Sal sighs in jubilation and sinks into a chair, raising a beer to her lips. She closes her eyes for a moment, relishing the quiet, her alone time with Luke. In the distance come the soft whinnies of the ponies. The slow dying of the sun into fiery sherbet skies.
Luke glances down at her, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners as he gives a small smile. “Lacey’s ... a lot, huh?”
His voice is a thin trail Sal can’t quite pin down. Like he’s mustering up the words to be nice or the courage to say more.
“Yeah. But she’s sweet. Overprotective. But sweet.”
Luke leans back against the railing, facing her. “She’s just returning the favor.”
“Oh?”
At Sal’s raised brow, Luke goes on to detail her and Lacey’s history. Every memory presented to her on a platter. “You pretty much raised her when she was a kid. Your dad was away, hell, all the time, and after your mom passed—well, you were a big deal to her. Still are.”
Sal’s quiet, remembering the flash of memory from her lunch with Lacey. A small blond child, Sal gripping her hand protectively as the young girl cried at the window for a father Sal cannot remember. For a father that still has not called her. If she never remembered another memory about her and Lacey, maybe that one was enough. Maybe that told Sal all she needed to know.
“You want somethin’ to eat?”
Luke’s smooth drawl pulls her from her daydream brain.
“No,” she says. She’s content where she is. She pretends she doesn’t see Luke’s worried gaze on the strange, sad thinness of her body and crosses arms over her midsection. “I don’t. I just want to sit here and watch the sunset.”
“Okay, darlin’.”
Luke squeezes her shoulder as he moves across the porch. A simple action that tells her he’s here, that anything she needs, he’ll give.
Glancing down, Sal traces the tattoo on her palm.
The memory licks like the flicker of a flame. An image of Sal, in a hotel room, jumping off the bed into Luke’s arms. An image of Luke’s happy face, of him bringing her hand to his mouth to kiss her bandaged palm. Their new tattoos.
But she holds it close. Quiet. She doesn’t want to chance this memory. To get Luke’s hopes up.
There’s a rustling as Luke kneels to pack up his old guitar. She likes that it’s beat up. Old, well loved, packed around everywhere. It tells Sal the best kind of story; it tells her exactly what kind of man Luke is. Honest. Down-to-earth. Loyal.
Sal sits forward in her chair, elbows on her knees, chin in her palms. “You don’t have to do that. Put it away,” she explains when he glances up, his handsome face angular and shadowed in the setting sun.
With a slow nod, Luke rises and settles into the chair across from Sal. Instead of holding his guitar loose and limber, he holds it like a rifle. His entire body tense. So different from earlier today when he was jamming with his band.
Did I do that?Sal thinks suddenly, sadly. Did I take that away from you?
Her chest constricting, Sal gestures at the guitar. “Something about that makes you sad.”
A shake of Luke’s head, then he’s strumming fingers against metal strings. “I ain’t sad, darlin’.”
“You said you didn’t play anymore. So why are you now?”
Lifting his face, Luke meets her searching gaze. “Mort got us a gig at the Opry.”
Her eyes widen. “When?”
“Next month.”
“That’s amazing, Luke.”
“It is,” he admits. He strums a few more chords, the melodic sounds of the guitar sending shivers down her spine. “It’s soon, though. I ain’t played in so long sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get back.”
“From what I heard today, you’re already halfway there.”
“Now I don’t know about that.”