Reunion in October (The Calendar Girls Book 2)

by Gina Ardito

“Any pain?” Dr. Stewart glanced at the EKG machine and tore another sheet from the tongue of paper slowly spitting out. “In your chest or your arms?”

  I thought for a moment, took a deep breath, and shook my head. Somehow, I doubted the pain of my heartache mattered to my internist.

  ****

  Francesca

  For the next two days, I buried myself in work in an effort to forget about Michael and Josh. Oh, they both tried to reach me. Michael sent me flowers. Roses, of course. Sweet, but not very original. I took them into the hospital and placed them at the nurses’ station with a great big thank you card.

  Josh, still leading the construction crew on the house behind mine called me all day on Monday. Needing time and space, I refused to answer the phone. On Tuesday, when I still wouldn’t pick up his calls, he resorted to writing me a message on a sheet of plywood. “PICK UP!” I continued to ignore him, so he lined up all the workmen on the roof and had them shout my name over and over, like some rabid football chant. And not my real name, but his nickname for me. Fran-nee! Fran-nee! Fran-nee!

  To save my neighbors’ sanity, when my phone rang this time, I picked up. “What?” I admit, I was less than pleasant, but I was also far from amused with his antics.

  Josh reacted accordingly. No teasing or witty banter. Just a quick, all business, “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m frazzled right now, Josh.”

  “How can I help?”

  By leaving me alone? Although the thought popped into my head, I had the good sense to leave it there, unsaid.

  “You’ve already helped,” I replied instead. “Thanks for taking care of my mom’s leaves. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “You shouldn’t have to do it either, Cinderella.”

  “She’s my mom.”

  “And you’ve got two brothers and three sisters. Any one of them could take some of the burden off you.”

  Now, how come he understood that, but my siblings didn’t?

  “What’s your schedule this week?”

  The non-sequitur threw me. “Huh?”

  “Your work schedule. Any chance we can spend a few hours together sometime this week?”

  In my upstairs bathroom, I stood in the tub, peeking out the small window at where he stood a hundred yards away on the McNeills’ roof. I was like a teenager with her first crush, and the professional in me inwardly cringed at my behavior. Here was the proof Josh was too young for me. He had me reverting to the antics of an adolescent just to see him without him noticing my spying.

  I really had to put a halt to this relationship. By asking me about my work schedule, he’d handed me the perfect opportunity to say no, to tell him I didn’t want to see him anymore. Too bad the words stuck in my throat. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. I liked Josh. A lot. He made me smile, which, I had to admit now that he’d called it to my attention, I didn’t do as often as other people. Josh brought out the happy in me. After years of working in the E.R., I knew how fragile true happiness could be. So despite my misgivings, I didn’t turn him down or blow him off.

  “I’m on overnights until Thursday,” I told him. “And I plan to spend my night off at home catching up on laundry and sleep.”

  “Great. I’ll pick up a pizza and a coupla movies for us. You supply the popcorn and beer.”

  I didn’t even bother to argue. How could I? My heartbeat actually sped up at the thought of snuggling on the couch with him under a fleecy throw—a domestic bliss that was so banal and yet so perfect for me. Only one misgiving spoiled the image. “What kind of movies?”

  “Don’t worry, Frannie. I’ll bring one for you, and one for me.”

  “How do you know what kind of movie I’d like?”

  “You’re a girl, aren’t you? I could bring Pretty Woman, and you’d sit and watch it even though it’s twenty years old and you own a copy you’ve worn out from endless hours of viewing pleasure. And you’ll still cry when Richard Gere climbs the fire escape.”

  I laughed. What else could I do? He pegged me with pinpoint accuracy. “Guilty as charged,” I admitted. I had to remind myself he had four sisters. That kind of family dynamic gave him an insight into the female mind most other guys lacked.

  “But here’s the deal,” he said. “We’ll watch my movie first. That way, if we don’t finish before I leave for the night, it won’t matter.”

  “Since you already know how Pretty Woman ends, I guess it’ll be okay if you stroll out early. But here’s my deal: no slasher or porno films.”

  He turned away from my house to stride across the ribcage of the construction. God, he had the cutest butt, hard packed into tight faded jeans, with that tool belt swinging from his hips. I could almost hear Barry White crooning in rhythm with his movements. We got it together, baby…

  Yes, he did.

  “Wow. I think you just insulted me.”

  Heat flared in my cheeks, but then I realized he was talking about my comment on his movie taste, and not on my ogling. I left the window area and perched on the edge of the tub until my temperature dropped back to normal. “If I hurt your feelings, I’m sorry. I just want to make sure we’re clear on the guidelines. I see enough gore at work that I don’t find it entertaining in high definition.”

  “No worries, Frannie. I can understand why you’d freak out about watching chainsaw massacres and stuff. And I imagine you see enough naked bodies at work too, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your naked patients probably aren’t at their best when they come into the E.R., either.”

  “That’s true.”

  My mind flew back to the elderly tourist couple who’d been wheeled in last month. Inspired by a glorious sunrise from their oceanview balcony at The Moorings, they had decided to share a little morning delight. But without his glasses, the gentleman mistook his nitroglycerine paste for her personal lubricant. The poor Dominican maid, barely twenty years old with only a smattering of English at her disposal, came upon the couple when she entered to clean the room. Both were very nude and still locked in passion’s embrace on a chaise lounge on the deck, but immobile and unresponsive. The maid immediately assumed they were dead and called 911. If not for the dangerous repercussions, the story would have been funny. The excessive amount of nitroglycerine paste had lowered their blood pressure to nearly fatal levels, rendering them both unconscious. After they both received oxygen and fluids, we were able to release them to enjoy the rest of their visit to Snug Harbor. Before discharging them, I strongly recommended they keep the nitroglycerine paste in a different area, far away from the lube.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Josh said, effectively ripping away the images of the naked, unconscious octogenarians before I began to shudder. “You must have nerves of steel and a stomach of cast iron. To do what you do, day in and day out. You’re a superhero, Frannie. Does anybody ever tell you that?”

  Warmth enveloped me, a cozy blanket on a dreary day. “No.” He continued to amaze me with his sensitivity, intelligence, and generosity of spirit. So, what was the harm in dating him? Didn’t I deserve a man who made me feel good about myself? Of course I did. “Be here at seven,” I said with a goofy smile playing on my lips.

  “See you then, Frannie,” he replied and disconnected.

  Still bubbly on our conversation, I clambered up and into the tub again to peek out my bathroom window. A heartbeat later, my phone, still clutched in my hand, rang. The vibration against my palm startled me, and I dropped the receiver against the porcelain, but quickly fumbled to pick it up. “Hello?”

  “Stop spying on me and go get some sleep.”

  Oh, God! Josh could see me? I flattened myself against the tile wall. “I’m not spying on you. I’m just scrubbing my tile walls.” Oh, yeah, did I mention what a lousy liar I am?

  “Uh-huh. Whatever gives you comfort, babe. I have to go back to work, and you really should get some sleep. I can’t have my favorite superhero too exhausted to save lives. Now, for
get your…ahem!...bathroom tile, go to your pretty bedroom with the pretty sleigh bed and pretty yellow sheets, climb in, and close your eyes. Dream about me, okay?”

  I gasped. He’d described my furnishings perfectly. “How do you know what my bedroom looks like?”

  “You left your blinds open this morning. You might want to remember there are a bunch of men with a clear view of your second story a football field away.”

  Ohmigod. Sinking to my haunches in the tub, I sucked in a sharp breath. Were all those workmen watching everything I did in my house?

  Josh’s chuckles rippled across my flesh. “Relax, Frannie. I’m the only guy peeking in your windows. I figure, since you’re peeking out at me, I get to do the same to you. Fair’s fair, right?”

  A bolt of anger charged through me. Did he think he was funny? Because I was not amused. “Wrong,” I retorted and immediately hung up. Racing into my bedroom, I drew the blinds, then grabbed one of my pillows and the sunny yellow counterpane. I practically flew downstairs to my den. I’d sleep on the sofa in there, secure in the knowledge no one could see me. I’d barely placed my head on the bolster when my phone rang again. I picked up the receiver from its station on the end table and barked, “I’m done debating with you, Josh. Don’t call me again.”

  “Francesca?” a different voice said.

  Shoot me now. “Michael?”

  “Yes. Sorry to disappoint you. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No,” I said on a sigh. “I was just going to bed before work tonight.”

  “Oh, well, then I won’t keep you. I wanted to know if you got the flowers I sent you.”

  I rubbed a fingertip across my brow. A slow, dull ache brewed between my temples. “Yes, I got them.”

  “You…um…you didn’t call,” he replied. “I thought you might…to say thank you, you know?”

  He was right. I should have called to thank him, even if I didn’t keep the roses. Shame burned hot and harsh, drying my throat to dust. When did I become so rude? Was this part of Josh’s influence on me, this selfish child act? I swallowed hard and chewed on my lip. An angel on my shoulder chastised me for my behavior. I had loved Michael once. And he had loved me. Maybe I should give him a second chance.

  “You’re right, Michael, and I’m sorry. The roses were beautiful. And very sweet of you. Thank you.”

  “I’d like to take you to dinner, too,” he said, relief evident in his tone. “Is there a night you’re free?”

  Thursday, which I’d already promised to Josh. “I’m on the graveyard shift all week.” Still, I wanted to atone for my misbehavior somehow. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come over for breakfast tomorrow?”

  “How about I take you out for breakfast tomorrow?”

  “Really? Are you sure?” The old Michael never liked to go out for breakfast. He’d always found it wasteful to go to a restaurant for basic bacon and eggs, which could be made easily at home at a fraction of the cost.

  “Absolutely. You’ll have to choose the place, though. I can’t believe how many businesses have changed hands since I’ve been gone.”

  A weird silence built up between us, and I guessed we both thought about that night five years ago at the airport. When I found myself hugging the pillow to my chest, I cleared my throat and forced away the bittersweet memory. “The old standards are still the same: Mama’s Hen House and Parsons Drive-Thru. We’ve also got a diner now. We could go to any one of those three since the clientele will be mostly locals. Who knows? You might even run into some old friends.”

  “Would that make you uncomfortable? We could go to Bridgehampton, if you’re afraid someone might see us. I doubt the gossips in this town have changed much. They see you and me together, rumors will fly, and your mother will have the church booked for next Sunday.”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted.” Was he testing me?

  “Not if you’re not ready. I told you, I screwed up. I don’t expect you to take me back and marry me next week—no matter what your mother wants. I’m just glad you’re willing to talk to me right now. The rest will come with time, or…” He paused and exhaled a loud breath. “…it won’t.”

  I stifled my suspicions and erased the sound of Josh chiding me in my head. Who died and made him my conscience anyway? “Pick me up at eight?”

  “You bet. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me, too,” I said, and I was surprised to realize I meant it. “I’ll see you then.”

  Chapter 10

  Emily

  On my second day in the hospital, I toyed with a lump of beige meat—chicken? Salisbury steak?—swimming in shiny-topped brown gravy. Dr. Stewart had ordered a low-fat, low-sodium, no-taste, and apparently, no-recognition diet for my stay here. For all I knew, this wasn’t meat at all, but some kind of tofu patty.

  I’d pretty much given up identifying today’s lunch without a CSI team when a hesitant voice said, “Emily?”

  Dropping my fork, I glanced up into the worried expression of Ambrose Chase peering from the foot of my snoring roommate’s bed. “Mr. Chase.” I waved him closer and rolled my bed tray with the unappetizing lunch out of the way. I had no intention of eating that slop anyway. “Come in. Please.”

  “I won’t stay long,” he said, inching toward the visitor’s chair, but never making any move to sit. “I just wanted to be sure you were all right.” He stared at the floor. Either a stain on the linoleum fascinated him, or he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with me—a complete one-eighty from the guy I met yesterday who hammered me with research questions. “You…umm…had us all pretty worried.”

  His obvious discomfort embarrassed me, and I wondered what I’d done at the library to make him so ill-at-ease now. Had I vomited on him? Wet my pants? Said something totally inappropriate before I hit the ground? Whatever had occurred, I’d have to try to smooth over the bumps with casual conversation. After all, Dr. Stewart said I owed this man my life. “Thanks for knowing what to do,” I said. “With the CPR, I mean.”

  “Well, to be honest, I’ve…umm…I’ve never done CPR before. You got lucky. I’d just done the research for my book. I mean, like, an hour before you and I met in the library. I was doing all the compressions and stuff from memory. Once Miss Lydia got through to the 911 dispatcher, though, they talked me through the step-by-step. So, you see, you shouldn’t really thank me. Without the directions, I would’ve screwed up and made things worse for you, trust me.”

  As I watched him shuffling his feet, staring at the walls, never making eye contact, I couldn’t tell if he had an inflated case of low self-esteem or false modesty. “Who was manning the calls over there?” I asked. “At the precinct, I mean. Rowena or Jake?”

  “Jake, I guess. It was a man, so I’d say it was Jake, though I didn’t get a name.”

  “Good.” I let out a relieved sigh and settled back against my pillow. “Rowena still needs to read the book to give the step-by-step.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “It can be. If you don’t know what to do off-script, you aren’t fully prepared for any possible eventuality. People in an emergency situation don’t have a book to go by, you know?”

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Lemme put it this way.” I sat up again. “Suppose you’re in a case like what happened with you and me. I go down, you start CPR, based on what you remember, and by the time dispatch gets involved you’ve already screwed up one or two of the steps. Should Jake go back to Step One and make you start all over or should he know how to improvise?”

  At last, my visitor sank into the chair beside my bed, his wide eyes and slack jaw showing how engaged he’d grown regarding our discussion. I probably awakened the writer in him. “Improvise, I suppose.”

  I wagged an index finger. “Not necessarily. It all depends on what steps you’ve screwed up and how I’m responding to what you’ve done so far. Jake’s good at figuring things out on the fly. Rowena…” I shook my head.
“…not so much.”

  “And you? Are you a by-the-book-girl, or can you work off-script?”

  “I’m somewhere in the middle,” I admitted with a rueful curl to my lip. “It all depends on the scenario. Of the three of us, Jake’s got the most experience. He was an Army corpsman. Did a lot of triage in the first Gulf War and has the nerves of steel to prove it. I, on the other hand, got my training here at home.”

  “You were a soldier?”

  I laughed. “God, no! I’m just a mom.”

  “And a wife,” a woman’s voice said, followed by the click of heels on the floor and the entrance of my greatest nightmare.

  My mother-in-law had arrived in her usual indomitable way—like an army tank in designer clothes and a fur-trimmed coat. Her perfectly made-up face mirrored disapproval at the hospital room, at Ambrose, and of course, at me. Sylvia Handler intimidated everyone, from the snootiest salesclerk, to her only daughter-in-law, to the meanest foreign dictator.

  “Emily,” she said. “I see you’re feeling up to entertaining visitors. Perhaps your condition isn’t as serious as we were led to believe.”

  I didn’t need a crystal ball to know those words were meant in the most unkind way possible. Not that there was another way to interpret them. Roy’s mother always thought the worst of me. And today, when she showed up here and found a strange man seated at my bedside, the two of us smiling at each other, she’d naturally jump to the worst possible conclusion. The fact that Ambrose Chase was blond, blue-eyed, and worst of all, a good-looking younger man, would only add to her negative assumptions. So the faster I defused this ticking time bomb, the best, for everyone’s sake.

  “Mrs. Handler, this is Mr. Chase,” I said. “He stopped by to make sure I was okay. You know, after he saved my life yesterday.”

  My mother-in-law did a visible double-take, her expression transforming from suspicious to cool, but welcoming. “Really? Well, then, Mr. Chase, we should probably thank you for your heroics on behalf of our dear Emily.”