Page 57 of The Love Thief

CHAPTER FORTY Sweet Beginnings

Thus began the slow and sweet beginnings of Jackson and me.

Our pattern began by sending very short, friendly texts back and forth every few days, interspersed with FaceTime chats and dates on the weekends when he was in town.

While I wanted more, I was trying to pay attention to my inner warnings about not rushing things.

Yes, I still wanted the kids and the white picket fence.

But now I knew in my heart that whatever life had in store for me, I would be just fine.

On one of our “video dates,” he shared with me his collection of Bruce Lee action figures and collectibles, and on another night, we watched Fist of Fury , his all-time favorite Bruce Lee film. I gave him a tour of my dollhouse, now living deep in the corner of Mom’s garage.

“Where are you?” he asked, twisting his head to one side.

“My mom’s super dusty garage,” I replied, sneezing three times before stepping over boxes to get to the back shelf where my dollhouse sat.

“She asked me to sort through some things to make space. We are going to donate a lot of stuff to the homeless shelter.” I had made some progress before Jackson called.

Several bags of old towels and sheets filled a corner of the garage.

The white siding of the dollhouse had a gray layer of dust covering its once-bright veneer.

It appeared smaller than I remembered it.

“I used to play with this thing for hours,” I said softly as I wiped the sides off with my hands, careful to run the camera all around it for Jackson to see.

“My grandfather made it for me.” As I reflected on how much I had learned over the past year and a half, I realized it was time to release my childhood dream of the perfect life once and for all.

I lifted the dollhouse from the shelf and placed it next to the bags of clothes.

Perhaps another little girl will find joy in it , I thought.

Turning my attention back to Jackson, I could see him shifting in his chair.

“Where are you, actually?” I asked, trying to figure out why he suddenly seemed to look a bit distorted.

“Now don’t go making fun of me, but I am in my BarcaLounger.

Her name is Peggy, after my grandmother, and it’s the coziest place on Earth,” he said as he arranged the phone so that I could take in the full view of his repose.

So he had a grandparent who meant a lot to him, too.

And I just loved that he named his chair after her.

“You and Peggy look good together,” I played along.

“Ah, Grandma Peggy, you would have loved her. She was a true living Buddha. I was her favorite grandchild, and she was convinced that I was, as she always said, ‘an evolutionary love being,’” he said with much pride.

“She sounds like an enlightened woman.”

“Definitely. She was a nondenominational street minister who believed she was here to give love to everyone she came in contact with and, fortunately, I was the beneficiary of a lot of her love,” he said with a sigh.

Of course, he already knew the worst of my baggage, which in many ways made it easier for me to be more vulnerable and revealing. We openly discussed his relationship with his ex-wife and the challenges and rewards of sharing custody of their preteen kids.

“Do you like boats?” Jackson asked me one day over FaceTime. Careful not to offer another snarky response about living in San Diego and the unavoidable interaction with the ocean, I offered him a sweet reply. “I do!” He arranged to meet me at San Diego Bay the next day for a surprise.

San Diego Bay was filled with boats of all shapes and sizes, from a five-masted fully rigged tall ship, to a few naval ships, and several chartered fishing boats.

The almost high noon sun was reflecting off the water like sparkling, glistening diamonds and was a match for my quickly brightening mood.

Holding hands, we jumped into a water taxi and headed across the sapphire water of San Diego Bay to Coronado Island. I love surprises, and this was an unexpected delight.

Standing on the bow of the water taxi, the wind was whipping my hair across my face and Jackson’s as well. He surprised me when he used his hands to brush my long locks into a makeshift ponytail that he held in his hand.

“We’ll both look and feel a lot better for lunch this way,” he joked.

A few minutes later, we were seated under a massive blue umbrella, where Jackson quickly ordered us a delicious spread of charcuterie, artisan sourdough flatbread roasted with tomatoes and fresh basil, and two baby kale salads dressed with goat cheese and pepitas.

This guy really knows his way around a menu , I thought.

Diving into the feast laid out before us, I shared with Jackson that a few months earlier, I had taken a DNA test to see if I could find my biological dad and my half sisters, which the Nadi readers had told me about.

“My results turned up one woman in Alaska who was a forty-three percent match with me, and after a little social media and google research, I tracked her down, and we got on a call. She was the eldest of three sisters, all a few years older than me. She claimed to have no idea about me and said that her father had died of cancer a few years ago.” I paused to take a crunchy bite of flatbread.

“Well, what did you learn about the dad?” Jackson asked with genuine interest.

“Turns out he worked on a fishing boat most of the year. She said her parents had been married for more than forty years, and as far as she knew, they were very happy together. He had even been a rock band manager for several years when she and her sisters were quite young.”

“Are you going to meet her?”

“Doesn’t look that way. She was pleasant but not really friendly and ultimately wasn’t interested in telling her sisters about me or having any further contact,” I said.

And then, without meaning to, I began to cry. “Oh, I’m sorry for weeping at this beautiful lunch,” I mumbled.

Jackson gently dabbed my tears with his paper napkin.

“It’s okay. That must have been such a big disappointment for you. And it’s their loss,” he commiserated.

“Well, at least now I know. He didn’t reject me. He never knew about me, and it makes sense that after all this time, they wouldn’t want a total stranger invading their lives. Besides, Alaska was never on my bucket list,” I said, trying to convince myself it wasn’t that big of a deal.

“From what I can see, the family you have loves you deeply, so while it might seem like having half sisters might have been some kind of a bonus, maybe the Universe has other bonuses in mind for you,” he said a bit mysteriously.

And with that, our server, an older, buxom brunette with a big smile and a wide swagger, came at us with a dessert sporting a sparkler.

“Your friend here slipped me a note earlier saying you have a big sweet tooth, so here’s the house specialty, our secret recipe, homemade sugar-free, gluten-free churros over vanilla bean ice cream smothered in hot fudge sauce,” she crowed, placing the fiery delight in front of me.

She then picked my phone up off the table and said, “Let me get a picture of the two of you,” and before I could answer, she had quickly snapped a few and walked away as if that was the most normal thing in the world to do.

Jackson handed me a spoon as he picked up his. “Before we dig into this sinful concoction,” he said, “I have a very important question to ask you. Okay?”

Not knowing what he was about to say, I nodded yes and whispered, “Okay.”

“Holly Grant, the most beautiful and courageous woman I have ever met, would you do me the honor of becoming my official girlfriend?”

I was stunned and, fortunately, I had not yet taken a bite, or I would have had to spit it out all over him. I looked into his eyes to see if there was any hint that I was being punked (or worse), but all I saw was a sincere happy man waiting for an answer.

“Agent Turner, the answer is ‘yes’!”

And with that, he leaned over and took a bite of whipped cream and then gave me the sweetest, longest, most delicious kiss I had ever had.