Suddenly Home. Loree Lough

long, curly hair, it could look like anything from mink to velvet to satin?

      He adjusted the rearview mirror, a subtle reminder that, as he’d nosed into a parking space in the church lot, his mom had tilted it so she could touch up her lipstick.

      Taylor didn’t wear lipstick. But then, Taylor didn’t need lipstick.

      Alex ran a hand through his hair. You’re losin’ your ever-lovin’ mind, Van Buren.

      He searched for a reason, something to blame for his temporary insanity.

      The struggle to align himself with a world that was anything but “Navy” was obviously taking a bigger toll than he realized. Why else had he allowed himself to get all smitten by a woman he barely knew? She was everything he didn’t want—or need—especially now. So for the life of him, Alex didn’t know why he’d spent all that energy, there in the church basement, trying to track her down.

      He bounced the heel of his fist on the steering wheel. He and Taylor had spent a few minutes in polite conversation, and he’d enjoyed it. Period. Besides, she obviously spent a lot of time at the church; everyone seemed to know her, and they knew her well.

      So why hadn’t any of them known where she’d gone?

      Makes no difference, Alex told himself. He had neither the time nor the inclination to participate in religious functions, and it was clear as the windshield in front of him that Taylor was a good, devout, church-goin’ girl. And since she seemed to spend all her free time doing good, devout, church-goin’-girl things, the chances he’d ever run into her again were slim to none.

      End of discussion.

      That fact alone should have given him some relief. Instead, a quiet craving grew inside him.

      Put her out of your mind, he thought. He and Taylor had nothing in common. Nothing. And even if they did, he had no desire to get involved right now—romantically or otherwise.

      Alex noticed that the truck’s gas gauge read Empty, and he pulled into the first filling station he came to. It was as he selected octane and began pumping that a small voice said, “Hey, mister. What happened to your leg?”

      Alex glanced over his shoulder and looked into a cherubic face. Dimpled fists propped up the boy’s chin. Alex guessed him to be four or five.

      “Tommy!” the child’s mother gasped. “You know better than to ask a question like that. Now, you apologize to the nice man, this instant!”

      Tommy’s chubby cheeks reddened as he shot a sheepish glance Alex’s way. “Sorry,” he said grudgingly.

      It wasn’t the first time Alex had been asked a question like that. At least Tommy’s interest was honest. “It’s okay, son,” he said. “I used to be a pilot, hurt my leg when my plane crashed.”

      The boy’s eyes widened. “Really? Did it explode in the sky, like in the movies?”

      Alex grinned. “Sort of. But I was long gone by the time that happened.”

      Tommy’s brow crinkled with confusion. “Gone? Where’d you go?”

      That day flashed through his mind. Involuntarily, Alex clenched his jaw. “Had to bail—”

      Tommy faced his mother. “Mom, did you hear that?”

      His mother frowned sternly. “Yes.” She shook a finger at him. “And you heard what I said….”

      The boy turned back to Alex. “Did you have a parachute and ever’thing? Did you float down from the sky and get caught in a tree?”

      Alex shook his head. “Wasn’t time for the chute to open.”

      The boy’s brow crinkled slightly. “Then how’d you—”

      “Tommy, not another word. I mean it.” His mother rolled her eyes at Alex. “I don’t know what gets into him sometimes. Please, accept my apologies.”

      “No harm done,” he said, meaning it. And winking at Tommy, he added, “Boys will be boys.”

      Tommy’s mother shrugged. “I suppose,” she said, then headed into the station to pay for her gas.

      “Do you have a little boy?” Tommy asked.

      Alex swallowed. He might be a father by now, if he hadn’t always put the navy…and flying…ahead of everything else. “No, ’fraid not.”

      “A little girl?”

      “No. I don’t have any kids.”

      Tommy made an “I don’t believe it” face and held out his fat little hands. “Well, what’s your wife waiting for?”

      “Don’t have a wife, either,” he said, chuckling.

      “Why not?”

      It was a good question. Another one for his “I have no answer for that” list. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; he didn’t have a wife because, to date, Alex hadn’t met a woman he wanted to share his life with.

      Not true, his conscience said as the memory of Taylor’s pretty face popped into his mind.

      “Why not?” Tommy repeated.

      Alex could only shrug and shake his head.

      Taylor would have thought Mable Jensen’s nephew seemed like a pleasant enough fellow…if stand-up comedians had been her type.

      She didn’t know, exactly, what her type was, but it certainly wasn’t an overaged hippie who thought it was cool to crack knock-knock jokes by the dozen.

      Would’ve helped if Pete had been a little taller, with big brown eyes, dark shiny waves; if he’d been lean in a marathon kind of way; if he had a wounded puppy-dog expression that made her want to soothe all his troubles away.

      Like Alex Van Buren? she wondered, pretending to enjoy Pete’s “what do you get when you cross a lawyer with a leech?” joke. When he said, “An agent!” Taylor smiled, even though she didn’t get it. Did the punch line miss its intended target because Mable’s nephew had laughed at his own joke? Or because she’d been distracted by images of Alex?

      The latter, she decided as Pete launched into another ditty. She liked everything about Alex, from the way his dark eyes sparkled when he smiled—which, in her opinion, wasn’t nearly often enough—to the mellow tones of his vibrant voice. He’d dressed for the brunch like a man unsure what one wears to such an affair, which told Taylor two things: One, he wasn’t a regular churchgoer, and two, he didn’t believe in playing it safe.

      “Safe” would have been khaki trousers and a dress shirt, loafers, but no tie. Alex, on the other hand, had worn faded jeans and a polo shirt that had seen better days. So had his sneakers. He smelled of bath soap and the barest hint of manly cologne. And he’d cut himself shaving…recently.

      “And did you hear the one about…?”

      Taylor was in the middle of wishing for a legitimate excuse to walk away from Pete when Trish O’Connor ran up to her, huffing and puffing. “You need to get home right away,” the church secretary said. “Your neighbor called and said your cat’s on the porch roof, meowing up a storm!”

      The woman promised to let Taylor’s uncle know where she’d gone, promised to drive him home to save Taylor a trip back to the church.

      Pete, Mable and even Alex were immediately forgotten as Taylor headed for her car. Every nerve end in her twitched with fear and dread, yet she resisted the urge to speed. Fast driving had killed her mother. Besides, if a cop stopped her to issue a ticket, it would only take that much longer to get home.

      And the more time it took, the more likely Barney would fall off the roof. If there was any truth to the old wives’ tale about cats having nine lives, he’d be lucky to have one left, clumsy as he’d always been.

      Her car came to a jerky stop when