Greg Bennett had an aversion to the antiseptic smell that permeated hospitals. It nearly overpowered him the minute he walked through the large glass doors of San Francisco General. His dislike of hospitals was linked to his mother’s long stay before her death, he supposed. That, and his own revulsion to needles and blood.
He paused at the information center.
“Can I help you?” a much-too-perky candy striper asked him.
“Where might I find Dr. Edward Thorpe?”
“Oh, you’re here about the article. That’s wonderful!”
Article? What article? Greg hadn’t a clue, but he played along as if he did. His son had decided he didn’t want to meet him, and that was his choice, but Greg wanted to see Edward. Needed to see him. He wasn’t going to make an issue of it, wasn’t going to announce who he was. He didn’t plan to cause a scene or even call attention to himself. It was just that his curiosity had gotten the better of him….
Greg realized he’d given up his parental rights years ago, but he couldn’t leave matters as they were. Not now that he knew Catherine had borne the child.
Catherine had mentioned the physical resemblance between them, and Greg felt an urge to simply see his son. He doubted they’d exchange a word. Without ever knowing him, without wanting to know him, Edward had rejected Greg.
Like father, like son.
“Take the elevator to the fifth floor.” The young woman at the information desk pointed toward the row of elevators on the opposite side of the lobby. “Tell the nurse at the desk that you’re here for the blood test.”
“Ah.” Greg hesitated. Did she say blood? He was most definitely not interested in anything to do with blood.
“I think it’s wonderful of you,” she added with a sweetness that made him want to cringe.
Greg didn’t feel wonderful. Furthermore, he had no intention of giving anyone a drop of his blood. Not without one hell of a fight first.
“Dr. Edward Thorpe—you’re sure he’s there?”
“He’s on the fifth floor,” the woman assured him. “Just ask for him at the nurses’ station.”
“Thank you,” he said, turning toward the bank of elevators.
“No, thank you,” she called after him.
Greg got off the elevator at the fifth floor and to his surprise walked into a corridor filled with people. As instructed, he headed for the nurses’ station, but before he could say a word, he was handed a clipboard.
“Complete the form, sign the bottom of the page and bring this back to me when you’re finished.”
Greg stared at the woman. “What’s it for?”
“We need you to fill out the questionnaire and sign the release if we’re going to take your blood.” Unlike the perky candy striper, this one looked harassed and overworked.
“I realize that, but—”
“Just read the form. If you have any questions after that, I’ll be happy to answer them.”
That sounded fair enough. Greg joined the others, sat down and read the page. It was exactly what the nurse had said. Basically, San Francisco General was requesting permission to draw blood. Not that he’d give it. Not in this lifetime.
As soon as he finished reading the form, he knew it was time to leave. He was about to pick himself up and discreetly disappear when a physician entered the room.
Conversation stopped as the man stood before the group and started to speak. Greg glanced up and froze. It was Edward. He recognized him immediately, long before he looked at the identification badge that hung around his neck.
“Has everyone finished signing the waiver?” Dr. Thorpe asked. “If you’ve decided this isn’t something that interests you, you can leave now. We appreciate your time. For those of you who wish to continue, we promise to make this as quick and painless as possible. Before you know it, you’ll be on your way.”
Three or four people left the room.
Greg could follow them or proceed with this. Swallowing his natural aversion, he quickly signed his name. Okay, so he had to give a little of his blood. No big deal. He’d give a lot more if it meant he could spend a few minutes getting to know his son.
Catherine was right about one thing. Edward was tall and distinguished-looking, but as far as family resemblance went, Greg didn’t see it. Still, he couldn’t stop staring. This was his son. Edward looked good. Damn good. One glance had told Greg that his son was everything he wasn’t. Dedicated. Compassionate. Smart.
“I’ll need that,” the nurse said as Greg shuffled past.
He gave her the clipboard and walked down the corridor, along with the others.
“Before we go any further,” Edward said, “I want to personally thank each of you for your generous response to the recent newspaper article. We didn’t have this many volunteers in the entire month of November. I’d like to think the Christmas spirit has touched us all. Does anyone have any questions?”
A man with prematurely white hair raised his hand. “What will happen if we’re a match?”
While Edward talked about obscure-sounding medical procedures, Greg leaned toward the woman standing ahead of him. “A match for what?”
“Bone marrow,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth, then turned to eye him. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”
If ever a question needed answering, this was it.
“No,” he said more to himself than to her. He wasn’t sure of anything. Curiosity had brought him to the hospital. A curiosity so deep it had consumed him for days. After thirty-five years of not knowing, not caring, he now felt an overwhelming desire to see his son.
“Who’d like to go first?”
Before Greg could stop himself, he shot his hand into the air.
“Great. Follow me.” Greg stepped out of the line and followed his son down the corridor to a cubicle.
“The nurse will be right in to draw blood.”
“Aren’t you going to take it yourself?” Greg asked. Already he could feel his panic level rise.
Edward shrugged lightly. “Well…the nurse usually does this.”
“I’d prefer if you did it yourself. In fact, I insist on it.”
Surprise showing in his eyes, Edward turned to face him. It seemed he was about to refuse, but for reasons Greg wouldn’t question, silently led him to a chair and instructed him to sit down.
Greg sat, unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and rolled it up.
“Do I know you?” Edward asked, studying him carefully.
“No,” Greg responded. “Do I remind you of anyone?” He was well aware that this was an unfair question.
“No, but I thought you might be a friend of my father’s, Dr. Larry Thorpe.”
“No, I’ve never met him.”
Edward took a short piece of what looked like rubber tubing and tied it around Greg’s upper arm. Next he gingerly tested the skin. “Nice blood vessels. We shouldn’t have any problem.”
“Good.” Greg’s mouth went dry at the sight of the needle, and closing his eyes, he looked away. This was even worse than the last time he’d had blood tests. He felt the needle against his skin and braced himself for the small prick of pain. As a kid he’d fainted in the doctor’s office every time he received a shot or had blood drawn; he wasn’t keen to relive the experience. That was years ago, but even now, as an adult, he generally avoided annual checkups if he could and—The needle was the last thing he noticed until he heard Edward’s voice, which seemed to boom at him like a foghorn.
“Are you awake?”
Greg blinked and realized he was lying on the floor. Edward knelt beside him.
Their eyes met, and embarrassed, Greg glanced away. “What happened?” he asked, still in a daze.
“You passed out.”
“I did?” Abruptly Greg sat upright. He would have fled, but the room had started to swim in the most disturbing fashion.
“Take it slowly,” Edward advised, then helped him stand up. “I’ve asked one of the nurses to take your blood pr
essure. Tell me, when was the last time you had anything to eat?”
“I’m fine. I had breakfast this morning.” It was a lie. He wasn’t fine and he hadn’t eaten breakfast. “I just don’t happen to like needles.”
“Then it’s a brave thing you did, coming in here like this.”
“Brave?” Greg repeated with a short laugh. “I’m the biggest coward who ever lived.”
Seven
O n Monday morning Greg recognized that he had no other options left to him. It wouldn’t be easy to apply for a loan at Pacific Union Bank, but he had nowhere else to go. He’d never been a person to beg. Never needed to beg until now, but if begging would help him hold on to Bennett Wines, he’d do that and more.
The worst of it was that he’d have to go begging to his own brother. Phil, who’d like nothing better than to call him a failure. He wouldn’t be far from wrong; Greg felt like a failure.
Despite his mood, Greg prepared carefully for the interview, wearing his best suit. He was about to head out the door when his phone rang. Caller ID told him it wasn’t a creditor.
“Hello,” he snapped.
“Hello, Greg.”
It was Tess, his almost ex-wife. Ex-wife number three. “What’s the matter? Are you after another pound of flesh?” he sneered. The last thing he needed right now was to deal with spoiled selfish Tess.
“I heard about your money problems.”
“I’ll bet you’re gloating, too.”
He heard her intake of breath. “I don’t wish you ill, Greg.”
He didn’t believe her for a moment. “What do you want?” He was facing an unpleasant task that demanded all his attention, and he didn’t want to be waylaid by an even more unpleasant one.
“I called because I didn’t realize the extent of your money problems until now and, well…I’m sorry.”
He said nothing.
“I wish you’d told me earlier. If I’d known, perhaps—”
“Would it have made any difference?” Their troubles had started long before the fan leaf virus had destroyed his vines. Long before he’d been confronted with one financial crisis after another. He knew when he and Tess got married that they were probably making a mistake. Still, that hadn’t stopped him. He’d wanted her, and she’d wanted the prestige of being married to him. True, they looked good together, but at the moment it seemed that was all they’d had going for them.
He didn’t like living alone, but he figured he’d get used to it eventually.
She didn’t answer his probing question right away. “If I’d known about your troubles, I like to think it would have changed things.”
All women preferred to believe the best about themselves, he thought cynically. “Think what you like,” he muttered.
“Oh, Greg, do you hate me that much?”
Her words caught him up short. “I don’t hate you at all,” he said, and realized it was true. He was sorry to see the marriage end, but he hadn’t been surprised and, in fact, had anticipated their divorce long before Tess moved out.
“You don’t?” She sounded surprised, but recovered quickly. “Good, because I was thinking we should both do away with these attorneys and settle matters on our own. I can’t afford three-hundred dollars an hour, and neither can you.”
Greg wasn’t sure he should put too much faith in this sudden change of heart. “Do you mean it?”
“Of course I do.”
“All right, name a date and a time, and I’ll be there.” Greg hated the eagerness that crept into his voice, but he wanted the attorneys out of these divorce proceedings as much as Tess did. Without them—stirring up animosities, asking for unreasonable concessions—he and Tess had a chance of making this separation amicable.
“How about next Tuesday night?” she suggested.
Greg noted the time and place and, with a farewell that verged on friendly, they ended the call.
Well, well. Life was full of surprises, and not all of them unpleasant.
The drive into the city, however, could only be called unpleasant. Traffic was heavy and Greg soon lost his patience, particularly when it took him nearly an hour to find parking, and that wasn’t even close to the financial district. The cost of parking in San Francisco should be illegal, he grumbled to himself. This was his third trip into the city within ten days; he hadn’t been to San Francisco three times in the entire previous year. Greg preferred his role as lord of the manor—a role that was about to be permanently canceled if he couldn’t secure a loan.
The sidewalks were crowded, since it was almost lunchtime. A brisk wind blew off the bay and he hunched his shoulders against it, ignoring the expensive-looking decorations on the bank buildings and the tasteful Christmas music floating out from well-appointed lobbies as doors were opened.
He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t be forced to see Phil this early in the process, if at all. Knowing Phil as he did, Greg was keenly aware that his brother would take real pleasure in personally rejecting his application. Then again, he might exercise some modicum of mercy and leave it to someone else, a junior officer. But that wasn’t something Greg needed to worry about just yet. Today was only the first step—meeting with a loan officer and completing the lengthy application. Once he’d finished the paperwork, he could leave. Walk out the doors of yet another bank, wait for yet another rejection.
He hated his own pessimistic attitude, but nothing had happened in the past week to give him any hope. His brother hated him—it was that simple—and Phil wasn’t the kind of man to put their argument behind him. If he hadn’t forgiven Greg in ten years, he wasn’t likely to do it now.
Phil had always been somewhat jealous of him, Greg knew, something he’d never really understood. Greg supposed his greatest sin was the fact that he’d been born last. That, and sharing a passion for wine making with his father. Despite what Phil believed, Greg had loved their mother. Her death, although expected, had hit him hard.
He’d had no way of knowing how critical her condition was. They’d spoken briefly the night before, and while she’d sounded weak, she’d encouraged him to take care of his own business, to keep his appointment at court. So he’d felt there was still plenty of time. She hadn’t seemed that close to death.
His fight with Phil after the funeral had been the lowest point in his life. The truth was, Phil hadn’t called him any name he hadn’t called himself in the years since.
When Greg had finished with the loan application at Pacific Union, he walked back to the parking lot and paid the attendant what amounted to a ransom. But instead of heading for the St. Francis for a good stiff drink as was his custom, Greg drove to View-crest, the cemetery where his mother was buried.
He spent more than an hour wandering down long grassy rows in the biting wind before he located his mother’s grave. He stood there, gazing down at the marker. Lydia Smith Bennett, 1930-1989 Beloved Mother. Phil had arranged for that stone. Phil had made all the arrangements.
This was Greg’s first visit since they’d buried her. He shook his head, brushing away tears, overwhelmed by all the things he’d left unsaid. I loved you, Mom. I did. I do. I’m sorry…
Eventually he squatted down, touched his fingers to his lips and pressed them to the marble gravestone. A long moment passed before he stood up again, shoulders bent, head bowed, and silently walked away.
“Has anyone got a tissue?” Mercy wailed, and when no one responded, she threw herself against Goodness, wiping her face on her friend’s soft sleeve.
“Would you kindly stop?”
But Goodness sounded suspiciously tearful. Shirley, too, was having a hard time holding back her emotions. Seeing Greg like this, broken and defeated, was painful. She barely recognized him anymore. She didn’t know when it had happened or how, but she’d started to care about this man. Obviously Goodness and Mercy had also revised their feelings toward him.
“We’ve got to do something to help Greg!”
“We’re trying,” Shirley said.
“But he’s in bad shape.”
“I have a feeling it’s going to get worse,” Shirley whispered, fearing the future.
“Say it isn’t so.” Mercy wailed all the louder.
“His brother’s going to reject the loan, isn’t he?” Shirley couldn’t imagine Phil making any other decision and said as much.
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Goodness cried. “I think it’s time I got ready for choir practice again, don’t you?”
“Goodness, no!”
“I don’t care if Gabriel sends me back to singing with the heavenly host or even gatekeeping. Phil Bennett is about to get a piece of my mind.”
“Goodness.” Mercy gasped.
“What?”
“Goodness,” Shirley began. “You—”
“I’m going, too.” Mercy glanced at Shirley.
Shirley could see she had no choice. “Oh, all right, but we can’t all three join the choir.”
“Why not?” Mercy asked, rushing to catch up with Goodness.
Shirley shook her head in wonder, sure they’d be facing the wrath of Gabriel once again. She just hoped the sacrifice they were prepared to make on Greg Bennett’s behalf would turn out to be worth it.
“Phil, I swear you haven’t heard a word I’ve said all evening.”
Phil lowered the evening newspaper and looked at his wife. “What gives you that impression?”
Sandy threw back her head with a frustrated groan and returned to the kitchen.
Reluctantly Phil followed her. He should have known better than to try bluffing his way out of this. After all these years of marriage, there wasn’t much he could hide from Sandy. He was preoccupied, true. It had to do with his brother. His shiftless irresponsible no-good brother who’d once been everyone’s golden boy. Well, not anymore.
“Greg was in the bank this afternoon,” Phil told Sandy in a nonchalant voice, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
He had Sandy’s full attention now. “Did you talk to him?” She knew as well as he did that they hadn’t spoken since their mother’s funeral.
“No-o-o.” He shrugged and tried to look regretful. “Dave Hilaire was the one who dealt with him.”
A Gift to Last Page 13
