The Older Woman

by Cheryl Reavis

  “So,” she said finally. “Is it serious?”

  “Is what serious?” he asked, deciding to make The Handful work at it.

  “This thing between you and Kate,” she said.

  “It’s not serious,” he said. Yet.

  “That’s not what she says.”

  “No?”

  “You know, you’re really not her type,” she said, completely changing directions.

  “Correct,” he said, because she’d definitely gotten that right. He’d been all over the world, and about all he had to show for it was a bunch of chewing gum stickers—

  pictures of naked women that came in nickel packs of chewing gum the Balkan locals sold to peacekeeping soldiers to help make ends meet. It would be a long time before he’d be running around with a bag of gourmet bagels and driving an expensive silver car. If ever.

  The cat got up and immediately lay down again, its head now resting conveniently under his fingers. He gave it a token scratch between the ears and once again he could feel it purring.

  “Are you the reason she dumped Paul?” Arley asked, he thought, more to see if she could get to him than because she actually wanted to know.

  “Don’t think so. I don’t even know who Paul is.”

  “Well, he was the love of her life until a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh, you mean the real estate guy. No. I’m not the reason.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, I can’t help that. So what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. What about this guy you think you love with all your heart.”

  Her eyes flashed—and for a moment he thought she was going to hit him with something.

  “That is none of your business.”

  He smiled. “Oh, I see. Dishing it out is your thing.”

  She got up from the coffee table and left. Grace almost immediately took up the slack. Grace didn’t look like Meehan. At all. She had the same air of competence, but that was about it. This woman was born to command. She couldn’t be bothered with lipstick or shaving her legs, and Calvin “Bugs” Doyle had her full attention.

  “Has everybody abandoned you?” she asked. She sat in the nearest chair.

  “No, I’m fine,” he said. “How’s Gwen doing?”

  “Oh, she’s gotten a new wound. Some people have no business around sharp objects. So. You’re Kate’s friend.”

  “Yes,” he answered truthfully.

  “And?”

  “And…whatever else I am is none of your business,” he said easily. “To tell you the truth, I’m a little surprised you think so.”

  “She’s my sister. And she hasn’t had the best judgment when it comes to men.”

  “People usually believe what the people they love tell them—until they have good reason not to, don’t you think? It’s got nothing to do with judgment.”

  “You have a very simplistic way of looking at a very complicated situation,” she said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Kate has…baggage. Things someone like you wouldn’t want to have to deal with.”

  “Someone like me? I know about the ex-husband, Grace. I know about the real estate guy. And I know about the cancer,” he said.

  She stared at him, clearly surprised that she didn’t have the upper hand here. He didn’t think she was used to it, and he was definitely sure she didn’t like it.

  “You don’t have to worry,” he said after a moment. “You and Gwen and Arley have got the cart way before the horse. Right now Kate’s a friend. Period. But whichever way it goes, I don’t think you’re going to have much to say about it.”

  Scottie stirred on the couch and turned over. Gwen burst through the door carrying a platter of steaks that was clearly too hot to handle.

  “Too many mosquitoes to eat outside!” she said on the run. “Come on, everybody!”

  Grace got up from the chair and followed her into the kitchen. Doyle stayed where he was, waiting for Arley to get by and Meehan to show. She didn’t. He got up from the couch, trying not to jiggle Scottie any more than he could help, and walked to the door. Meehan was sitting on top of the wooden table she used when she repotted her flowers.

  He opened the door and went out. She looked around when she heard him, but she didn’t say anything.

  “So how’s it going?” he asked when he was close enough.

  “I can’t find any cigarettes,” she said. She picked up something—sunflower seeds—off the table and leaned over to toss them nearer the bird feeders.

  “Can’t help you. Don’t smoke.”

  “Me, either,” she said, and they both laughed.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she said, sighing. “Arley and I had words—right after Grace and I had words.”

  “How about Gwen? Was she in there anywhere?”

  “No—but the whole business made her cry.”

  They both looked up at the moonlit sky. He could hear crickets and tree frogs. It was a beautiful summer night.

  “I need to ask you something,” he said after a moment. “It’s serious.”

  “I don’t think I’m up to anything ‘serious.”’

  “It’s about you and me.”

  “There is no you and me. Bugs, what you’re feeling—or think you’re feeling—

  has to do with you being hurt so badly and being a patient on my ward. It’s a very common occurrence.”

  “You mean I like you as much as I do because you helped me when I really needed it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is that a two-way thing?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean who got who in out of the rain? Does that count as me helping you when you really needed it? Is this helping business a two-way thing or not?”

  She didn’t say anything, and he took a step closer.

  “You’re on the rebound,” she said.

  “So are you, and don’t try to stonewall me. I still want to ask you something,” he said, stopping just short of her knees. He leaned his cane against the table and reached out and took her left hand and placed it firmly against his shoulder.

  He held up one finger in warning when she was about to pull it away. “Just cut me a little slack, okay?”

  Then he took the other one and placed it on his other shoulder.

  “Doyle, what are you doing…?”

  “I’m making sure you know that you’re the one in control here. You might as well let me ask what I want to ask and get it over with,” he said. “You never can tell. Slashand-burn might work with me, too. I’m about to give you a great opportunity to do it.”

  She sighed. “All right. Ask.”

  But he didn’t ask. He looked into her eyes, and she looked back.

  Kate, he thought. Kate…

  “Are you going to let me kiss you?” he asked quietly.

  It was the absolute last thing she expected. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, but she didn’t push him away. He could hear the sisters banging pots and sliding chairs in the kitchen.

  “Are you?” he asked again, leaning closer. Her knees pressed into his belly, his hands rested on the table on either side of her thighs. He had her surrounded, trapped, but he was still asking.

  “Are you?” he said a third time, bypassing her mouth to whisper in her ear.

  He waited. It took every ounce of control he had to do it. She smelled so good, and the taste of her was already in his mind. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, but she still didn’t push him away.

  “Kate,” he whispered, and she made a small, needy sound that tore his heart out.

  She leaned forward. Her arms slid around him, and she rested her head on his shoulder for a moment, clinging to him before she turned her head and pressed her mouth against his. The kiss was hard and deep and…

  He couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t get her close enough. He was starving.

  Star
ving…

  But he was the one who broke away. He stood there, hands shaking, ready to go off. He had never felt anything so intense. Never. It wasn’t because he’d been so long without. And this wasn’t one of those love-the-one-you’re-with, heavy-breathing sessions. He’d had enough of those to know.

  He could feel eyes watching from the windows again.

  “This is either the beginning or the end,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  But he didn’t wait for her to answer. He picked up his cane and, with what little willpower he had remaining, he walked to the edge of the patio and down the steps toward Mrs. Bee’s.

  Chapter Eight

  Kate.

  The last thing on his mind when he finally fell asleep and the first thing on his mind this morning—besides the knocking on the door.

  He forced himself out of bed and made his way to answer it, hoping. Hoping…

  “Okay, hoss, let’s ride,” the soldier in the hallway said when he opened the door.

  Doyle stood staring at him, noting the lesser rank and searching for some clue as to his purpose. Absolutely nothing came to mind.

  “What?” he said pointedly after a moment, because there was no more information forthcoming and because he was in no mood for riddles.

  “Specialist Doyle, your presence is immediately required by those who have the power and authority to require it.”

  “Do I get to know who that might be—” he squinted to read the name tag through sleep-blurred eyes “—Guthrie?”

  “Sergeant Beltran,” he said. “But it came from higher up than that.”

  “Like how high?”

  “Can’t help you, hoss. I’m just the wheels. And haste would be good.”

  “Yeah, all right. Give me a minute.”

  “No problem—the lady downstairs is handing out chocolate-chip cookies,” he said.

  Doyle closed the door. He could hear Guthrie clumping down the stairs in search of Mrs. Bee. He stood for a moment, trying to figure this thing out. Surely Meehan hadn’t made a complaint about him to his CO.

  Surely.

  He hobbled over to look out the window. Her car was gone.

  So. She was at work.

  So. She’d had the time to make a complaint if she was so inclined.

  He’d told her the kiss thing was either the beginning or the end—and if she’d decided it was the end, having him hauled in would be pretty attention-getting, even for somebody as persistent as he was.

  Still, it was Guthrie who’d showed up and not the MPs.

  He got dressed in his standard invalid outfit and hobbled downstairs. Guthrie had Mrs. Bee treed, and she was happily handing out cookies.

  “Let’s go, Guthrie. See you later, Mrs. Bee,” he said as he passed the kitchen door.

  “Calvin?” she called as he stepped out on the porch. “You’ve got a steak dinner in here in the refrigerator.”

  Steak

  dinner?

  “Katie brought it over this morning.”

  Yes!

  “And, Calvin?” she called as he started down the steps. “I think you’d better get some cat litter.”

  “Right, Mrs. Bee,” he said, trying not to collide with Guthrie who had decided to make his descent at the same time.

  Okay. This is good. No MPs and a steak dinner in the fridge he thought as he made his way to Guthrie’s “wheels.” How upset can she be?

  “Cat

  litter!”

  he said out loud.

  “Looks like you’re getting around better,” Sergeant Beltran said when Doyle hobbled in.

  “Roger that,” Doyle said. “Or so they tell me.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. Guthrie here is going to take you over to the hospital. You call me here when you’re done, and I’ll see what I can scare up to get you back home.”

  “The hospital, Sergeant?” He’d seen all of hospitals he cared to—ever. It was all he could do to keep his follow-up appointments, much less drop into one out of the blue.

  “Some big-deal surgeon from that hospital you were in out in Texas. He wants to review your X-rays or something.”

  He doesn’t need me for that, Doyle almost said before he remembered that this wasn’t a situation that required his input. He’d been summoned, apparently by a doctor who couldn’t believe he was still kicking—sort of.

  He rode to the hospital in silence, only half listening to Guthrie’s chatter. He was more interested in considering his chances of running into Meehan—zero—and what he would say if he did—nothing. It was all up to her now—unless he couldn’t take the waiting. Twisting in the wind was not his style.

  He expected to be shuffled off to some waiting area for who knew how long, but he didn’t expect that the hot-shot surgeon would be wanting more X-rays. That took all morning. And then it took all afternoon. He was hungry and more than a little illtempered by the time he actually saw the doctor face-to-face. He didn’t remember the man at all, not his name or his face. He didn’t remember much of anything before he was sent back here to recuperate.

  “It looks surprisingly good, Specialist,” the man said, briefly flashing an X-ray film in the air.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Doyle said, in spite of the very big but he could feel coming.

  “You could use a tune-up, though,” the doctor continued, and Doyle realized he’d been holding his breath.

  “Tune-up,

  sir?”

  “The subsequent surgeries have considerably improved the degree of damage to the femur and tibia in your left leg, but see this here—and here?” he said, holding up the film again.

  Doyle didn’t see a damned thing.

  “We can fix that without too much trouble.”

  “Trouble for who, sir?” Doyle asked, and the man grinned.

  “Yes. I see what you mean. Well, it will be similar surgery to what you’ve had in the past, and it would have to be done in Texas.”

  “Sir, I don’t want to do that. I’m just getting to the point where I can halfway get around again. I don’t want to start over.”

  “It’s going to save you a lot of trouble in the long run. And I think it will cut down on the pain.”

  “Sir, yes, sir. I understand that. But I—” He stopped and drew a sharp breath. More surgery. It was one thing to have it when you were so far gone you didn’t care, and an altogether different deal when you weren’t. The old make-it-hurt-more-so-it-will-hurtless thing again.

  “Sir, are we talking about surgery right away? Couldn’t we just let it ride for a while? Let me see how far back I can come first? Maybe I won’t need it.”

  The man stared at him. “You realize how lucky you are, Doyle. I didn’t think you’d be walking again at all.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “There is a risk of losing what you’ve managed to regain if you let it go too long—but I understand your reluctance. I…think we can let it wait a month or so. The doctors here can follow you, make sure you’re maintaining your current status.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Doyle stood and left the room, trying to look like he was doing better than he actually was and not hobble. He walked into the crowded corridor, dodging patients in wheelchairs and staff in a hurry, barely seeing any of them. Surgery.

  Again.

  Ah, damn!

  The long day was taking its toll. He made it as far as he could before he had to stop and give in to the pain. He was supposed to call Sergeant Beltran about getting a ride home, but he didn’t. He had his own plans for that.

  He got onto the elevator and pushed the button for the floor where Meehan worked. He halfway expected not to find her—he’d been on a search for her at work before, but he saw her as soon as he got off the elevator, walking away from him in the opposite direction. His legs were killing him. It was as if knowing that things weren’t right made the pain worse. There was no place to sit down so he stood, leaning hard into his cane, hoping the shakiness wou
ld pass and that Meehan would come back this way so he didn’t have to go hunting for her. People walked past him, but he must have looked all right, he thought, because none of them paid him any attention.