Page 47 of Jameson’s Salvation

There was a knock on the door and elephants started to stampede in my stomach.

“He’s here,” I unnecessarily announced.

When I opened the heavy front door, Jameson was standing on my mom’s front porch looking out of place among the hanging flower baskets and white wicker furniture that decorated the entrance.

“Hi,” I greeted. “Come in.”

“You did a great job.” He tilted his head to the side, motioning toward the new ramp I’d built.

“Thanks.”

I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, his praise felt good. No, better than good, it felt great. It always did when he admired my work. And he did it a lot, always telling me my garden looked great, or my cooking was awesome. He complimented my house and the renovations I’d done. Lots of little things throughout the day that made me feel like a million bucks.

I stepped aside and let him walk into the living room. He scanned the interior before looking at me and asking, “Did you remodel this, too?”

“No. Mom hasn’t changed anything since she moved in. Come on, she’s in the kitchen. Let me introduce you.”

He nodded and followed me the short distance. My mom was sitting at the table and I knew the milli-second her eyes landed on Jameson. They widened in shock before her face broke out into a splitting smile and I wanted to tell her not to get her hopes up, but it was too late.

“Oh, my. You’re a big fella,” Mom murmured, and I wanted to crawl under a rock—or better yet turn and flee before she could say anything else.

Jameson’s chuckle filled the room and I supposed he was used to it. After all, I’d pretty much said the same thing to him, only I hadn’t called him a “fella.”

“Jameson, this is my mom, Lola. Mom, Jameson Grant.”

“Mrs. Lane, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And that voice,” she gasped. “Rich and deep.” My eyes nearly bugged out of my head at my mom’s proclamation. “A man with a baritone like that is a born leader, commanding attention when he enters a room.”

“Mother,” I hissed then turned to Jameson.

“Don’t mother me. It’s the truth. It’s said that men with deep voices have higher levels of testosterone. Your father had a deep voice, so I should know.”

“Ohmygod. Shoot me now. Mom, please stop talking.”

“Since when have you become so square? We’re talking about testosterone, not sperm count. And just for the record, higher testosterone does not mean a high sperm count, like one might think.”

“Why is this happening to me?” I looked up at Jameson, hoping he’d somehow have the answer as to why my mother was talking about sperm counts.

“That is an interesting fact, I did not know,” Jameson good-naturedly told my mother.

“I have this book, it was given to me by my friend, Janice. It’s called Why Do Men Have Nipples. It has all sorts of interesting tidbits.”

“Did my mom just say, ‘nipples’?” I don’t know who I was asking, perhaps God. Maybe He’d take pity on me and lightning would strike me dead so I would no longer be a part of this conversation.

Thankfully, Jameson was smiling and thought my mother’s antics were amusing, because I did not.

“During my last deployment, a buddy brought along a book called, Why Do Men Fall Asleep After Sex. I believe it was written by the same author. There were some long, boring nights when we’d sit around and read the questions out loud for laughs.”

“You were in the service?” my mom asked and sat a little straighter.

Oh, boy. Jameson was in for it now.

“Yes, ma’am, the Navy.”

“Call me Lola. And I thank you for your service from the bottom of my heart. I’m a member of the VFW Ladies Auxiliary and The Red Cross, and before I had this damn stroke, once a month me and a group of ladies would head over to Walter Reed. Now the ladies go without me, but I’m hoping by Christmas I’ll be ready to go back. I miss my boys, that’s for sure.”

Jameson’s face lost all humor and I was worried she’d hit a nerve and wished she’d go back to talking about nipples.