“I heard at work that it was kind of a combination of the cry of a screech owl and the bleat of a sheep,” Beau said.
Lauren looked at Grant. “Like the cry of someone who had glimpsed hell for the first time.”
The twins finished their chili in silence.
This wasn’t exactly the birthday dinner Grant had anticipated when he first planned it but it promised to sweeten momentarily. And the cake was just the beginning.
***
Late Tuesday evening, Mitchell Caine stepped to the doorway of exam room three in the ER. He hesitated at the sight of Mimi Peterson sitting on the side of the bed, hunched forward, arms crossed over her stomach protectively.
“Dr. Caine, nice of you to stop by.” Sarcasm laced her voice. “But I didn’t even ask to see you this time.”
“The nurse says you’re having some pain.”
“Oh, really? Did she also tell you it was probably just gas again?” Mimi leaned back on the pillow and swung her feet up to the mattress. She stiffened and groaned, eyes closing tightly.
He helped her position her legs. “Gas? I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You didn’t even bother to come in to see me last night,” she said.
He frowned. Something had been niggling at the back of his mind about the events of the previous evening but he couldn’t recall what it was. “What happened last night?”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “You never showed up—that’s what happened. I was here, remember? They said they called you but you never came in to see me.”
Hiding his confusion, Mitchell stepped to the hallway to signal for a nurse to assist him, then did a focused exam. When he finished he walked out to the central desk and asked for any records on Mimi’s chart from the night before.
Sure enough, there was a notation that Grant Sheldon had called him once. Lauren McCaffrey had attempted to contact him three times after that.
He didn’t even remember receiving the initial call... or did he?
He picked up the telephone and hit the speed dial for Grant’s home number. He recognized Beau’s voice when he answered. The kid would make a great doctor if Mitchell couldn’t manage to warn him away in time.
“Beau, this is Dr. Caine. May I speak with your father for a moment?”
The kid was too idealistic and pure hearted to practice medicine. For that matter, Mitchell was beginning to think the father had those same tendencies, although in him, for some reason, they seemed to be more irritating.
When Grant came to the phone, Mitchell said, “I have a return patient from last night, Dr. Sheldon. Do you remember Mimi Peterson?”
“There’s no way I could forget her, Mitchell. What happened last night?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You didn’t come in to see her and she was extremely upset when she left.”
“The report says you spoke with me about her.”
“The report?” There was an uncomfortably long silence. “Mitchell, you do remember last night’s call, don’t you?”
Mitchell struggled with a growing sense of alarm. “No.”
“Okay,” Grant said. “How is she now?”
In spite of his past conflicts with Grant over the shift schedules, Grant was an honest person.
The sleeping pill... Mitchell remembered taking one before his final patient of the day, knowing it would take a few moments to feel the effects. Obviously, his timing had been off.
“She’s experiencing pain again,” he told Grant.
“Any ideas as to the etiology?”
“None yet. My apologies for the oversight. I should get back to my patient. Good night.” He hung up and checked the chart again.
He had to stop taking those pills. He would do so as soon as the divorce was final and his stress level became more manageable.
Still, maybe he should switch to something less potent. He would be risking lives if he treated a dangerous case under the influence.
He had to get this mess under control.
Chapter Nine
As soon as Grant returned to the dining room Beau jumped up from the table. “Dad, why don’t you and Lauren go on into the den and relax. There’s a fire in the fireplace. Brooke and I will clean this up since you cooked.”
“Beau,” Brooke muttered, “you volunteer me for any more work tonight and you’ll hear your own death scream.”
“Just sing for me and I’ll get the idea.”
“Dad!”
“Shut up and stack dishes,” Beau said. “It’s Lauren’s birthday and Dad needs a night off.”
Grant smiled at the typical exchange and strolled behind Lauren through the living room into the den-office, where a fire flickered, low and romantic, in the corner hearth. The flat slabs of Arkansas rock had caught Grant’s attention the first time he’d entered this room.
Lauren held her hands out to the warmth of the flame. Her thick blond hair seemed to shimmer in the fire-lit room and the muted glow outlined her feminine figure. Grant had trouble controlling his gaze.
“Happy birthday.” He sank down onto the raised stone that stretched past the length of the hearth.
“Thank you,” she said. “For everything. Dinner was delicious.”
“Not as good as your mom’s fried catfish and chocolate birthday cake Sunday afternoon.”
“Mom’s a great cook but I like hot stuff. There’s enough habaneras in your chili to melt the state of Alaska.” She sank into the love seat that someone—most likely Beau—had pulled close to the hearth, and held her hands once more to the fire. For several moments she didn’t say anything. Unusual for Lauren.
Grant frowned. “I’m sorry if the kids brought up an uncomfortable subject for you.”
“Uncomfortable?” Her attention didn’t waver from the flames.
“Death scream. I don’t know where they get their interest in the macabre. Certainly not from me.”
“I’m fine.”
He eyed the cushion beside her. It looked more inviting than this rock hearth but something about her expression held him back. Her eyes, which changed shades with her moods, appeared more gray than green in this light. That could mean she wasn’t feeling well, or that, perhaps, she was grieving.
This was her first birthday since her brother’s death. Grant understood. He missed Annette with more painful clarity on holidays and birthdays.
He heard the kids in the kitchen, laughter mixed with chatter mixed with the arguments that had graced their relationship since they first began to communicate with one another in their “twin language” when they were a year old.
“For some reason I get the impression this hasn’t been the happiest of birthdays for you,” Grant said at last.
Finally Lauren looked at him. “Sorry. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful for the dinner. It really was good. I enjoyed... I liked spending time with you and the kids.”
“But you’re thinking about Hardy?”
She nodded. “Partially. I miss him. I even miss whatever practical joke he would’ve played on me today.” She leaned back in the cushions of the love seat and sighed. “And the usual birthday doldrums are knocking around inside my head.”
“Ouch. That must hurt.”
Her forced grin didn’t draw the gray from her eyes. “I’m thirty-six, Grant. I have friends who are just a few years older than me and they’re already grandmothers.”
Discovery dawned. Grant understood. “You’re not elderly yet, Lauren. Trust me, there’s time for children.”
Her eyes widened slightly. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, hovering on the brink of the question that had nagged him for the past four... five... six months.
“Grant, this is a drastic change of subject, but it’s been on my...” She closed her eyes and sighed, eased forward and looked at him. “You know how much I care about Brooke and Beau.”
“You make that obvious.”
“And you know I care about you.” A slight flush spread across her fa
ce and neck and she returned her attention to the fire. “I can’t say I haven’t thought about...about the possibility of...okay, where am I going with this?”
“I hope you’re getting ready to tell me that you might possibly love me, not just as a good friend loves a good friend, but—”
“Exactly.” She took a deep breath. “And yet I suspect my motivation.”
“Motivation?”
She spread her hands out to her sides. “I want a family. I always have. How much does my biological drive affect my emotions? How much—”
“Aren’t you getting overly analytical? I thought you’d already dealt with that last year.”
“Get real, Grant. A woman doesn’t bury her God-made biological drive with one little prayer. Or even a hundred prayers.”
“I’ve never known you to be anything but honest about—”
“Okay, you want me to tell you what I think?” She looked down at her entwined fingers. “I think I love you—I mean truly love you—and it doesn’t feel like anything I’ve ever felt before.”
Grant felt the sudden flush of warmth travel from his feet to his scalp in less than a second. Yes!
“And I’m old enough to know better than to rely on emotions,” she continued. “And if this is what love is, then I’ve never experienced true love before.”
Ah, the nervous chatter. A good sign. Grant moved from the hearth to the love seat and took her hand. She had the most awesome hands. He loved the feel of them.
“Let me make it easier on you. I do love you, Lauren, and I have been in love before. I know what it feels like. I also know what it looks like and that those first feelings can mature into something more solid and permanent with time. I do think you love me. I know you love Brooke and Beau. I’ve watched you with them. I believe we could make a wonderful family.”
She quietly caught her breath. Judging by the look on her face, he’d taken it a little far. Her nervous chatterbox mode was contagious.
“But, Grant—”
“And I’m sure you’ve already heard Brooke hint she wants a little baby brother or sister.”
Her face flushed nicely. “Grant—”
“And I’m not so ancient that I—”
“Grant!” Lauren laughed and some of the gray disappeared from her eyes. The color contrasted well with the glow in her cheeks. “Would you slow down?” She fanned her fingers across her face. “Man, when you get started you turn into a steamroller.”
“So will you marry me?” As soon as he blurted the words he realized how unromantic they sounded.
“Time for presents!” came a bright voice from behind them.
Grant and Lauren turned simultaneously to see Brooke and Beau stepping into the room, arms filled with brightly wrapped packages—the largest, in the shape of a fishing pole, bumped the side of a lamp as Beau stepped around the end of the love seat.
Grant caught the lamp before it hit the floor. Lauren laughed.
Brooke plopped her packages down on the table beside Lauren. “Notice not one of these packages is black, but watch out when you turn forty.”
Lauren thanked the kids with genuine excitement and reached for the present that Brooke handed to her.
Like an excited child, she shook the present, sniffed it, ripped the paper away. “It’s perfume.”
“Nope. It doesn’t smell.”
“No smell? Does it have a sound? You know, like woof-woof or meow-meow. I’m allergic to cats, you know.”
“Are you allergic to fish?” Brooke asked.
“Nope. Never. You got me fish? How romantic.”
“Beau and I pooled our money and got you a new tackle box and fishing pole, with tackle stuff to fill it.”
Beau rolled his eyes. “Why did we go to all the trouble of wrapping the packages?”
Lauren ripped the box open and pulled out a jar of salmon eggs. “Fish bait that doesn’t wiggle. How thoughtful of you, Brooke. Something for you to use when we go fishing.”
“I thought you might give it a try. I know it’s a little too dead for you but we’re going fishing soon, right? As Evan would say, I’m just covering my bases.”
Lauren unwrapped the next package, which turned out to be a state-of-the-art fishing pole. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “I’m expected to know how this thing works.”
“It won’t take long,” Beau said.
Brooke stood up. “We’ve got something else. Beau has to help me carry it.”
The kids disappeared into the other room and Grant placed a small, exquisitely wrapped package in Lauren’s hand.
Lauren turned the package over, then raised it to her ear and gently shook it. “I don’t hear a sound. So it isn’t a rattlesnake rattle or anything, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s what Hardy would have done. It isn’t a necklace or the chain would have made a sound. What is it?”
“What does it look like?”
“Like a box from the jewelers.”
“You’ll have to open it and see.”
She hesitated a moment too long. By the time she had the package unwrapped to reveal the leather jewelry case inside, the kids had returned with a large cardboard box.
“It’s a porch swing,” Brooke said. “Wood. You can hang it up at your house, or”—she winked at Beau—”you could hang it up on our deck out back.”
“Oh, Brooke, thank you. I’ve always wanted a porch swing.”
“I know. Dad and Beau are going to help you put it up wherever you want.” Brooke’s attention focused on the case in Lauren’s hand. “So did you open that yet?”
“No.”
“Well?”
Lauren raised the lid and caught her breath.
Grant imagined that he saw a brief flash of relief in her expression as she touched the emerald lapel pin in the shape of a fish.
“Grant, it’s beautiful.”
“And appropriate,” Brooke said. “You can wear it on your scrubs at work. So are you going to marry Dad?”
“Brooke,” Grant said.
“I know that’s Dad’s department but I just want to know one thing.”
Another hesitation. “What’s that?” Lauren asked.
“What will we call you if you do become our stepmom?”
No answer.
“How about Martha?” Beau suggested dryly. “What do you mean what will we call her? She’s Lauren.”
Brooke cast her gaze toward the cathedral ceiling and shook her head sadly. “She won’t be just Lauren anymore, she’ll be—”
“I’ll always be Lauren, you know.”
“Do you think if she becomes our stepmom she’ll get to boss us around?” Beau asked.
“Okay, you two,” Grant said.
“But really, Dad.” Brooke sat forward on the sofa. “Lauren would respond to a mother name if you two had a baby and it just doesn’t seem right that our little brother or sister would get to call her Mama and we wouldn’t.”
“Brooke,” Beau said, “Maybe we should back off a little.”
“Okay, but this is import—”
“Brooke, stop it,” Lauren said firmly. “How’s that for bossy?”
Brooke blinked at her. “Okay,” she said slowly. “But you are going to marry Dad, aren’t you?”
Lauren sighed. “Would you give me some time, please?”
Brooke poked her brother in the ribs with her elbow. “Told you he would propose tonight.”
Grant watched Lauren’s face. The smile in her eyes had died long ago. The truth hung in the air for everyone to notice. He had sort of proposed but she had not accepted.
Chapter Ten
Wednesday morning, in response to a call from the administrator, Grant took the stairs to the east wing of the second floor of the hospital. All was business as usual in this wing. The only indication he saw of tornado damage was fresh paint around a window casing. The maintenance personnel in this hospital were every bit as efficient as those in Grant’s old place of employm
ent in St. Louis.
The only complaint he ever had was they kept the temperature below seventy degrees at all times.
The administrative assistant sat at her desk in the outer office, leaning over a chart. She looked up and nodded. “Hi, Grant.” The forty-eight-year-old woman’s voice was cigarette gruff. She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb toward a door that stood half open behind her. “He’s in there, waiting to see you, multitasking, as usual.” She peered over the top of her reading glasses. “Know what I think? You need to send him on another forced vacation before he wears himself to a bare nubbin again.”
“I’ve tried. He won’t let me.”
There was the sound of a carefully cleared throat from the depths of the office in question. “I still have ears,” came William Butler’s calm baritone.
Bonnie chuckled. “Go on in, Grant. He isn’t doing anything in there except working on his first heart attack. If he gets too intense, just mention Muriel. That’ll bring a smile to his face.”
“Mind your own business,” William instructed his assistant.
Bonnie winked at Grant. “He’s deluded,” she said in a stage whisper. “He thinks no one knows he’s madly in—”
“Bonnie.” The baritone deepened.
She waved Grant toward the open door. “Get on in there and see what you can do with him. He’s been a grump all morning.”
Grant knew Will and Muriel Stark had been close friends for several months—in a town of seven thousand that information was unavoidable—but he also knew they preferred to keep the talk to a minimum.
“Oh, and tell your daughter I could use more help with the filing when she gets a chance,” Bonnie called after him. “I know how badly she and Beau want to get that car paid off.”
“I’ll tell her when I get home tonight.” Grant entered William Butler’s office to find the sixty-one-year-old administrator hunched over a laptop behind a worn oak desk that looked as if it might be almost as old as he was.
William’s gray hair shone with more white than it had when Grant started working at the hospital last year. His bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows had a will of their own and the skin around his eyes crinkled with new creases from a frown that had taken up residence in his expression these past few months.
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