by Judy Duarte
But Analisa refused to take it. “No, let Mrs. Richards have Lucita with her when she goes to the hospital. It’ll help her feel better.”
From somewhere deep in Claire’s chest, emotion rose in her throat, nearly strangling her, as she realized the value of Analisa’s precious gift. But she couldn’t see sending that little doll to the hospital, where it might easily be lost.
Claire took Lucita from Maria. “I have a better idea. Maybe Analisa and I can take the doll to visit Mrs. Richards later. After she gets settled.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Claire held the doll in one arm and Analisa’s hand with the other, as a siren sounded in the distance.
It had seemed like ages before the ambulance finally arrived, but it had only been a matter of minutes. Before long, the paramedics began working on Hilda, then placed her on a bright yellow portable gurney and loaded her into the ambulance.
Walter, who’d stayed close to the stricken woman through it all, held Hilda’s handbag and tote as he approached Claire. “I’m going to follow the ambulance, then if you’ll give me your number, I’ll call you once I hear what the doctor has to say.”
“All right.” Claire reached into her purse for a scrap of paper and pulled out a Starbucks receipt. She scratched out her number on the back side, then handed it to Walter. “I’ll let Sam—Mr. Dawson—know what’s going on. I can take Analisa to him, if he’d like. Or I can watch her for him this afternoon.”
“While you make that phone call,” Maria said, “I’ll play a game with the children.”
Claire gave her an appreciative smile and mouthed, “Thank you.”
“Come on, Trevor.” Maria placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I want you to join in, too. It’ll be fun.”
The boy scanned the park, then nibbled on his bottom lip for a moment. He glanced at Claire, as worry and indecision welled in his eyes.
“It’ll be all right,” Claire told him. “I’ll keep an eye out for that big boy and won’t let him bother you.”
“Okay. But when you take Analisa to her uncle, can you give me a ride to my apartment? I don’t feel like walking today.”
She didn’t blame him. “I’d be happy to take you home. Now go play with the others.”
Maria slipped her arm around the boy’s shoulders, and he ambled off with her, the skateboard still clutched in his arms.
Claire wasn’t sure what else might be going on between Trevor and the teenager. Nor did she know how to keep him safe from harassment in the future.
The thought of simply buying him a new skateboard crossed her mind. That way he could let the teenager have the one in dispute. Normally, she wouldn’t even consider giving a child a gift that required parental approval, but Trevor had already been allowed to have a board.
Claire would think more about that later, though. Right now, she had a call to make.
Wanting to get out of the sun, she walked over to the concrete bench under the mulberry and took a seat. Then she dialed 4-1-1 on her cell, requested the number for Sam’s law firm, and waited to be connected.
Sam answered on the second ring.
After identifying herself, Claire explained the situation. “I can bring Analisa to you or keep her for a while. Whatever you’d like me to do.”
“I’ll wrap things up here as quickly as I can, then I think I’d better go by the hospital and check on Hilda. Poor thing. She’s a widow and doesn’t have any children. I’m afraid I don’t know any of her friends, so I haven’t got a clue who to call.”
For a moment, Claire thought of all the friendships she’d let go by the wayside since Erik’s death. If anything happened to her, who would be notified? Would anyone even care?
At this point, Vickie still might, which was a good reason to try and reconnect with her.
Claire cleared her throat, hoping to dislodge a lingering sense of regret. “Let me give you my address. You can pick up Analisa whenever it’s convenient.”
“I’d sure appreciate that.”
“I’m glad I can help.”
“You know,” Sam said, “while I’ve got you on the line, I want to apologize for pressing you about that Russell Meredith issue last week. I was out of line.”
“That’s all right. I’m sorry that I got a bit weepy and emotional over it.”
A clumsy silence stretched between them, yet she wasn’t sure what to do about it.
“Well,” Sam finally said, maybe feeling it, too. “I’d better get busy so I can go to the hospital. I’ll see you later this afternoon.”
“Take all the time you need.”
When the line disconnected, Claire glanced at the playground where Maria had gathered the children on the lawn and was playing Duck, Duck, Goose.
Claire hadn’t allowed herself to get involved in anyone else’s life in ages—three years to be exact. Maybe even longer than that. And it was a bit discomfiting to allow herself to be drawn in now. Yet on the other hand, the psychiatrist she’d once seen had told her that time would heal.
So each day, she’d placed a big X on her calendar, hoping that if she scratched out enough squares, the pain would ease and life would become normal again. And she’d seen evidence of that today.
I’m glad I can help, she’d told Sam. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, her words had rung true.
Leaves rustled overhead, and she looked up. There, wedged on one of the lower branches of the mulberry, was a bright yellow envelope.
“Oh, Analisa,” she whispered in an exasperated sigh. “What am I going to do about you and your letters to God?”
In spite of a growing reluctance to remain involved in the pen-pal relationship, Claire looked around, then climbed on the bench and tiptoed in order to reach the envelope. Once it was in her hand, she slipped it into her purse to read later. But she had no intention of answering this one.
Claire had responded to the original letter so that Analisa’s faith wouldn’t be shaken. But now, with Mrs. Richards in an ambulance racing to the hospital, she feared her effort had been a waste of time.
How could Claire continue to nurture the child’s faith when God—or Fate—kept bombarding her with the deaths and illnesses of people who cared for her?
Walter carried Hilda’s canvas bag and purse into the Emergency Room at Pacifica General, a pale green stucco building that overlooked the city of Fairbrook, and followed the paramedics inside.
He hated hospitals. Just the smell, a hodgepodge of disinfectant, bland food, and medicine permeating the walls, turned his gut inside out. Add that to the pain and misery of patients and visitors walking along the squeaky clean corridors, and…well, it wouldn’t take much for a man like him to balk and hightail it out of here while he was still healthy enough to escape.
Hospitals might be a place for some people to get better, but for others?
It was merely a waiting room for an elevator ride to the morgue.
Twenty years ago, Walter had sworn he’d never make another visit without kicking and screaming all the way—even if he was strapped to a gurney or manacled by tubes and wires to a monstrous medical apparatus that would keep a head of broccoli alive.
So needless to say, as he dogged behind Hilda’s gurney, his stomach clenched and the old fight-or-flight response kicked in. Of course, at his age, there wasn’t much fight left in him, nor was there much energy left for a tail-between-the-legs sprint.
He supposed he could have just let the paramedics haul off Hilda and gone on about his business, but that didn’t seem right.
When she came to, who would explain what had happened to her? Tell her that Analisa was safe?
Or hold her hand—if she needed it?
As the paramedics stopped the gurney before a double door that required a code to enter, a buzzer sounded. The barrier swung open automatically, revealing a middle-age nurse who allowed the gurney inside, but stopped Walter from entering.
“Are you her husband?” she asked.
> “No, just her friend.” Walter wasn’t sure how Hilda would feel about that claim, but she was the closest thing he had to one these days.
He’d expected to be turned away but was told to take a seat in the waiting room.
“I’ll send someone from registration to speak to you,” the nurse said, “then you’ll be called back to her bedside after she’s been examined.”
“No problem,” he said, but he figured he’d soon bomb the friend test. He and Hilda had been chatting a bit over the past couple of days, but he really didn’t know squat about her. Just that she was a widow. And that life hadn’t been too good to her the past couple of years. In that sense, they had a lot in common.
He scanned the room, then chose a seat across from a television that had been perched on a shelf in the corner. He didn’t remain there very long, though. When the guy next to him started hacking and coughing, he moved across the room. That was the problem with hospitals. If a fellow arrived healthy, he risked going home sick.
Hoping to increase his odds for a healthy getaway, he took a chair near the reception window.
Hilda hadn’t been conscious when they’d brought her in, but even if she had been, he wasn’t sure if she would have been coherent.
No telling what had caused her to be disoriented at the park. Pain and whatever ailed her, he hoped. Still, he’d known she’d been concerned about forgetfulness; he just hoped it wasn’t related to her confusion now. Either way, he doubted she’d want anyone to know about it. For that reason, when Hilda had asked about a baby named Cindy and Claire had looked at him quizzically, he’d attributed the delusion to her illness.
He sure hoped that’s what had caused it—for Hilda’s sake.
His, too.
Glancing at the purse he held in his lap, he realized there was a wealth of information inside. Trouble was, ever since he’d been a kid, he’d felt funny about getting into a woman’s handbag. Once, when he was seven, he’d gotten caught snooping in his foster mother’s purse. She’d come unglued and walloped him upside the head and bawled him out until he swore he’d never invade a woman’s privacy again. And he hadn’t. Not even his wife’s, when she’d been alive.
This was different, though. Wasn’t it?
Hilda didn’t have any family, but surely there was someone he could contact for her. If she had an address book, he could start with the As.
He wouldn’t know unless he checked, so he unsnapped the handbag and peered inside.
No address book that he could see, but she had a wallet. He pulled it out and searched for a driver’s license.
Yep. Now he could tell the hospital things about Hilda that she hadn’t shared with him. Like her middle name was Marlene, and that she lived at 431 Elm Street, Apartment 6B.
Her date of birth was—hey, how about that?—August 12. Three days before his, and it was coming up in less than a month. She’d be seventy-two. Just a spring chicken.
Walter hadn’t purchased a gift for a lady in ages and wondered what she might like. That is, if he decided to go that route and surprise her. Some women got kind of fussy about their age. But that didn’t mean the day wasn’t important.
In one of the side slots of the wallet, he found a Medicare card. Good. They’d need that.
Any other insurance? Yep. She had Blue Cross as a supplement, another good thing to know.
Curiosity got the better of him, and he continued looking in her purse like a kid peering into a bulging Christmas stocking: Butterscotch Life Savers; a small, travel-size package of tissues; a grocery list…
Uh-oh. She’d listed bird seed and cat litter. Funny, but she’d never mentioned anything about having pets.
The doctor could—and probably would—decide to keep her for a while. Days maybe. What would happen to those little critters?
He spotted her keys on a black leather fob with little silver charms on the ends—a variety of mama cats and kittens.
Yep. She’d definitely want him to check her house and feed her pets. Or would that be stepping out of line if he did so without her permission?
“Who’s here with Hilda Richards?” a woman called from the reception window.
Walter stood, ready to provide all the information the hospital needed—just as if he’d known Hilda and been her friend for years.
Funny thing, though. It didn’t take much effort for him to believe that it was true.
Vista Del Mar was a gated community on the west side of town, where white stucco walls and red-tiled roofs dotted the lush hillside and overlooked the ocean.
Claire had given Sam the security code earlier, along with directions to her place. So at the gate, he was able to let himself into the quiet neighborhood.
Not bad, Sam thought, as he scanned the splashes of brightly colored flower gardens that garnished well-tended lawns. As far as upscale condominiums went, Claire had chosen a nice place to live.
After making a quick right, he took the second left to Bandolero Court, then pulled along the curb and parked. There he double-checked the address she’d given him—number 213, a downstairs, corner unit.
Earlier, while at the hospital seeing about Hilda, he’d called Claire to see how Analisa was doing.
“She’s fine,” Claire had said. “I’ll let you talk to her.”
The moment Analisa had gotten on the phone, she’d blurted out, “We’re going to make cookies for Mrs. Richards. And then me and Mrs. Harper are going to cook dinner for you, Uncle Sam.”
“You are, huh?” A grin tugged at his lips. Claire had stepped in when he’d needed her, but he hadn’t figured on getting a dinner invitation, too.
When the phone had been passed back to Claire, she’d said, “Unless you already have plans for the evening?”
He didn’t. He’d thought about picking up a pizza or hamburgers, but something homemade sounded a whole lot better. “Actually, dinner would be great. Thanks.”
When the call ended, he’d gone back to the office to finish preparing for a trial scheduled to start on Monday morning.
Now the sun was making its descent into the Pacific, and dusk wouldn’t be far behind.
Sam walked along the sidewalk until he reached the front door, where two rustic clay pots of red geraniums flanked a woven welcome mat.
He rang the bell, and moments later, Analisa greeted him with a smile. “Guess what, Uncle Sam. We made spaghetti and meatballs and salad and bread and cookies. But we didn’t make the ice cream. That came from the store.”
“Mmm. That sounds good.” He tried to keep his focus on his niece, but as Claire approached from behind, wearing a white sundress and a pale blue apron tied at her waist, their gazes locked and his pulse kicked up a notch.
“Hi, Sam.” She swung open the door and stepped aside to allow him in.
For one awkward moment, he found himself at a sudden loss for words, so he focused on his surroundings instead.
The living room, with its hardwood floor, dusty green walls and white crown molding, displayed a rock fireplace and a distressed wood mantel. The sofa and love seat, with coordinating floral and plaid printed upholstery in shades of green, yellow, and beige, were the overstuffed kind. Nice to look at and probably comfortable. She’d done a good job with the décor.
Is this what Ron Harper used to come home to each night? What he’d walked away from?
The aroma of basil, tomatoes, and a hint of sausage wafted through the room, assaulting an empty stomach and reminding Sam he’d worked through lunch again.
“Is there something I can do to help?” he asked.
“No, I’ve got everything under control.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a single diamond stud. Nothing big or fancy—just classy. “Why don’t you have a seat while I put the food on the table. Maybe you can finish reading The Silly Princess to Analisa while I get things ready. It’ll only take me a couple of minutes.”
“Mrs. Harper bought it for me at the store,” Analisa added. “It’s really a good s
tory, so you should start at the beginning. But I left the book in the kitchen, so I have to go and get it. Just wait here. I’ll be right back.”
When the little girl dashed off, Claire asked, “Have you heard anything more about Hilda? Walter called me from the hospital earlier and mentioned they were still running tests. He said the doctor mentioned her gallbladder needed to be removed, although surgery was out of the question until they could stabilize her.”
Sam wasn’t sure what was going on or why. He just hoped the medical professionals would get to the bottom of it soon. “While I was there, I met her friend, Walter. I’m glad she has someone to look out for her. Unfortunately, I don’t know Hilda very well.” He hoped Claire didn’t fault him for that.
“I don’t know Hilda very well, either. I’ve just recently begun to chat with people at the park. But it was nice to see everyone rally around her. I hope she’ll be okay.”
So did Sam. He hated to see anyone sick or injured, especially women and children, but in this case, his concern was twofold. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with Analisa while he worked. There was always daycare, but he didn’t like the idea of putting her in a place where she didn’t know anyone, then making her adapt to a brand-new school in September. The poor kid had been forced to make too many changes in her life already.
“How is Analisa doing?” He figured Claire knew what he was getting at. After losing her parents, it had to be scary to see her nanny collapse and watch the paramedics take her away.
“I tried to keep her busy and her mind off everything that happened. She’s doing all right now, but I could tell she was worried when we were at the park. I stayed for a while and played Duck, Duck, Goose with her and the other children. I thought it might help.”
“I’m glad you were there when it happened.” Sam placed a hand on Claire’s shoulder as a brief, appreciative gesture, but when her hair sluiced along his fingers, his nerve endings sparked.
