“I can’t hold a scalpel. I can’t even tie a damn bandage.”
Fresh tears glistened on her lashes. “Oh, no.”
“This is why I came home. I’m going to see a friend of mine at Tulane for tests that will determine whether the damage to my hand can be repaired. I had my flight booked before William was shot.”
“Jackson, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t want your pity, Charlotte. I just want you to know that I’m the last person who would gloat over your troubles.” He pulled free from her touch and dropped his arm to his side. “And it looks as if we’ve both got plenty of those. We sure as hell don’t need to stir up the ones from our past.”
CHARLOTTE WALKED slowly along the perimeter of the room, running her fingers over the gracefully arching leaves of a potted fern. Music seeped in through the tall windows that faced the street—celebrations in the Quarter were going into full swing—yet apart from the click of her heels on the wood floor, this event room was silent tonight. The wedding reception that had been scheduled here had been canceled at the last minute after the wedding was called off. The emptiness should have bothered her because it meant lost revenue that was sorely needed. Instead she was grateful for some time to be alone with her thoughts.
She wasn’t sure how she’d gotten through the day. Somehow she’d managed to put on a good front to keep the staff motivated and the remaining guests happy. She’d even made a stab at going through the checklist for the gala Mardi Gras ball that would take place in this room next Tuesday.
And all the while she’d been haunted by the image of the mangled, scarcely healed flesh on Jackson’s palm.
How on earth could she have vented her frustration with her own situation on him? Granted, she’d had one bitch of a day, and seeing Jackson again had definitely pushed all her buttons, yet her behavior had been inexcusable. Even though the haze of emotion that had driven her had burned out within minutes, the echoes of what she’d said had lingered like the acrid, smoky aftertaste from yesterday’s fire.
Given his own circumstances, he’d shown incredible restraint. That was something new—the boy she’d known had been as open with his feelings as she used to be. Still, the compassion in his gaze hadn’t changed.
Neither had that uncanny ability he possessed to see straight through her.
She stopped beside the bay window that arched outward from the corner of the room and smoothed her palm along the plush window seat. Would Jackson be able to feel this velvet? Would he be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of fern leaves sliding through his fingers?
Truthfully she couldn’t imagine Jackson Bailey as anything but a doctor. She’d resented his choice when he’d made it because she’d had a different vision for their future. With the idealistic—and stubbornly blinkered—thinking of youth, she’d dreamed of following in the footsteps of the parents she’d idolized. Because of that, she’d hoped someday to run this hotel with Jackson and raise their own family where she had grown up. For a while it had seemed her wish would come true.
But then Jackson had won a scholarship that had allowed him to pursue his own dream. He’d been right to do it. It hadn’t been ambition that had driven him to become a surgeon, it had been a genuine need to make a difference. Rather than devoting himself to only one family, he’d saved the lives of countless others.
And so Jackson had made practicing medicine his life, just as Charlotte had made the hotel hers. They had gone their separate ways, yet after two decades apart, somehow they had arrived at the same point. They both were facing the possibility of losing the very things they’d dedicated their lives to….
The very things they’d chosen over each other.
It was ironic that they would meet again now. If there was such a thing as fate, it must have a twisted sense of humor.
“Auntie Charlotte!”
She turned toward the door in time to see a small figure barrel through. She shook off her dark mood, her mouth moving into the first genuine smile she’d felt for hours. “Daisy Rose,” she said, holding out her arms. “How’s my favorite niece?”
Daisy Rose raced across the gleaming floor, her long curly hair streaming behind her like red pennants. She skidded the last few feet before she collided with Charlotte’s legs, then clasped her arms around her aunt’s knees and leaned back. “I’ve got wings.”
“Well, of course you do,” Charlotte said, stroking her niece’s hair back from her face. “You’re our little angel.”
“No, real wings.” She wiggled her shoulders. “Look!”
Charlotte leaned over to check. Sure enough, a pair of wings fashioned from wire and white tulle hung crookedly from Daisy’s shoulders. “They’re lovely!”
“Watch me fly.” She bounced on her toes, craning her neck in order to peer over her shoulder. “See?”
The wire-and-tulle contraption flapped and wobbled sideways. Charlotte carefully adjusted it back into place. “That’s wonderful.”
“I’m a fairy.” She spun away from Charlotte, waving the stick in her hand. A gold-painted foam star tipped the end. “This is my wand, just like in the stories.”
“Yes, chère. Just like the fairy tales.”
She skipped back across the floor. “Mommy, look, I’m casting a spell.”
Charlotte returned her gaze to the doorway. Sylvie Marchand entered the room in a dramatic billow of tie-dyed magenta silk. The resemblance between mother and daughter was unmistakable—they both had the same red hair as well as the same irrepressible zest. Sylvie paused only long enough to straighten Daisy’s wings again, then swept over to Charlotte. “We’re still working on the rest of the costume, but she couldn’t wait to show you.”
“It’s going to be lovely,” Charlotte said.
“She’s over the moon about being able to stay up late. It’s going to be her first Mardi Gras ball.”
“That’s the main reason Mama and I decided to break with tradition and go with the fairy-tale theme.” Charlotte watched as Daisy moved around the room to tap each of the ferns with her wand. “Daisy has a vivid imagination.”
“She adores those stories you read to her.”
“So did I when I was her age. I’m sure she’ll have a wonderful time.”
Sylvie laughed. “She’ll probably play herself out after the first half hour and sleep through the rest of it.”
“That’s what Melanie did at her first ball. Do you remember?”
“You’re right.” She propped her hands on her hips and looked past Charlotte. “We found her curled up like a kitten on that window seat.”
“It seems like only yesterday.”
“And speaking of first times…” Sylvie lowered her voice. “I heard Jackson Bailey’s back in town.”
Charlotte sighed. She should have realized word of Jackson’s return would have spread. “Yes.”
Sylvie wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “I also heard he’s improved with age.”
“Men are lucky that way. Women simply age. How are things at the gallery?” she asked, trying to change the subject. Sylvie had taken over the management of the art gallery that was attached to the hotel. Like her sisters, she was using her own special talents to help keep the hotel afloat.
“Wonderful. I stopped by your office to give you an update earlier, but I didn’t want to intrude.”
“When? You know I always have time for you.”
“From the sound of things, you and the new, improved edition of Jackson the beanpole were going at it already.” Sylvie pursed her generous lips in a moue. “It’s funny… Come to think of it, I haven’t heard you raise your voice like that since he left.”
Charlotte pressed her fingertips to her temples. “You heard?”
“I couldn’t make out the words, but the passion came through loud and clear.”
“It wasn’t passion, it was stress.”
“Mmm. I’d say there’s still something there.”
The denial Charlotte wanted to make didn’t come
as readily as she would have liked. She hadn’t been pining for Jackson, yet she hadn’t been able to think about much else all day. And what about that blast of sexual awareness that had taken her by surprise when he’d held her? She decided not to probe at that. Her feelings concerning Jackson were muddled enough already. “Is it true that you had a crush on him?”
Sylvie’s eyes widened. “We were sworn to secrecy. Who told you? Was it Melanie?”
“She said you all did.”
“It was inevitable. You know how we looked up to our big sister. And he was your beau, so he had to be fabulous. With those sensitive blue eyes and his rebel hair and the way he could make us smile…” She clasped her hands to her breasts and sighed theatrically. “He was so romantic.”
“He was, wasn’t he?”
Sylvie chuckled. “And to top it off, the Queen couldn’t abide Jackson, so naturally that made him seem all the more romantic.”
The Queen. Sylvie was referring to their grandmother, Celeste Robichaux, who had made no secret of her disappointment over Charlotte’s interest in “that Bailey boy,” as she’d called him.
It had been an ongoing though subtly waged battle. Celeste was old-guard Creole and she was proud of her family’s history and their position among the cream of New Orleans society. She had insisted that, as her oldest granddaughter, Charlotte had a duty to choose someone who came with both old money and an impeccable pedigree.
Jackson had possessed neither. His father had repaired appliances for a living until he’d opened a store of his own. His mother had been the illegitimate product of a scandalous affair between a jazz pianist and Bennett Armstrong, one of the pillars of Celeste’s society. Although Bennett’s legitimate child, William Armstrong, had accepted his half sister and his nephew, Jackson, the rest of the Armstrong family had steadfastly refused to acknowledge their existence. None of that had mattered in the least to Charlotte, but her grandmother hadn’t been able to look past it.
Celeste had approved of Adrian. She’d been the one to introduce him to Charlotte and she’d been so delighted at their wedding reception that she’d actually waltzed in this very room.
It had been Mardi Gras then, too.
Charlotte could only hope that this year’s Mardi Gras wouldn’t be the occasion for another disaster.
“Mama! Auntie Charlotte!”
Charlotte pulled herself from her musings to see Daisy whirling in circles toward them, one arm flung out from her side, still clutching her make-believe wand.
“I thought you were a fairy, chère, not a helicopter,” Sylvie said.
“Look at my wand,” she cried.
Charlotte stared at the gold star on the end of the stick. It was a trick of the lighting—or perhaps a side effect of the moisture that had sprung to her eyes—but a trail of gold appeared to stream from the tip.
“Make a wish, Auntie Charlotte,” Daisy said, waving her wand as she passed. “It’s magic!”
Magic? Oh, no, Charlotte thought. Even in a game, she wasn’t going to risk asking for that again.
CHAPTER FOUR
“DO YOU KNOW WHY THEY say doctors make the worst patients, Jacques?”
“Because we never pay?”
“It’s because you insist on diagnosing and treating yourselves.” Dr. Yves Fortier jabbed his finger at one of the X-rays that was clipped to the lighted display board beside him. “I told you to use the hand within reason. What have you been doing since you got to town? Delivering refrigerators for your papa’s store?”
“I couldn’t have if I’d wanted to,” Jackson replied. “He moved the business to Des Moines after the last hurricane.” He peered at the film. He couldn’t spot any difference from the set of X-rays that had been among the diagnostic scans he’d had couriered to Yves last week. “Don’t try to scare me, Yves. The hand’s no worse.”
“It should have been better.” He moved his fingertip to the outline of one of the bones that had been chipped by the shrapnel. “I would have expected this to show some sign of absorption, but it’s still intact.”
“That bone isn’t the issue. It won’t impair any movement.”
“It will if there are other fragments left that have blocked the nerve pathways. You should have come to me for the initial work. Whoever did this must have used a poker and barbecue tongs.”
“There wasn’t much left of the hospital after the bombing. You know how it is, Yves.”
“Only too well. I shall need to ask Marie to fix you a gris-gris to counteract this butchery.”
Jackson restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Yves’ wife, Marie, was a fully qualified surgical nurse, but she was also a little eccentric, occasionally supplementing medicine with voodoo. It was a harmless hobby, and for some people it even provided comfort, so Jackson humored her when he could. “Will the charm cost me extra?”
“I thought you never paid, my friend.” He studied the X-ray for another minute, then stepped back. “Okay, enough wasting of my valuable time with chitchat. Let’s see how badly you’ve mucked yourself up.”
The small room that served as Yves’ combination examining room and research lab was tucked into a corner of the top floor of Tulane University’s medical arts building like an afterthought, although this private lab was the primary reason the university had been able to coax him into joining their staff. Every available inch of space along the walls was crammed with shelves full of books, journals and electronic equipment—if there had ever been windows, they’d long ago become buried. Yves led the way to the only clear surface—a stainless-steel worktable in the center of the floor—and rolled a stool in front of it.
In spite of his gruff manner, he was gentle as he positioned Jackson on the stool, switched on the high-intensity light and centered a magnifying lens over his hand. He inspected the back patiently, taking careful notes and measurements of the position and the extent of the damage. It took three times as long for him to go through the same process with the palm.
Compared to the examinations Jackson had already undergone, Yves’ initial approach was markedly low-tech, an odd choice for one of the world’s leading neurosurgeons, but it was all part of his gift. He’d always maintained that science worked best when it was wielded with the heart as well as the brain.
Jackson had first met Yves and Marie in an Eritrean refugee camp. There hadn’t been any MRIs or EEGs or ultrasound machines within a hundred miles—the beat-up generator outside the hospital tent had been barely able to power the lights. In spite of that, the Fortiers had labored six hours straight to save a ten-year-old girl whose leg had been almost severed at the hip by a machete.
The effort hadn’t been reasonable, since the chances of success under those primitive conditions had been next to nil. Nevertheless, neither Yves nor Marie given up. As Marie had tirelessly worked the ventilator and shooed the flies off their patient with a switch made of goat hair, Yves operated by instinct and feel. Against all odds, by the following morning the girl had not only sat up but wiggled her toes.
“Next time put on a catcher’s mitt,” Yves muttered.
“What?”
“From the looks of this,” he said, touching the eraser end of his pencil to the center of the scarring, “you tried to play catch with the shrapnel.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Yves glanced up, his gaze keen. “How close to the blast were you?”
“The details are fuzzy.”
“Perhaps that is a mercy.”
Jackson nodded. “We’ve all seen things we would prefer to forget, Yves.”
Yves grunted an agreement and let the subject drop. Like everyone who had worked in a war zone, he knew when not to push. He returned his attention to Jackson’s hand. “How much sensation have you recovered?”
Jackson pointed to the base of his thumb. “This area is around thirty percent. This is maybe forty.” He moved his index finger. “The rest is about sixty. Enough for basic grasping and holding but no fine motor control
.”
Yves switched off the light and swung the magnifying lens aside. “Huh, you’ve really done it this time, Jacques. You’re well and truly mucked up.”
“I know you can’t resist a challenge.”
“Do you think I have nothing better to do?”
“Since when did you become modest, Yves? We all know you’re a genius.”
“This is true. I am a genius.” He slapped Jackson’s shoulder. “Come back in two days and I’ll hook up the electronic gizmos. We’ll measure the nerve impulses and map out how much you left me to work with.”
“Thanks, Yves.”
“Don’t thank me yet, my friend. This is only the first step.”
Jackson recognized the caution in Yves’ voice. He’d used the same tone himself when he’d been unsure of a patient’s prognosis. Like Yves, he knew the odds of a full recovery were against him. But there was no way he could allow himself to give up.
Without his work, what would he have left?
The image of Charlotte stole into his mind. Not the silk-and-pearls Charlotte but the woman who had yelled at him yesterday, then had looked at his palm with tears on her lashes.
They hadn’t seen each other since then, so why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
Jackson rubbed his face briskly and followed Yves to the door. Since he’d come home, there seemed to be no end to the questions he didn’t know how to answer.
“EXCUSE ME, CHARLOTTE. Do you have a minute?”
Charlotte slowed her progress across the lobby as she saw Luc Carter step around the concierge desk and hurry toward her. She wanted nothing more than to keep walking until she reached her car, then drive home and have a two-hour bath and a ten-hour sleep, but it appeared that wasn’t going to happen. She paused beside the furniture grouping closest to the front entrance and set her briefcase on a wicker chair. “Certainly, Luc. What can I do for you?”
He adjusted the knot of his tie and smoothed his hair. “I need to talk to you about the fire.”
She regarded him curiously—the nervous fidgeting with his appearance was unusual for Luc. It would make a person think he had a guilty conscience. Her gaze was caught by the edge of the bandage that poked out from the cuff of his shirt, and she felt a quick jab of guilt herself.
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