by Meg Tilly
“Anyway, back to business—we’ve been pumping you full of fluids, and the doctor would like to do a blood transfusion if you’re agreeable.”
“Why?” Zelia asked. Her mind was spinning with the flood of new information. Gabe had brought her in. Had stayed through the night, loyal and true, even though he had been wounded. Was he okay? She longed for the sight of his dear, trustworthy face. Tristan had been caught. How? Must have been Gabe. Last thing Zelia remembered was the struggle, Tristan plunging the needle into her neck. Media was in the parking lot. How crazy was that? The doctor wanted to do a blood transfusion.
“You lost a lot of blood, sweetie,” Lori said.
“I did?” Zelia’s eyes were feeling heavy.
Lori nodded her head emphatically, her ponytail bobbing, eyes wide. “Oh yeah.”
“Well, then, sure. I guess. Blood transfusion would be fine.”
“Good call. Here’s a consent form. Read it over. The doctor will have you sign here and witness it once she’s explained the various risks, et cetera.” Lori tapped the X at the bottom of the page with her pen, then tucked the pen under the metal clasp of the clipboard and handed it to her.
The pager on Lori’s belt buzzed. She glanced at it, made a face. “Gotta go. Be back in a jiff.” She headed to the door. “Oh, hey,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Your assistant, Mary Browning, is two doors down. Room 304. Close call. Poor thing nearly drowned . . . hypothermia. Imagine old Pete Wilkson’s surprise, taking the rowboat out to pick up some Dungeness crabs for him and his missus’s dinner. The man, as usual, was two sheets to the wind. Thought he was hallucinating when he found poor Mary, barely conscious, draped over his crab-trap float.” Lori laughed, shaking her head. “Serves him right. Shouldn’t be out there after dark with no lights. Anyway, Mary’s responding well to treatment. Not a single visitor, though, aside from that crazy news photographer who doesn’t count. Can you imagine, sneaking photos of someone lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines, bandaged and bruised? What kind of person does that?” Her pager buzzed again. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . I’m coming. Anyway, if you feel up to it later, poke your head in and say hello. I’m sure she’d appreciate seeing a friendly face.” Lori turned to the door and banged into Gabe. “Oh. You’re back already. That was quick.” She smirked at Zelia and wiggled her eyebrows. “I think I’ll shut the door on my way out. Give you two a little privacy.”
Seventy-one
THE DOOR CLOSED behind him, muffling the clatter in the hall from the lunch trolley that was delivering meals to the patients. “How are you doing?” Gabe stepped deeper into the room.
Zelia looked tired. Her face was pale. “Okay,” she said.
“I brought you”—he lifted the brown paper bag in his hand and jiggled it temptingly—“some goodies from Intrepid, as hospital food isn’t known for its culinary delights.”
She smiled wanly. “Thanks.”
“Maybe a bouquet of flowers would have been better?”
“No. Food from Intrepid is perfect. I’ll eat some later.” Her eyelids were drifting shut. She dragged them open again with considerable effort. “I’m a little sleepy still.”
He nodded. “The drug probably isn’t out of your system yet.”
“That must be it.” She rubbed her eyes. Reminded Gabe of a sleepy puppy. “Would you mind doing me an enormous favor?”
“Anything.”
“I’m feeling kind of . . .” She looked embarrassed. “Shaky.” Zelia shrugged, but he noticed now that she was trembling slightly. “Scared, I guess, from all the . . .” She exhaled. “Anyway, I was wondering if you would hold me for a while?”
“Of course.” His eyes felt hot as he put the bag of food on her bedside table, bent over, and wrapped his arms around her, the relief of it choking his throat.
“More.” Her arms tugged him downward. “Can you get on the bed with me?”
God, he wanted to. “You’re attached to a drip.”
“We’ll be careful not to dislodge anything. I want . . . I need to be in your arms.”
Gabe removed his shoes, and the soft smile of relief that bloomed on her face weakened his knees. “I know it seems silly, but . . .”
“Not silly at all,” Gabe said, loving her so much he thought he would burst. She scooted over and lifted the blue sheet and the thin white blanket with a blue stripe that covered her. He climbed carefully onto her bed. Using his arms and right leg to take the bulk of his weight, his left thigh on fire. Both of them mindful of the IV port, the lines running to the drip and the heart monitor. It was a tight squeeze, but it didn’t matter. Once he was settled, she nestled in close, her head on his chest, his arm around her beautiful, silky-soft shoulders. And he was filled with a sense of peace, of coming home.
She was asleep within seconds. The muscles in the leg that she had draped over his and the arm that she’d wrapped around his chest grew lax and heavy.
Gabe lay in that narrow hospital bed with Zelia, drenched in sweat as he beat back the rolling waves of searing pain that had become a fierce drumbeat in his left thigh.
He held Zelia long after he’d lost feeling in his arm, unwilling to wake or release her. Hospital staff came and went and still she slept, her breath soft and steady on his chest as her heartbeat merged with his.
The scent that was uniquely hers, with a hint of vanilla and cinnamon from her soap or shampoo, soothed him. And he found if he focused on her smell, he could momentarily crowd back the images from the night before. Images, memories, and agonizing hot shame that threatened to devour him piece by piece.
Seventy-two
ZELIA SHOOED THE final guests through the gallery door and locked it behind them, heaving a sigh of relief. The March Madness art show had been a spectacular success. Record sales, with a huge surge in international buyers, and Zelia had a wait list a mile long to purchase works by the “overnight” sensation, artist Eve Harris.
She sighed with contentment, slipped off her heels, and then padded into the back room.
“Happy?” Gabe asked. He was already elbows deep in soapy water, washing wineglasses.
“The night couldn’t have gone better,” Zelia said, indulging in an exultant twirl before dropping her heels onto the coat closet floor.
She turned back to the room and watched Gabe and his parents puttering around and was filled with a quiet gratitude. “Thank you, so much.” She walked over to Alma and gently removed the wastebasket from her hands. “I can finish up here. Seriously, I really appreciate all of your help setting up, but you and Fergus should go home now.” Zelia wrapped her arms around the diminutive woman who had become so dear to her. “I have the cleanup routine down pat. It’s going to take me fifteen minutes max.”
“Many hands make light work,” Alma said, but Zelia could see the weariness from the late hour was setting in.
“Gabe,” Zelia called. “Your mom’s being stubborn. Help me out here.”
Gabe dried his hands. “Zelia’s right,” he said as he gathered his parents’ coats. “I’ll drive you home.” He gave Zelia a quick kiss as he passed, herding his parents toward the door. “Be back in a jiff.”
It wasn’t until they’d left and the rumble of Gabe’s SUV had been swallowed up by the night that the hole in her life created by Mary’s absence made itself known once again. The two of them had always done this cleanup ritual together while chatting about the events of the night. Where was she? Was she safe?
The second Mary had been released from the hospital she’d packed her suitcase, swung by Zelia’s, picked up her cat, and then was on the next ferry off the island.
“But what about all your things, your furniture? You’ve built a life here, Mary. I know you had a traumatic experience, but Tristan Guillory is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
“I know.” Mary’s eyes had been dark with sorrow.
&n
bsp; “Then why leave? Whatever it is, we can work our way through it. I’m your friend, Mary. Let me help. Please.”
Mary didn’t answer. Just gave her a fierce hug. Zelia could feel the thumping of Mary’s heart. Mary’s breath and body shook as warm, salty tears slid down the nape of Zelia’s neck, soaking the polka-dotted white cotton fabric.
When Mary had finally straightened, her tear-stained face was resolute. She’d refused to give Zelia a forwarding address. “I can’t,” Mary had replied. “It’s for your own safety.” Another quick hug, and then she and Charlie were gone.
At least Mary had allowed Zelia to pay her the cash owed for hours worked. While Gabe gathered Charlie’s belongings, Zelia had grabbed an envelope from her desk, then disappeared into her bedroom. She’d opened her lockbox, where she kept her passport and a stash of emergency cash. She’d counted the bills, two thousand, five hundred dollars. She’d wished she had more. Then she’d seen Gabe’s plump wallet lying on the dresser. “Gabe,” she’d said, poking her head out the doorway. “Could you come in here for a second?”
A moment later he’d appeared, a multitude of cat toys in his arms.
“Can I?” she’d asked, pointing at his wallet.
“Absolutely,” he’d replied. Understanding completely.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“No need.” He scooped up a catnip mouse from the rug by the bed. “I’m gonna miss the little bugger,” he’d said as he exited the room.
All in all, unbeknownst to Mary, she’d left with a little over four thousand dollars in a sealed envelope that Zelia had tucked inside the zipper compartment of her purse. Money, and half a loaf of Zelia’s first attempt at homemade banana bread.
As she’d watched Mary’s old rattletrap pull out of her driveway with all the money Zelia had at hand and half a loaf of warm banana bread, it still didn’t feel like she’d done enough.
Life had gone on, however. The press finally departed, chasing the next hot headline, but not before Zelia and Gabe had been interviewed ad nauseam. The only caveats Zelia had insisted on was that all interviews must be held at Art Expressions Gallery. And any work of art that was featured in the background of a photo must be labeled in the photo description.
She had Gabe drive her straight from the hospital to Eve Harris’s home, where Zelia loaded as many of Eve’s paintings as the back of the SUV could hold. Once at her gallery she’d pulled an all-nighter. Got Eve Harris’s work photographed and up on her website, chose which paintings to hang, labeled them. Gabe held paintings, hammered nails, made and consumed buckets of coffee. The two of them looked a right mess the next morning when the members of the press arrived for the conference. Gabe had zipped out, showered and shaved, brought back a change of clothes for Zelia. She’d figured he’d grab one of her business power suits, but he’d arrived with a jewel-toned velvet dress and boots. “It’s my favorite,” he’d said. So she had washed up in the bathroom sink and put it on. She had a spare powder and a tube of lipstick in the top drawer of her desk for emergencies, but even a dash of powder couldn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes. No matter. The gallery looked amazing, and that was her number one priority.
The next night, Zelia hadn’t needed to pull an all-nighter, but she had worked like a dog into the wee hours of the morn, rotating the artwork so that another of her artists would be featured. Also, after watching a few of the clips playing on TV, she’d redesigned temporary artwork labels. She removed the descriptions, the size, and left only the painting’s title and artist’s name. Instead of using the usual-size font, she blew the artwork title and the artist’s name up to a massive size forty-eight.
Zelia gazed around the empty gallery, memories of Mary bumping gently against her. So she closed her eyes and sent a short prayer Mary’s way, wishing her happiness, safety, and a peaceful resolution to whatever it was that had her on the run again. Zelia didn’t know if it helped, sending these prayers Mary’s way, but at least it eased the feeling of helplessness Zelia had whenever Mary popped into her mind. Once her prayer was completed, Zelia opened her eyes and began the tedious job of cleaning up the party debris.
Seventy-three
ZELIA WOKE WITH a jolt, sat up in bed, panicked, darkness all around. “Gabe,” she cried out. “Gabe, where are you?”
“I’m right here.” His voice was gentle, groggy with sleep. “Don’t worry. You’re not alone.”
“Thank God.” She sank back onto the bed. Gabe wrapped his arms around her, snuggled her close.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. Her heart was still racing.
“Never,” he replied, dropping a soft kiss on the top of her head.
They lay there like that, in the silence of the room, their bodies entwined. The accelerated pace of their hearts calming, like the ocean after a storm.
“It was him again. In my dream. He was in the room. Only I could see him approaching this time. It’s like I was watching the whole thing unfold from where I was floating on the ceiling. Could see myself lying there, curled up on my side. Could see the shadow shape of him creep out of my closet, and I’m yelling as loud as I can, ‘Wake up! Get out!’ But the me in the bed doesn’t hear.” Gabe was moving his hand in slow, steady circles on her back. Grounding her to the present. She snuggled in tighter, needing the warmth of his body to chase away the cold. “I don’t know why I keep having these dumb nightmares. It’s frustrating. He’s gone now. Can’t hurt me anymore. So why am I still allowing him to terrorize my present?”
“Give yourself time, Zee. It was a traumatic experience. Since then you’ve been crazy busy dealing with the press, not to mention March Madness, as well as losing your assistant. The fact is, you’ve been running on fumes these last couple of weeks, so your body is using your dreamscape to process what happened the best that it can.”
“Mm . . . you’re right.” Zelia could feel the tension from the dream draining out of her.
“I dream of him, too. Think of him often, of that night. Turning it over and over in my head. Wondering if there was anything I could have done differently.”
“Was there?”
“I don’t know. If there was, I haven’t found it yet.” She felt him shrug. He was talking in a matter-of-fact way, but she knew more was going on than he was showing.
“So, why don’t we backtrack? Let’s say when Tristan pleaded for mercy, you did the Jesus thing, released your grip on the syringe. Got off of him and let him go free. What do you think would’ve happened then?”
“Don’t know.”
“I do. The second you turned your back, he would have plunged that needle in you so deep, there would be no dislodging it. You’d be dead. Then he would’ve gleefully killed me, using the tortured-artist card to justify his deviant behavior. Yes, you’d have had a split second of peace knowing that you had refused to play judge, jury, and executioner. However, you’d also be dead, and so would I. And let’s not forget, there are only two confirmed murders, but the police have now reopened OD cases involving gallery owners in Gstaad, Munich, and two in the UK.” She hugged him tight. “You did the right thing. I know it’s hard, and I’m sorry you’ve been forced to carry the burden, but I’m glad you did what you did. If that makes me a bad person, so be it. Who knows how many more people he would have killed before he was apprehended?”
“I worried that perhaps you were repulsed by me, by the fact that I’m no better than him.”
“God no. How could you even think such a crazy thought? You’re a million times a better man than Tristan Guillory. I feel blessed and lucky that we found each other.” She turned her head, placed a kiss over his heart, nuzzling her face into his chest, inhaling the scent of him. “I’m with you because I love you, Gabe.” The second the words flew from her mouth Zelia felt lighter.
Gabe froze. She heard the breath catch in his chest.
“I don’t
know why I waited so long to tell you.” Zelia continued. “Fear, I guess, plain and simple. I was terrified of being vulnerable, of loving again. It scared the hell out of me. So I shoved you away, using all kinds of bogus excuses, never mind that I believed them. It still doesn’t make it right. The fact is, you repeatedly opened up to me and bared your heart, while I kept a fierce grip tight around mine. And I’m sorry for that, and I hope you’ll forgive me, because I love you so much, Gabe. Truly.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he replied, his voice gruff with emotion. “I love you, too. Always and forever.”
Zelia smiled in the darkened room, reminded of a children’s bedtime story her mother used to read. “I’m glad.” She could feel the comforting thump of his heart underneath her outspread hand, and she was filled with gratitude. “Thank you for being so patient, giving me the space and time I needed.”
“Wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
Zelia tilted her head upward, needing the taste of his mouth on her lips, and then needing more. Needing all of him surrounding her, inside of her, filling her completely. And Gabe, being the consummate gentleman, obliged her in a most satisfactory fashion.