A/N: Chapter 8!! I'm writing WAY too fast. =D
Wilsted Community Funeral Home was astir with people come to attend the wake of Margaret Laine. People stopped talking as they passed the building, in respectful silence.
Wood and Booker were patrolling the streets on their normal daily rounds and they noticed the crowd at the home. Wood kept driving on, sighing, but Booker stopped. There she was, dressed in a long black dress that fit her perfectly without being immodest. He knew she wasn't going for style points but he had to admit, she looked fantastic.
He radioed to Wood, who was already down the block, that he was going in to the wake. Wood didn't ask questions. He had recognized the girl in the black dress from the hospital. "All right, Booker. Just come back to the station afterwards."
"Yessir." Booker pulled up beside the people and stepped out. He removed his hat and moved to stand beside Jackie. She was standing over the coffin, which was closed, to everyone's relief. Her eyes were dry and her face was set painfully. Her hands rested on the polished mahogany wood. She didn't move for a long moment. Booker didn't know what to do until she backed away and let relatives stand in her place. It was then that she looked up at Booker.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered as she sat down. He sat down beside her.
"I had to come," he whispered back. "I couldn't just stay away. I... I saw you outside and I felt like I couldn't just walk away."
She closed her eyes for a moment. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."
Booker covered her hands with his and said nothing. They sat that way for a long moment until another man knelt down in front of her.
"Are you sure you're all right?" he said gently.
"Yeah," Jackie replied. "Booker, this is my brother James."
"Call me Jimmy." The
man held out his hand, and Booker saw that he was the virtual copy his sister in
coloring. He shook Jimmy's hand.
"I'm sorry about your mom," Booker said sincerely.
"Thanks." Jimmy stood up again. "I'm going to talk to Uncle Frank," he said to Jackie. She nodded.
Jackie turned to Booker again and noticed the curiosity in his eyes. "He's my twin," she said. "We were born two minutes apart." Booker nodded.
"You look exactly alike."
Jackie looked up into Booker's eyes. "I still don't understand."
"What?"
"Why now?" She drew her hands out from under his. "Why now? I lose my mother and my father in the space of six months and now you come back and completely throw me off."
Booker sat back. "I'm really sorry, Jackie. I just... I felt like I couldn't leave you here."
"Leave me where, Booker?" Jackie's voice rose a little and she flew from her seat. "Where am I that you need to rescue me from?"
He stood up too. He was still taller than her by almost half a foot. "Here," he said in a quiet voice. "Here you are, Jackie. You're alone and you're afraid and you're too stubborn to admit it." He put his hat back on and tipped it in a gesture of politeness. "I'll be on my way, if you don't mind." He turned to go, and then turned back. "I really am sorry about your mom."
She bit her lips together and took a deep breath. "Thank you." Her voice was icily polite. Booker sighed and left the room, leaving Jackie to collapse in a chair and put her face in her hands.
He didn't see her the next day. He drove by her house on several occasions, just to check on her, and the lights were on at one point, but other than that it seemed Jackie was staying inside. He didn't know what to do. Was she still angry at him? Would she close the door in his face if he tried to talk to her?
Finally, the sixth time he drove past the house, in the late afternoon, he stopped completely and sat there for a moment. "Oh, hell," he muttered, and got out of the car.
The walkway leading to the front door was planted with summer flowers, and they looked beautiful. He smiled a little. He never knew Jackie had a green thumb.
Booker paused a minute to collect himself before he rang the doorbell. He lifted one hand and pushed the button.
"One minute!" he heard her call, and he shivered involuntarily. He was an idiot. He had no idea what he was going to say! What was he doing here?
The door opened, and Booker drew in a sharp breath. Jackie was standing there, obviously in work clothes, but not the conventional overalls and boots. No, she was wearing a tight cropped shirt, jeans that fit like they were custom-tailored for her body, and Timberland boots. Her waist-length hair was pulled back into a ponytail. A hammer was in her hand, and wood dust streaked her arms.
Her mouth fell open slightly. "H--hi."
"Hi... am I here at a bad time?" Booker struggled to keep his eyes above her neckline.
"Oh. No, not at all." Jackie opened the door a little more. "Come in."
Booker stepped into what he thought was the most beautiful living room he had ever seen, save for the big hole high up on one of the walls. The entire room was done in cream and white. Drapes hung over the big windows and a carpet of delicate white covered the mahogany floor. A ladder was set up next to a sofa that was covered in protective plastic to shield it from the wood and paint.
"You can sit if you want." Jackie gestured to a chair in the corner of the room. "I'm really sorry about the mess." Booker was surprised at how nice she was being. He thought she'd be furious.
"I just have to finish covering this hole." Jackie climbed swiftly up the ladder. Booker's eyes strayed to below her waist as she pulled up another plank of wood and nailed it in place. It covered the hole completely, and the nails Jackie held between her teeth as she hammered disappeared quickly. She was facing away from him, and every time she moved Booker would shake himself for being such a pervert.
She climbed back down and shook the dust from her hands. "I'm really sorry about the mess," she apologized again.
"No problem." Booker looked around the room. "This setup is beautiful."
"You like it?" Jackie surveyed the furniture. "I did it myself."
Booker was suitably impressed. "Wow."
Jackie pulled the plastic covering off the sofa and plopped down on it, gesturing for him to do the same. "Look, I know what you came for, Booker."
Booker sat down next to her. "We need to talk."
She played with a corner of the plastic, not meeting his eyes. "I know." She paused. "So how's the girl?"
Booker frowned. "Girl?"
"The one who you were with."
"Oh, Kayla. She's fine. The doctors said she'll be okay."
"Good." Silence descended again. Booker sighed.
"I can't do this," he said finally.
"Do what?" Jackie looked up at him.
"Don't act like you don't know, Jackie!" Booker cried. "I can't stop thinking about you and you know it!"
Jackie's face drew in anger. "Do you think," she ground out between clenched teeth. "That I don't think about what happened between us every single day?" Her eyes were filling up again.
Booker didn't say anything. "I have beat up on myself every minute of every day for doing what I did to you eight years ago!" Jackie yelled. "It was my fault and I know it and that makes it worse!" She hugged her knees and lowered her face. "And I never forgave myself. And coming back here and seeing you again just brought everything back. And I hoped... I just had this stupid hope that you would still feel the same way about me that I do about you. Even after all these years." She looked up at him. "When I kissed you..."
Booker held up one hand to silence her. "That was the best feeling I have ever had in a long time." He looked down at the hat in his lap. "I didn't want to admit it. But I really... I haven't let go of us, Jackie."
Jackie looked up at him in shock. "You haven't?"
"No!" Booker's cheeks reddened with embarrassment. "I was always hoping you'd come back. And when you left for New York I had to face the reality that I might never see you again. And that was something I refused to accept."
Jackie sat back, thunderstruck and relieved. Her feelings were so muddled that she didn't notice his hands on her shoulders, sliding to undo the band that held her hair back. Her hair fell in waves of golden brown streaked with blonde. He marveled at the natural spectrum of colors that she seemed to be. Her eyes were bluer than he remembered, but he found them as entrancing as he hand almost ten years ago.
Her hands moved up to his, tangled in her hair. He leaned over and kissed her for real. It was exactly like it had been when they were 18, but with more passion, more maturity.
They both reveled in it. The past came flooding back in this sensation, and neither of them fought it.
The one thought the both had was this: It was good to be home at last.