by Regan Black
“I might have passed out after the second time,” he said, his voice lazy.
She understood. Her first climax had shattered her, and she’d told herself that if nothing that wonderful ever happened again, at least she would have had this. And she’d rested in his arms, him spooned around her, her mind almost empty, like she’d been given a great reprieve from constant worry and strain.
It had been good.
And then he’d kissed her and his hands had moved over her, touching, teasing, making her sated body come alive once more. “Again?” she’d whispered.
“Is that okay?” he’d asked, his need heavy against her bottom.
“Perfect,” she’d admitted, and had turned in his arms. “Just perfect.”
And it had been. Slower than the first time, actions more defined, more deliberate. The need not quite so frantic.
The end result every bit as wonderful.
“We should get dressed,” she murmured now.
“I know,” he said. “I’ve been listening. I haven’t heard anything from her room.”
“She’s a good sleeper,” Laura said. “In fact, I might be able to sneak out tonight. That is, if you’d be interested in keeping your door unlocked.”
“If I was any more interested, it might be illegal,” he said.
She wiggled out of his arms and slipped out of bed. The floor was cold but the look in his eyes was pure heat. “Oh, no,” she said, holding up her hand.
He smiled. “Fine. But she’s going to bed early tonight.”
CHAPTER 10
The next morning, he was already sitting at the table when Laura and Hannah wandered into the room. They were both wearing fuzzy socks. “Good morning,” he said.
“Can we play outside?” Hannah asked.
He could see Laura wince and knew that she was probably tired. They’d spent a fair amount of time awake the night before. “Later,” he said. He looked at Laura. “Coffee is made.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, no. Thank you.”
She rolled her eyes. But she smiled. “Hannah, do you want an orange?”
“And pancakes,” said the little girl. “Just like yesterday.”
“I like doing things over,” Rico said, very innocently.
“How long have you been up?” Laura said. “I’m just asking because I’m wondering if you wake up like this or you have to work up to it?”
Rico laughed, thinking how much fun it would be to tease Laura every morning. “Sit,” he said. “Have some coffee. Everything will be better with caffeine.”
It was midafternoon when Rico heard the phone ring. He considered not answering it because he was pretty darn comfortable on the couch. Content. He might try to pass that off as a result of the good book in his lap and the steady blaze in the fireplace. He knew it had much more to do with the woman who sat on the other couch, also reading, and the little girl who was playing a game on the computer.
There was a chance that it was a silly telemarketer. But a small one. It could be Jennie.
He got himself off the couch, walked over to the phone on the wall and lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
“Rico.”
It was his sister. He so did not want another conversation about Peter Whittle and the man’s inability to find a job. “Hi, Charro,” he said.
“Rico,” she said again.
And he knew, just knew, that something was very wrong. Her voice was shaky. Almost tentative. And that wasn’t his sister.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
“It’s Dad,” she said. “He’s in the hospital.”
It was the call he’d been waiting for. Dreading. “Why?”
“Mom found him on the floor earlier this morning. He was unconscious. She called the ambulance and then called me.”
“What are the doctors saying?”
“He had a heart attack. They want to do surgery.”
He looked across the room at Laura, who had looked up from her book. Thought of the commotion that had occurred two nights ago and the possibility that a drone had been flying overhead. Thought of leaving her and Hannah in the cabin alone.
Thought of leaving her. Period.
It left a nasty feeling in his stomach. But he would have to go. He wanted to be there. For his dad. For his mom.
“How’s Mom holding up?” he asked.
“As good as could be expected. She wanted me to call. Dad’s…asking for you. I tried your cell and your office. Your receptionist said you were at the cabin.”
He could hear the change in her tone. Knew that his presence in Colorado without notifying the family that he was close would be a mark in the selfish jerk column.
He resisted the urge to tell her that he’d just gotten in two days ago. He didn’t owe her any explanations but he also didn’t want to fight with her. Not now.
“We’ve got quite a bit of snow,” he said. Earlier he’d heard the plows go by on the main road but the long driveway still had three-foot-high drifts. “But as soon as I can plow myself out, I’ll be there.”
There was silence. Finally, she said, “He’ll be glad to hear that.” Then she hung up.
He softly replaced the receiver. Then, because he wasn’t quite ready to talk about it, he opened the refrigerator door and started pulling out things. Carrots. Peppers. Radishes. Cucumbers. Hummus. Flatbread.
Then he found a knife. Picked it up and felt the weight of it in his hand.
Strong. Solid.
That had always been his dad. Worked twelve-hour days to provide for his family, came home for dinner with shadows under his eyes and dirt under his fingernails, but always managed to stay awake long enough to ask his children about their day, to give a bath when they were little, to read a story. To listen to them read as they got older. To encourage them to study hard, to become something.
He put the knife down. Stared out the kitchen window, saw the snow but didn’t really see it.
Placido Metez had been a part of his kids’ lives before it had been fashionable for dads to take on that role.
Rico wasn’t ready to tell him goodbye yet.
He picked up the knife once again and started chopping. When he was done, he spread the flatbread first with hummus, then topped it with the vegetables.
Cut the flatbread into squares. Pushed the plate to the side. Reached for a glass. Filled it with water. Drank it.
Finally, he turned. Laura was staring at him. “What?” she asked.
“My dad is in the hospital,” he said. “His heart, I guess. He collapsed at home and was taken by ambulance.”
She got up, came and stood close. Put her hand on his forearm. “Oh, Rico, I’m so sorry. Is he going to be okay?”
“They want to do surgery. That was my sister. My folks want me to come.”
“Of course,” she said. She glanced toward the window. “Can you get out of the lane?”
He nodded. “There’s a tractor with a plow in the shed.”
She rolled her eyes. “I guess I should be grateful that I don’t have to shovel.”
She was likely recalling that when he’d convinced her to come back to the cabin, he’d made a big deal of needing another adult around to help him with things like shoveling snow.
“I want you and Hannah to come with me,” he said.
“To plow snow?” she asked.
“No. To Torcak. It’s another twenty minutes west of Moreville. That’s where my parents live. My sister, too. That’s where the hospital is.”
“But…” Her voice trailed off. “I’m sure your family doesn’t want strangers there.”
“You’re not a stranger,” he said. “I shouldn’t have to say that. Not after…” He stopped, looked at Hannah. “I don’t want to leave the two of you here,” he said. “I’ll be able to get the lane clear
ed but if the wind picks up again tonight, it’ll drift shut again. Then you won’t be able to get out.”
“We shouldn’t need to,” she said.
“But in case of an emergency,” he argued. “I’d just feel a lot better if you were with me.”
She stared out the window. “What will you tell your family about me and Hannah? They’re going to have questions.”
He wanted to tell them that Laura was pretty special. But the two of them had had none of those conversations. “You’re an old friend from Tennessee. They’re going to be worried about my dad, not about you.”
“How long will it take to plow the lane?”
“Forty-five minutes,” he said. “Would that work?”
“Yes. Would we take your SUV?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need the car seat.”
“Not a problem.”
“Will we stay all night?” she asked.
“If we do, I’ll pay for your and Hannah’s hotel room.”
* * *
There was no reason to keep drilling him. She’d already decided. “Okay, go,” she said, motioning him toward the door. “I know you’re anxious to get there.”
She listened to the growl of the tractor as it plowed the snow. Rico was scared. No doubt about it. And seeing that was like a bucket of ice water in her face. It seemed like yesterday she’d gotten her version of that call from her brother.
And she’d hurried to the airport. Had waited, her nerves on edge, through a forty-eight-minute delay. And the seventy-minute flight had seemed to take three days. Then she’d begged the cab driver to hurry.
But had arrived too late. Both her parents had experienced massive head injuries and were breathing through the use of a ventilator. Both were unconscious.
Six days later, the ventilators had been removed and her parents had been allowed to die. Joe had been furious. And she couldn’t convince him that she’d made the right decision.
When Rico had said that she wanted her and Hannah to go with him, she’d almost said hell no. This morning had been the closest she’d come to being relaxed in months, ever since she’d made the decision to leave her physical therapy practice, move to another city and get a job at Hannah’s daycare.
But she hadn’t been able to say no. His mind had to be whirling and he didn’t need to add her to the list of things that weren’t going his way.
Torcak was more than an hour away but they would still arrive before dinner. She’d been just about to put Hannah down for a nap. The little girl would sleep on the drive and be fine. She needed to gather up their things so that they were ready once there was a path through the snow.
Thirty minutes later, when Rico came back inside, bringing the cold with him, Hannah was sitting at the table, eating a piece of the flatbread that Rico had made. The little girl had seen it on the counter and immediately wanted some.
Laura had been prepared for her to take one bite and spit it out. But that hadn’t happened. Now, she’d worked her way almost through the whole piece.
“Hey, sunshine,” Rico said, running his glove across her head.
She giggled. “My name isn’t Sunshine.”
“You like my flatbread?” he asked.
Hannah nodded. “No vegetables in heaven.”
That seemed to stop Rico in his tracks. He looked at Laura, who tried to brush it off with a wave of her hand.
“We should get going,” Laura said quickly.
But Rico was staring at the child. “What do you know about heaven, Hannah?” he asked, his tone gentle.
“I know that Mama and Dada are there,” she said. “Dada went first and Mama said that heaven was a good place and that you didn’t have to eat your vegetables there.”
Now Rico was looking at Laura. “I thought you said…”
“Later,” she said.
He didn’t argue but she also knew that he wasn’t going to forget. She was going to have to think of something to tell him.
“Give me five minutes,” he said.
“I’ll wrap this up for the car,” she said, motioning to the flatbread. “You didn’t have a chance to eat.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Would you also make sure we take some food for Lucky and a bowl for water?”
And ten minutes later, they were all in the car. She and Rico in the front, Hannah and Lucky in the back. Rico had made a path through the snow, maybe wide enough for two vehicles if they didn’t mind rubbing door handles.
As they pulled out of the driveway and onto the gravel road, it was like driving through a big snow tunnel. The plows had piled it high on each side, maybe five or six feet. It would be dark in thirty minutes and she did not relish making the drive through the mountains in these conditions. “Are you nervous about driving?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. I’ve driven these roads in worse weather.”
It was the last thing he said for almost ninety minutes. Hannah didn’t sleep as expected. Instead, she talked pretty much nonstop to Lucky. Twice Laura thought they might have to turn around because of the road starting to drift shut. But Rico drove through it, slipping and sliding some, but not letting it stop him.
Her stomach was positively jumping by the time he slowed to a stop. They were in a middle-class neighborhood, where the houses, probably built in the 1970s, were small ranches with brick fronts and siding everywhere else. The trees were mature and heavy with snow.
He pulled into the driveway of one. “This is my parents’ house,” he said. “My sister, Charro, and her family live next door.” He pointed to an almost identical house. “I’m going to leave Lucky here.”
“Will he be okay?”
“Yeah. He’s stayed here before. Do you want to come in?”
She shook her head. “We’ll wait here.”
Rico got Lucky’s food from the back and then let the dog out. He promptly visited a bush. After he was finished, Rico let him play around in the snow for a few minutes before whistling for him to follow him inside the house. He was using his crutches and she suspected the drive hadn’t helped his ankle. Within a few minutes, he was back outside. He got in, rubbed his bare hands together, glancing at the gloves he’d left in the SUV. “It’s cold,” he said.
“How much farther?” she asked.
“Less than fifteen minutes.”
When they reached the hospital parking lot, he said, “I’ll drop the two of you off at the door.”
She shook her head. “You’re the one on crutches. If anyone gets dropped off, it’s you.”
In the end, he used the valet parking so that they all got out curbside. Once inside, they got directions to the cardiac floor.
Five feet from the door, they could hear the chatter outside room 303. Rico gave a quick knock and they walked in. Him in front, her and Hannah trailing behind.
“Oh, my God, it’s Rico. Oh, you poor thing. On crutches. How is your ankle?”
It was a woman’s voice. Likely his mother.
Laura crossed the threshold. It was a private room, with just one bed. The man in it was awake, watching the television mounted on the wall. He could only have been Rico’s father; the resemblance was very strong. His skin was darker and he had a short beard that was salt-and-pepper. Other than that, they looked much the same.
“Hey, Dad,” Rico said, giving the man a careful hug, so as not to dislodge the IVs hooked up to his arm.
“Thanks for coming,” the man said, patting Rico’s back. “I hate to bother you with all this.”
“No bother,” Rico said. He stood up. Then hugged the older woman in the chair, then the younger. They had to be his mother and sister. They were both fair skinned. His mother’s hair was cut very short and a lovely silver. His sister’s hair was shoulder length and light brown.
“Dad, Mom, Charro,” he said, t
aking in the room. “This is Laura. And Hannah.” He turned to her. “My parents, Janice and Placido Metez. My sister, Charro Whittle.”
She felt a bit like a germ under a microscope. They were intensely studying her. Rico’s parents appeared to be in their early seventies—older than she expected given that he and his sister were both somewhere in the midthirties.
“They’re…uh…friends of mine,” Rico said, obviously realizing the need to give some explanation for their presence. “We were riding out the storm together.”
“At your cabin?” Placido asked.
“Yes.”
Rico did not offer any additional explanation. No one asked for one. Perhaps they were accustomed to Rico bringing women around. But she didn’t think so.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Laura,” Janice said. She held out her hand. His sister extended her hand as well but didn’t say anything.
Hannah took two steps toward the bed. “Your name is Play-Doh?” she asked.
It broke the tension in the room. Everyone laughed. “Placido,” Rico’s father said. “But you call me what you want.”
There was seriously no telling what was going to come out of the child’s mouth. “I’m sure you have things to discuss,” Laura said. “Hannah and I don’t want to intrude. We’ll be in the waiting room at the end of the hall.”
Before Rico could protest, she pulled on Hannah’s hand and they were out of the room and down the hall. Chairs lined all three walls. She tried four spots before deciding that they were all equally uncomfortable. Didn’t matter. Anything was better than being back in a hospital room.
It was hilarious, really. She had a doctorate degree in physical therapy. In the big world of health care, she was an insider. Knew the lingo, could walk the walk. Three years ago had finally paid off her college debt that proved it all.
But the truth of the matter was, she hated hospitals. Hated the smell of the antibacterial hand gel that hung on the wall, hated the hushed voices that discussed mostly bad options, hated the damned mashed potatoes in the cafeteria.
But loved the healing. Loved knowing that with the right therapy, lives were regained, that motion thought lost was motion again enjoyed.
