with business instead. Just wanted to get in and out. Would have been harder if I’d actually cared.” He shook his head. “I’m in a band now; it’s going well. Booking lots of gigs.”

  “Are you now!” Nina folded her hands. “Who are your influences?”

  “I like to say we’re what happens if you mix the Foo Fighters with the Frames,” he answered. He started to explain who the Frames were, but Nina waved him off.

  “Glen Hansard’s band. Yes, I know them. I’ve had a passing interest in music over the years.”

  Ian cackled. “This lady,” he said, pointing at Nina, “toured with the greats. There isn’t much about rock and roll that she doesn’t know.”

  Nina wasn’t paying attention; her gaze was fixed on Sean. “You play guitar? Drums?” She squinted at him. “Sorry, I’m losing my touch. You’re lead guitar, aren’t you?”

  He gave a bashful grin. “Lead guitar, guilty.”

  I speared a piece of grapefruit with my fork. “You’re getting good gigs?”

  “We’ve kept busy. We’ll be at South by Southwest come March.”

  “That is exciting!” Nina exclaimed. “Good for you.”

  “I’m so ready for real rock to make a comeback,” I said, reaching for my glass. “I like pop as much as the next girl, but there aren’t enough electric guitar riffs on the airwaves.”

  “I can’t dance,” Sean admitted wryly. “So pop was out.”

  Everyone laughed, myself included. Everyone except Callum, who seemed to be paying more attention to the dog at his feet than the rest of the dinner party. If I wasn’t mistaken, he’d been slipping pieces of avocado to Frances. Or maybe Sam.

  If we were going to stay any length of time, I was going to have to learn the dogs’ names.

  “What did you listen to? As a kid?” I asked Sean.

  “Garth Brooks,” he admitted. “My mom loved her country ballads, and my dad liked Johnny Cash.”

  “And you started playing rock guitar, how?”

  “A kid’s got to rebel somehow,” he said with a wink. “It would have been okay with my dad if it had been southern rock, but…” He shrugged.

  “And you’re a sound engineer as well?” Mariah asked.

  “It pays the bills.” He reached for his glass of iced tea and took a long drink.

  The conversation shifted to Celia and myself, our tea shop in San Francisco, our plans to open a salon in Austin.

  Sean asked after Ian and Mariah’s children, and Mariah happily discussed her pleasure in finding a good preschool for their daughter, whom she believed to have extraordinary artistic talent.

  Celia and I exchanged glances, both of us thinking of Jonathan and Phoebe. We’d had enough of overzealous parents.

  Ian spoke some of his business, but waved the topic away after a few sentences. “I inherited my money and used it to make more; it’s nothing noble. Nothing like Beckett, here. A true American hero.”

  Callum shifted uncomfortably. “That’s overstating it a bit, Ian.”

  Ian gave a good-natured splutter. “Hardly. You saved six men before the second explosion took you out of action.”

  I found myself sitting up straighter.

  Ian pointed at Callum. “Beckett assisted a squad with a building sweep, but come to find out it was rigged. First blast took out half of it, but Callum dragged six of them out to safety while they waited for backup.”

  Callum shook his head. “That’s the bedtime-story version. Yeah, I saved four men—well, three men and a woman. But six others were killed in the blasts, and two more died waiting for a medevac.” He drew a deep breath. “I did save four marines that day, but I also lost eight. To me, that doesn’t quite add up to heroism.”

  “That’s how you hurt your leg?” Margot asked, her voice girlish and innocent.

  Callum’s voice softened. “Yes. The second blast. Brought the rest of the roof down.”

  Ian shook his head at his friend. “They gave you the Bronze Star with a Combat V,” he said. “It should have been a Silver Star.”

  Callum waved his hand. “A parting gift to go with my medical discharge.”

  Ian narrowed his eyes and pointed his fork at Callum. “Say what you will, you’re still the best man I’ve ever met, Beckett.”

  An awkward silence would have descended over the table if Celia hadn’t changed the subject. She asked about the upcoming South by Southwest festival and the way it had grown over the years. Nina, in particular, was more than happy to share her knowledge.

  Little by little, Callum’s shoulders relaxed.

  I couldn’t imagine what he’d been through. I’d lost my mother, an event with its own violence. But to live in a war zone, for everything
to go wrong, to walk into a building with twelve people and leave with four living—it shifted things in my head. It made the conflict and its aftermath real.

  I was inclined to agree with Ian—Callum was a hero. Maybe one of the truest signs of heroism was a sense of disbelief in the title.

  Why was he staying here with Ian, I wondered. Didn’t he have family? Loved ones?

  I was lost in those thoughts when Sean nudged my elbow. I turned and gave him a bright smile.

  “Tell me about the music you studied in college,” he asked, his eyes fixed on mine.

  And we were off again.

  Backyard Frito Pie

  For the chili

  2 tablespoons olive or grapeseed oil

  1 medium onion, chopped fine

  3 cloves garlic

  2 pounds ground beef

  2 teaspoons salt

  1 ½ tablespoons chili powder

  1 teaspoon cumin

  ¼ teaspoon chipotle chili powder (optional)

  1 tablespoon cocoa powder (optional)

  1 teaspoon liquid smoke

  1 28-ounce can crushed tomatoes

  3 15-ounce cans black beans, drained and rinsed

  1 can fire-roasted chopped tomatoes

  To serve

  Fritos or tortilla chips

  Sour cream

  Grated cheddar cheese

  Sliced avocado (optional)

  Chopped jalapeño (optional)

  Heat the oil in a large sauté pan over medium heat. Add the onion, stirring and cooking until softened. Add the garlic, and cook for another 2 minutes. Add the ground beef, and cook until thoroughly browned.

  Transfer the ground beef, garlic, and onion mixture to a slow cooker. Add remaining chili ingredients and stir. Cook for 10–12 hours on low.

  Serve chili in bowls, ladled over the chips, and top as desired.

  Serves 8–10.

  8

  While her lips talked culture, her heart was planning to invite him to tea.

  —E. M. FORSTER

  Jane

  “Sean Willis likes you very much,” Celia said as we walked back across the lawn to the guesthouse.

  “Normally I’d argue,” I answered, feeling my face flush pink. “But he asked for my phone number and sent a text before he left.”

  “Smitten. Although he doesn’t seem to be alone in that.”

  “You’re so lucky, Jane,” Margot sighed.

  “And for one evening,” Celia continued, “you’ve done pretty well. You know where he stands on Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith, and he admires the Oh Hellos and Darlingside as much as you do, but doesn’t think too highly of Coldplay. Your disagreement about Jars of Clay made me think your love could die on the vine, but you managed to come to an accord. I’m glad he came around.”

  “You’re very funny.”

  “Take it slow, dearest, or you’ll run out of conversation topics.”

  I gave her arm a swat with the back of my hand. “He asked; what would you have me do? I still think Muse is overrated.”

  “I know you do.”

  “But he’s also heard of Balmorhea. And Peter Gregson.”

  Celia poked me gently with her elbow. “If I could have conjured a man out of thin air for you, he would look and sound an awful lot like Sean. I was only saying that…it could…there might be wisdom in holding back.”

  “Holding back?” I repeated. I tested the thought in my mind, and my mind rejected it. “We’ve just met. But if we like each other, there’s no reason to hold back.”

  “But you don’t know that you like him.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Um, I’m pretty sure I do. Wait—let me think on it. He’s tall and blond and handsome and kind, and he’s quick to help strangers and has good taste in music.”

  “You like who you think he is.”

  “I think most of us like each other for who we think the other is,” I said, dryly.

  “You know what I mean.” Celia sighed as we reached the guesthouse door.

  “It’s just good to get to know people slowly sometimes,” she continued. “Because it takes a while to unpack who someone really is.”

  “You’re right,” I said. The way she said it made me believe she was really talking about Teddy. Rather than ask about it, I changed the subject.

  “Sean mentioned he has a spare truck hitch,” I said, kicking off my shoes. “He offered to swing by tomorrow to put it on the truck, so we can use the trailer again.”

  “That’s very kind of him.” Celia gave a careful smile. “I do like him, Jane. I don’t mean to give you the impression that I don’t.”

  “Good. I’m…I’m glad.” I looked around. “Do you want tea? I think I want tea.”

  “Moroccan mint?”

  I nodded. “Moroccan mint.”

  9

  You must remember that space is large; it is even larger than Texas.

  —DR. WERNHER VON BRAUN

  Callum

  I’d walked around Ian’s property again that night, feeling the prosthesis chafing against my stump. No amount of sock and padding could change that. But the night cooled enough to keep me in the moment, just enough that it softened the memories for a little while.

  Later the nightmares visited again. When I woke up enough to focus on the digital clock beside the bed, I discovered I’d at least made it past 3:00 a.m., an hour longer than the past two nights.

  An extra hour of seeing the faces of the eight dead marines. Lt Harris, Cpl Leight, Cpl Cruz, LCpl Reuben, LCpl Keathley, PFC Esposito, PFC Reyes, Pvt Washington.

  Their faces before, their faces after. Their families at the memorial in DC. Reuben’s mom, Keathley’s twenty-one-year-old fiancée.

  I wasn’t a hero. I was a cripple who couldn’t save all his marines.

  Once again, I sat up in bed and ran my hands over my face. This had to stop.

  But I wouldn’t sleep, so I attached the prosthesis, retrieved my swim trunks from where I’d hung them the night before, tossed on my bathrobe, and crept out of the house. The air had cooled significantly since dinner, hovering a few degrees below fifty. It felt bracing, staggering.

  It brought me back to the moment.

  I dragged one of the lawn chairs to the poolside ladder on the deep end and then sat to remove my prosthesis. The last thing I needed was a rusty leg; I felt enough like a Cylon as it was.

  Once I’d detached my titanium leg, I braced myself on the ladder rails. With my toes just touching the tile that rimmed the pool, I closed my eyes and focused. I focused on my body, its alignment, the muscles and joints where my weight rested. I breathed deep as my back straightened, my abdominal muscles firmed.

  When my body found its center, I began to count.

  One. I sucked in air and rocked forward.

  Two. Taking another breath, I flexed my knee.

  Three. I used my hands and leg to propel myself into a dive, my arms finding their place over my head a split second before they hit water.

  The water was just this side of bitterly cold, but still wasn’t as cold as some ocean swims from my past. My hands cupped, pushing the water away. My shoulders worked, and my body complained at the task of a freestyle stroke without the benefit of two legs to scissor kick.

  Before, I could swim laps until morning. Now? Three laps, the last with my body screaming at me.

  But the screaming distracted, strengthened.

  Afterward, I rested at the side of the pool, submerged to my chin, arms stretched wide. In the distance I could see the guesthouse, and my mind recalled the dinner party on the patio.

  I’d liked Jane, pretty much from the moment I saw her. The way she stood, the way she spoke. It wasn’t just her resemblance to Lila. She had a candid quality I responded to. Trusted. And a smile that could make a man forget things.

  But that smile? Hadn’t been directed at me. Nope, it’d been directed at Golden Boy.

  I wouldn’t have liked him even back when I had two legs.

  Nope
. I’d gone to school with guys like him, had to suffer them at the Naval Academy. Too much charm and good luck, too little hardship. Or if there had been hardship, he certainly hadn’t learned from it.

  And he’d turned Jane Woodward’s head. Why wouldn’t he, though? They’d told the story of her truck’s broken hitch. He’d saved the day when she’d needed a hand.

  If I’d been there that night, I would have struggled. It wouldn’t have been pretty. The frustration sent me across the pool one more time.

  Truth was, Jane Woodward had no reason to look my way.

  In the morning, I slipped into the kitchen in search of a light breakfast. But Pilar stopped me before I laid a hand on the fridge door.

  “Plate for you,” she said, pointing to the warmer.

  I opened it up to find a plate piled high with migas and a side of black beans. “You’re too good to me,” I told her, using a towel to remove the plate.

  “You swim too much, exercise too much.” She nodded. “I gave you extra cheese.”

  My face reddened; I’d tried, really tried, to be as discreet about my nocturnal swimming as possible.

  Pilar didn’t miss a beat. “You are the only person in the house with swim trunks wet at night and dry during the day.”

  “I can’t sleep,” I told her.

  “Neither could my daughter when she came back,” she answered, giving me a pat on the back. “Eat up.”

  Ian found me twenty minutes later, scraping the last of the cheese residue from the plate. “Beckett! There you are.”

  “Just getting an early start,” I said.

  “Still not off military time?”

  I gave a rueful shake of my head. “Not yet.”

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “Some,” I hedged.

  “Fair enough.” He leaned back as Pilar wordlessly set a plate in front of him. Ian thanked her, spent a moment in prayer before tucking in, and then ate while I drank deeply from my coffee mug.

  “I’m going to the house this morning,” I told Ian. “Checking in with the builders.”

  Ian nodded. “Good, good. You want company?”