Window on the Bay

by Debbie Macomber

  “I believe that’s my cue to leave,” Rowan said.

  He slid off the sofa and carried his mug into the kitchen. After reaching for his coat, Rowan started for the front door.

  I followed him. “I am so sorry,” I whispered, giving him a light kiss.

  He grinned and kissed the tip of my nose. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sunshine.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Maureen

  Much to my surprise, I’d actually enjoyed the Seahawks game. And, oh my, the kiss Logan and I shared after their last-second win would stay with me forever. I didn’t put much stock into it. I didn’t dare. I was convinced it was the exhilaration, the excitement, and the happiness of the moment that had caused Logan to kiss me. Still, I didn’t care what had led to it. I’d liked that kiss.

  A lot.

  On Monday, right after the Sunday Seahawks game, Logan had stopped at the library to tell me he was unable to keep the dinner date we’d agreed to the night before, as he’d been asked to oversee an out-of-town project in Moses Lake, over in eastern Washington. He’d have to head out that afternoon, and he’d be away a week—possibly two. To disguise my disappointment, I’d loaded him up with books that I felt he’d enjoy reading while he was away. No one had ever accused me of being a compulsive talker, but suddenly, I couldn’t keep my mouth closed. The words spilled out of me like I couldn’t speak fast enough. Jenna had experienced this same thing earlier, and now it was my turn. If Logan noticed anything abnormal, he didn’t mention it. Before leaving the library, he casually mentioned that he’d give me a call once he got back in town.

  I rationalized that the separation was probably a good thing, as Logan was growing on me; the time apart would give me the perspective I needed to clear my head.

  Logan rattled me. He had from the beginning. He wasn’t like anyone I knew. I’d never thought about plumbers as being super-intelligent, knowledgeable, or even well informed. To be truthful, I hadn’t thought of construction workers much at all. Logan was changing my outlook. He read three newspapers a day. He kept up on current affairs as if he was considering running for Congress. Every time we were together, I learned something more about him. Somewhere along the way, I realized I’d stereotyped him because he was a plumber and I’d totally underestimated him. Until we’d met, I hadn’t realized I’d carried this prejudice.

  That man loved his Seahawks. He knew the names of every player on the team and the positions they played. And their competitors. Basketball was another sport he enjoyed, and hockey. These games were as foreign to me as football was.

  Something that came as no surprise was how much he enjoyed his Friday-night habit of bellying up to the bar after work for a draft beer with his crew. I’d seen him with his peers only once, but I’d been there long enough to see that he was familiar with the crowd, and that he was well liked.

  * * *

  —

  The days dragged by with Logan out of town. Jenna and I caught up with each other on Sunday, and we finally were able to watch Casablanca from beginning to end and to continue finalizing our plans for Paris. On Tuesday after work, we met up to shop for groceries. Jenna was shopping for her mother and refilling her own kitchen cupboards that Allie had raided when she’d stopped by the house to do her laundry. It was good to get some extra time with Jenna, as she’d been so involved with caring for her mom.

  “Have you heard from Logan since he’s been away?” Jenna asked as she examined a head of lettuce before adding it to her cart.

  I added bananas to my own cart. “He sent me a text message to let me know they held him over past the first week.”

  I wasn’t a fan of text messages. His text had been brief, telling me the day he’d be returning. Brief and to the point. I must have read it a dozen times, searching for some hidden meaning.

  “Did you answer him?” Jenna added parsley to a plastic bag and tossed it into her cart.

  “No…I didn’t think it required an answer.”

  Jenna paused and stared at me. It was one of those looks that appeared to question my emotional IQ. “Did it ever occur to you that he might have been telling you that he missed you?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.” It had. I was searching for a hidden message in that brief text. After some thought, I’d convinced myself it simply wasn’t there.

  “Come on, Maureen.” Jenna threw her arms in the air. “Get with the program.”

  This was my problem in a nutshell. I was out of my element when it came to men and relationships. Way out—as in outer space, as far as the Earth was to Mars. I didn’t have the ability to read between the lines. If Logan was telling me he missed me, it would have helped tremendously if he’d said it straight out.

  Why was it that people had to play games with their words? I wasn’t any good at that, either. Well, other than Scrabble. I played a killer game of Scrabble. Maybe I’d ask Logan over and we’d go head-to-head over a Scrabble board. That was more my level. That I could do and do well.

  “Text him now,” Jenna insisted.

  “Now?”

  That look on her face was back. I swear one of Jenna’s looks could melt kryptonite. She wasn’t going to let me get away without texting Logan.

  Exasperated with me, she abandoned her cart and held out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

  Clenching my purse tighter against my side, I shook my head. “No way am I letting you text Logan.” Then again, maybe she would know exactly the right thing to type. I hesitated, reconsidering. “What are you going to say? Are you going to tell him you hijacked my phone? Or are you going to pretend to be me?”

  She weighed my words. “I’m going to pretend I’m you.”

  Horrified at what Jenna might say, I kept my phone in my hand. “I’ll text him myself, thank you very much.”

  This was worse than when we were in college. I’d always been the nerd. Jenna had insisted that boys were afraid of me and that it was the reason I rarely got asked out. I hung around mostly with Jenna, which did wonders for my social life. Jenna was always fun to be around; if I wasn’t with her, then I would escape into the library. I would have buried my face in a book all through college and been a recluse if not for my best friend. I could see myself, even to this day, living in a cabin in the woods, surrounded by dozens of books, content to never leave. Yup, I was grateful that she was my friend, if for nothing more than to bring me out of my cocoon.

  “Do it now,” she insisted again.

  “Okay, okay,” I said. It was crazy how nervous this was making me. Staring down at the screen, I didn’t know where to start or what to say. Jenna must have seen the problem, because she offered a suggestion.

  “Tell him you’re looking forward to his return.”

  I hesitated.

  “You are anxious for him to get back, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t want to admit it, but under her penetrating glare, I gave in and nodded.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  I typed in the text and stared down at the words, then took a deep breath and hit the send arrow. I returned my phone to my purse and was about to close it when my phone dinged. I jerked it back out to read the message.

  “Is it from Logan?” Jenna demanded.

  I nodded, holding my breath as I read the message. A warm, happy feeling came over me. I had trouble concealing a smile. I wasn’t even sure he’d respond and was overwhelmed that a reply had come so quickly. Maybe Jenna was right—in that one text, Logan had been trying to engage me and to tell me that he missed me.

  “What’d he say?” Ever curious, Jenna tried to read over my shoulder.

  “He wants to know what I’m reading,” I said. Holding back my delight from his return text was impossible, and before I knew it, I was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  “He wants to know what?”

  “What book I’
m reading,” I repeated. One of the best parts of our relationship was how Logan and I communicated through the books we read. We didn’t often agree, but as we came to know more about each other I discovered that our opinions had aligned more often than not.

  “Well, aren’t you going to answer him?”

  “I’m shopping. Nothing bugs me more than people who have their eyes or ears glued to their phones while walking down the street or while shopping. It’s ridiculous, and I refuse to become one of them.”

  “You do plan on answering him when you get back home, I hope?” she asked, thinking she’d have to prod me along some more. I didn’t need her to shout out instructions at me like a sideline coach. Well, maybe I did.

  “Yes, when I can think straight.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, I promise. I like this guy,” I confessed to Jenna.

  “Green light?”

  I nodded with a smile. “Yup, green light.”

  She looked smug and pleased, so I turned my cart away and headed to the dairy section for two-percent milk and fat-free sour cream.

  * * *

  —

  Once I was home and had put away my groceries, I sat down with my phone. Staring at it again as if it would give me verbal instructions, I heaved a sigh and replied to Logan’s text, listing the most recently read book on my nightstand as well as the latest bestsellers that had arrived in the library. It wasn’t more than a minute after I sent off my reply that my phone rang.

  It was Logan calling me.

  “Hello?” I said tentatively.

  “My fingers are too fat to text,” he said, as if apologizing for the call.

  “I’m not any good at texting myself,” I assured him. “How are you?”

  “Bored. The money’s good over here because of the overtime, but I’d rather be back in Seattle.”

  “I’d rather you were, too.” Did I just say that? I felt myself blush and was about to make an excuse to get off the phone before I made another gaffe.

  “So, you miss me,” Logan said, jumping on my comment. He sounded pleased, and I pictured him pumping his fists in the air like the player who had scored that last-minute touchdown.

  “A little.” I let him have his moment of glory. Besides, it was the truth. I did miss him.

  “Good. I miss you, too. Hey, did you notice the Seahawks won their away game this weekend?”

  Yes, I’d heard. “Against the Patriots.”

  “You watched the game?” He sounded more than a little stunned.

  “No, I was busy, but I read about it on Monday. I feel like I have a vested interest now that I have a ‘12th Woman’ jersey.”

  A soft silence followed.

  “I’ll be back—”

  “When will you—”

  We both spoke at once.

  “Go ahead,” Logan instructed.

  “No, please, you first. You said you’d be back sometime this week?”

  “Depending on traffic over the pass, I should return sometime Thursday. The shop wants me on the construction site by the library Friday morning.”

  “That doesn’t give you much downtime.”

  “No complaints here. I’m grateful for the work. Working construction has its ups and downs. For most of my career I’ve spent at least a month out of work every year, generally in the winter. Sort of enjoy that time off. I look forward to doing projects around the house.”

  Logan was the only union worker I knew.

  “Well, have a safe drive home.”

  “I will.”

  Neither one of us had a lot more to say. I’m not much of a conversationalist, especially over the phone, and it didn’t appear he was, either. We ended the call.

  It was dinnertime, but I wasn’t that hungry. Talking to Logan left me feeling antsy. I wasn’t sure why. I felt an urge to do laundry and scrub my bathtub. Despite what my daughter insisted, I wasn’t a neat freak, but I did like a clean home. This wasn’t my typical cleaning day, though. Whatever it was that drove me to unload my hamper and pick up a scrub brush fell solely at Logan’s feet.

  Somewhere between polishing the chrome on the tub and finishing the last load of laundry, I had an idea. It was bold, and unlike me. I remembered the Seahawks game and the short conversation Logan and I had about the ballet. We had argued about who was more physically fit: professional football players or professional ballet dancers.

  Just that morning, I’d received an email about the New York City Ballet coming to Seattle and that tickets were on sale. They were expensive. I didn’t care. I intended to treat myself, and at the same time, to prove a point to Logan. I would get a second ticket for him to show him that ballet dancers were as athletic as any one of those muscular Seahawks players.

  It was the perfect way to prove my point. Logan wouldn’t be able to watch their graceful, lithe bodies circle the stage without being forced to appreciate the discipline, skill, and talent required for such a demanding career. I’d put them up against football players any day of the week.

  If I remembered our conversation correctly, Logan had never attended a ballet. I had never attended a football game, either, until Logan invited me. I’d learned a great deal and had enjoyed the game. Attending the ballet would be as educational to him as the Seahawks game had been for me.

  Sitting down at my computer, I went online and purchased two tickets. If Logan was unable to attend, I’d give the second ticket to either Jenna or my daughter. Tori had been attending the ballet with me since she was five years old. I’d taken her to the holiday performance of The Nutcracker and she’d loved it. Now it was tradition; we made a point of going every Christmas.

  I wanted Logan to experience it. Excitedly, I decided to send him a text message.

  I have a surprise for you once you return.

  It didn’t take long for him to respond.

  What would that be?

  You’ll have to wait. You’re going to like it.

  Maureen, are you asking me out on a date?

  I am.

  I like surprises.

  Good. Do you own a tie?

  A tie? Maybe.

  A nice sweater will do. No work boots.

  Where are you taking me?

  You’ll find out soon enough.

  I hadn’t felt this much anticipation in a long time. Logan was about to get a lesson in culture that he wouldn’t soon forget.

  CHAPTER 22

  Jenna

  It was the end of my twelve-hour shift and I was tired and eager to get home to soak away the day in a tub of overly hot water. I hadn’t talked to Rowan in a couple days. He was busy; I was busy, too. We wanted to keep our relationship away from the hospital staff and the inevitable gossip as much as possible.

  With my purse slung over my shoulder, I was heading toward the hospital exit when I heard someone call my name.

  “Jenna. Jenna Boltz.”

  I turned to find Rowan’s nurse, Katie. She speed-walked the last few feet to reach me and arrived breathless. Her face was pale, and she looked like she was about to burst into tears.

  “Thank God I caught you,” she said, placing her hand over her heart as though to calm it.

  “What’s wrong?” The panic in her voice startled me.

  “It’s Dr. Lancaster…I don’t know what to do.”

  “What’s happened?” My heart started to race. A dozen alarming scenarios went through my mind.

  “He needs…he needs someone. Can you come?”

  “Of course. What’s happened?”

  “Hurry.”

  Katie’s response confused and worried me even more. Doubts rushed at me like pesky mosquitoes. Fears, too. Had he been hurt? Had there been an accident? She didn’t respond to my questions as I followed her.

  “Pleas
e tell me what’s going on, Katie,” I pleaded a second time.

  “Dr. Lancaster was operating on the severely broken leg of a nine-year-old boy who unexpectedly went into cardiac arrest.” She paused, tears filling her eyes. “He did everything humanly possible to save him, but it was too late. Oh Jenna. He lost it, right in the operating room. Somehow he composed himself before he went to tell the family. He’s terribly upset—he needs you.”

  “Oh no.” My heart ached for the parents and for Rowan. “Where is he?”

  She exhaled. “I’m not sure…I didn’t see him after he spoke with the parents, but I think he might be in his office.”

  She led the way through the narrow hallway to the physicians’ row of offices. Rowan’s door was closed. I could hear what sounded like books slamming against the wall. My eyes widened, and I looked to Katie for assurance that my being there was the right thing.

  Dealing with death, especially that of a child, was never easy. Each medical professional learns to handle the loss of a patient in his or her own way. Working in the intensive care unit, I’d grown more accustomed to it than others. Obviously, I didn’t like to lose a patient. None of us did. But death happened, and it was a reality in our line of work. With some patients, death would come like a thief, quick and unexpected. With others, it would come as a friend, especially to those with lingering illnesses who had long since accepted and welcomed the end of their suffering. Yet others struggled to hold on, fighting it to the end, refusing to let go. Over the years, dealing with death had become a natural part of my duties as an ICU nurse: If there was no chance of recovery, I saw it as part of my job to help my patients and their families make the transition from life to death.

  “Has he experienced this before?” I asked Katie.

  She shook her head. “No. I’ve never seen him lose a patient. The boy apparently had a heart defect that no one was aware of. I didn’t know what to do to help Dr. Lancaster afterward, until I thought of you.”