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The last thing either of them wants is something complicated. But sometimes love has its own plans.
The Summer He Came Home
Juliana Stone
Sourcebooks Casablanca
Dusk fell, bringing with it the sharp dampness of a Michigan June night. Cain was drunk. Hell, the three of them were a sorry-ass bunch. They’d sat on the beach for hours, drinking beer until there was none left. Then they’d moved on to the hard stuff, sharing a bottle of vodka as they talked crap, caught up, and reminisced about every detail of Jesse’s life.
The men had kept in touch after they went their separate ways, but as was the way of it, time expanded and filled with other things. Phone calls and emails became less frequent, and Cain couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an actual conversation with his friends.
Mac had moved to New York after graduating from Michigan State and was now an architect on the fast track to partner at a prestigious firm. The twins had joined the armed forces straight out of college and were never in the United States for long—military leave didn’t allow it. When they had the good fortune to come home, they’d spent their time in Crystal Lake. Jesse of course had had a wife waiting for him, and Jake had never been far from either one of them.
Cain glanced at his friend and frowned. Jake was in a place of transition. The loss of his brother had hit him in a way that left scars beneath his skin. There was a darkness inside him that didn’t belong. He’d always been the easygoing twin—the light to Jesse’s intense, moody personality.
It was all wrong.
“So, Mr. Guitar God of the Year,” Jake slurred.
“Yeah.” Cain grinned. He couldn’t help it. “Pretty damn cool.” The latest issue of Guitar World had featured Cain and a host of up-and-comers, though he’d snagged the all-important cover and had been humbled when Springsteen sent him a note. Apparently the man liked his playing and songwriting skills.
“I want my copy autographed,” Mac joked. “You should send one to your ex. Let her know what she’s missing.”
Cain’s lip curled. “Natasha only cares about herself. Trust me, she’s moved on.”
Jake punched him in the arm. “Natasha fucking Simmons. How in the hell did a redneck from Michigan end up with a Hollywood hottie like that?”
“Don’t ask.” Cain was tight-lipped. His ex-wife was not someone he cared to discuss. He took a second to gain his balance and grimaced. “Boys, we need food.”
“I second that. Liquid lunch is fine, but it only goes so far.” Mac nodded toward the house. “Let’s go.”
There were a few lingering guests, his mother among them. Lauren Black was a tall, attractive woman who took great pride in her appearance. Her hair hung past her shoulders, a silken sheet of gold. Her figure, enviable by women half her age, was shown to perfection in the classic cut of the simple black dress she wore. At her ears were small pearls, and at her neck, the matching pendant.
She’d come a long way, his mother, and pride rolled through him as he studied her. She’d grown up with nothing and hailed from the wrong side of the tracks. But she was made of good stuff—her roots were humble and strong. They were the kind of roots that went deep and she’d kept the both of them anchored. He might have been poor for most of his youth, but he’d never known it.
She was chatting with Raine Edwards—Jesse’s young widow. The petite woman looked gaunt, her features pinched and her skin much too pale against the ebony hair that fell past her shoulders.
Cain glanced at Jake. The soldier’s gaze was locked on to the widow with an intensity that was heartbreaking. Everything had changed, and yet so much remained the same. The hunger, the want, was hard for the soldier to hide, and Cain looked away, uncomfortable.
Marnie and Steven Edwards were in the family room, a large open space
just off the kitchen. It boasted an entire wall of glass that brought the outdoors inside, and in the distance the stars reflected on the lake like diamonds on black velvet. They sat together on a leather sofa, an open book of photos displayed on the coffee table. A small group was gathered around them, their voices low in that polite, mournful way.
“Here.”
Cain turned and accepted a plate of sandwiches from Mac. There was tuna, salmon, and, no surprise, the always-crowd-pleasing ham. It didn’t last long. He hadn’t eaten since the plane.
“Oh shit, here she comes.”
Cain turned at Mac’s harsh whisper. “Who?”
“Rebecca Stringer.”
“Stringer?”
Mac guffawed drunkenly. “Seriously? You don’t remember? ‘Stringer-dinger, she’ll ring your bell’?”
It came back quickly. Blond. Plastic. Head cheerleader, homecoming diva, and queen of the back-seat. They’d each dated her at one point or another—dated being a loose term.
