“Maybe later. I’m kind of tired.” She fiddled with everything. Her seatbelt. Her fingers. The hem of her shirt.
“Ale?”
She didn’t look up. “Hmm?”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Personally? Like physically? I’m super-duper all right. Except people keep asking me how I’m feeling. My arm’s broken.” She held up the sling.
He didn’t like all the qualifiers. “What about not physically?”
She flopped her head against the headrest. “Once we get home.” The way she clamped her mouth shut and turned her gaze out the window made him think that was that.
It didn’t relieve his desire for answers.
The short drive felt as if it took forever. When they reached the house, she was out of the car before he shut off the engine. He found her in the kitchen, pacing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flashing light on his phone. He had new messages, and that meant he’d had service at least for a while. It would wait. “Talk to me.”
She planted her palms on the counter near the sink and dropped her chin to her chest. “You should sit down.”
“Why?”
“Because... that’s what you tell people before bad news.”
She’d said she was fine physically, and he knew they were about to part ways. What did the doctor tell her? He could stand there and second guess, or do what she asked and get answers now. “I’m sitting.”
“So, I... That is—there were pill bottles in the bathroom cabinet.”
“Which is good. They didn’t rebel and try and take over the shower.”
She turned to face him but didn’t give the tiniest hint of a smile. That was a bad sign. She leaned back against the counter. “Two prescription bottles that were suspicious. Or odd. Or I’m not sure what to call them.”
“Okay?” He liked this less and less the longer it went on. He was tempted to demand she spit it out, but he didn’t want her to shut down.
“I—um—asked Dr. Phillips about them. Because he prescribed them. Not that he’d be able to tell me—patient doctor confidentiality and all that—but I had to ask.”
“Whatever it is, you can tell me. We’ll deal with it.”
She dragged in a shaky breath. “Nana didn’t die of natural causes.”
“Tell me.” His patience was vanishing beneath growing concern.
“She had Alzheimer’s disease. She didn’t want to lose her memories, so she...”
Fuck. He knew what came next. The reality screamed from the back of his mind. It was why Nana’s letter said she’d never see him again. Why no one saw this coming. He couldn’t accept it, though. A woman who loved life so much. It wasn’t true. “She what?”
“Ended her own life.”
Killed herself. Committed suicide. Took the selfish way out and left the rest of them behind, to cope with the consequences. A wash of black surged inside Jonathan, and he pushed back hard, swallowing it and burying it beneath a heavy blanket of numbness. “I see.”
“Don’t do this.” Bailey frowned. “Don’t pretend this doesn’t matter.”
It was what it was.
He didn’t believe his own denial. The ink of grief rushed forward, and again he forced it aside. “You’re misreading me. I’m not doing anything.” He grabbed his phone and stood. “I need to catch up on work.”
“Jonathan,” she called after him.
“I need to be alone.” He wouldn’t turn around. Couldn’t look her in the eye. Doing that would crumble the tentative wall he built inside, and he needed time to secure the barrier. Thinking about it clenched like a fist around his heart and made his step falter. He kept walking, out the front door, down the path, and God knew where beyond that.
Some place he could check into the office. A quiet spot. Checking his messages would help him focus on the people who didn’t choose to give up.
Most were friends and colleagues, checking in. With each new note asking if he was all right, either because of the storm or Nana’s passing, more questions bombarded him. How long was Nana planning this? Were there hints he missed? Something in her letters, about the disease and her desire to escape it? Could he have stopped it?
The thought made him clench his jaw as ambivalence rocketed through him. There was no way he could have seen this coming. Not from the woman who urged him to find his destiny. —who always had far-fetched tales to share that somehow felt real, and tied back to reality in ways he didn’t understand, even now.
There were few things that confounded him, but this didn’t make made no any sense. She was so full of life. Loved everything and everyone around her. Taught him to see life as an adventure. —something all too brief, to be cherished while it was here.
And it was all a fucking lie.
She didn’t believe any of it. How could she spout that kind of bullshit, and then end her own existence? How dare she tell him—tell Bailey—he was working too hard and missing the good in life, when Nana willingly removed herself from that same life? She threw away this thing away she swore was sacred, and had the nerve before she left to say he didn’t know how to live?
Fuck that. He reached deep inside, past the stabbing grief and bitterness and resentment, and grabbed a sheet of nothingness to wrap it all in. Work was waiting, and he’d spent a long time ensuring it went the way he wanted.
He dove back into his email inbox. It was more of the same. Meaningless condolences, wasting his time. A couple of issues in the office, accompanied by a handful of threads that ended with Liz’s, I’ve got this. Don’t worry about it.
That didn’t take as long as he hoped.
He needed to get back to the hotel and get on his laptop. Work options were limited from here, but he could do some things. He dialed Liz.
“I’m not talking work with you,” she said in lieu of a greeting.
“You have to give me something. I’m going stir crazy down here.” Not quite the truth. He needed to occupy his mind. Thinking about why hit him in the gut like a fist, and he gasped.
“No. I’ll talk weather. You staying dry? Is the property all right?”
Stubborn, overbearing— He cut the thought off before it became something he’d regret. Inspiration struck. “Everything’s fine.” The lie burned up his throat, leaving a bitter taste in its wake. “Hey. Mercy’s friends with that one guy, isn’t she?” Mercy was Liz’s best friend and a former colleague of Jonathan’s.
“Which one guy? There’s a list, I’m sure.”
“The one who owns Smut Central. Andrew Newton, isn’t it?” Jonathan knew the answer, but he wanted to drag the conversation out.
“She is, and he does. Why?”
“We found some classic stuff here in the attic, and I’m hoping a guy with connections like his can help me put a value on it.” A voice screamed in the back of Jonathan’s head for him to stop, but he gagged it. The rules were different than he realized, and that meant he needed to approach this in a familiar way. Sentiment was no longer a factor. If Nana didn’t believe any of the bullshit she taught him, there was no reason for him to. He could go back to living for his work without any pesky guilt. “If I ask you, pretty please, would you have her have him call me?”
“That was convoluted. Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
Because making another call would give him time to think about what he was doing. “I don’t know how long I’ll have service. It’s spotty. I’ll owe you.”
“You don’t owe me for passing along a message.” She laughed. “I’ll do what I can, but no promises.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.”
“I know I am. Talk to you when you get back.”
He disconnected and pocketed his phone. So much for distracting himself. Now this was done, his mind had a chance to wander. Except he wouldn’t let it. He’d count his footsteps if he had to. Let his legs carry him to the far end of the island and back. Process quadratic equations. Repeat poetry—
Nope, not going down that r
oad.
He lost track of time and location as he walked. When he realized he was squinting because the afternoon sun shone along the horizon and reflected off the water, he paused. Where was he? He looked around at the seaweed, the palm trees, the sand, and the battered old shack at the end of the beach. The location looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He’d never been here before.
He traced through his mind along different points in time. Pictures. Stories. Maps. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and brushed his fingers over something metal.
He extracted the iron key. That was why this looked familiar. The trees, house, and looming cliff were in the same places as the map he’d found in the attic. The one with the key in it.
She gave her life, to keep those memories.
Which was stupid, because now they were gone anyway.
You still have them.
Great. He was talking to himself. He’d still have them even if she lived.
It wasn’t your decision. Don’t take this from her because you’re too selfish to let her go.
“Fuuuuck!” He poured his rage toward the setting sun. There was no way he could hide from this. Icing over the hurt and anger wouldn’t work. Fury spilled through the cracks in his defenses.
Nana was gone.
She did it on purpose.
Made the decision to leave them behind, consequences be damned.
Each new thought scraped away at his grasp on calm.
He’d have Doctor Phillips arrested. Thrown in jail to rot, for helping with such a horrendous decision. The asshole looked Jonathan in the eye and offered his condolences. God. Why did this hurt so fucking much?
He needed to sit down. He stumbled toward a rock near the cabin, and almost tripped on something sticking out of the sand. The corner of a box, exposed by the recent storm.
He knelt and started digging, not sure why. The wet dirt was easy to pile aside, and within moments, he dug out a space around a small wooden chest. The iron bindings on it were rusted and corroded, and the top slipped askew when he tugged it out of its hole. He wouldn’t need the key after all. Even with the damage to the lock, there was no doubt in his mind the two went together.
He flipped the lid open. Water-logged foil blinked back at him in the dying sunlight. It had separated from the chocolate coins it used to encase.
A shout of frustration built inside, and he yelled into the evening, as he fell back on his ass in the wet sand. Fucking hell. He wanted this pain to stop.
IT WAS AFTER ELEVEN when Bailey heard the front door click open. She was on her feet in an instant, to meet Jonathan. It didn’t matter what kind of mood he was in, as long as he was safe. She stopped short when he entered the house and stared straight at her, eyes dark and mouth pinched in pain. He was covered in sand, and half of him was wet.
She hovered a few feet back from him, unsure what to say. He obviously wasn’t all right, so asking didn’t make sense. “I was worried.”
“I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m sorry I left you alone.” Despite his haunted expression, his voice was flat.
“I’ll get you a towel.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Now what? She searched his face, not finding answers but hoping something would come to her.
“I should have asked for a fucking autopsy. Demanded one. How naïve was I, to accept natural causes when there was nothing wrong with her? What Phillips did is illegal,” he said.
“He prescribed painkillers to an old woman who was in pain.”
“You and I both know that’s not why he did it. Did he even try and deny it when you asked him?”
She hated that monotone voice. “He said she wanted us to know.”
“Was she unhappy?”
“No.” Bailey poured as much reassurance as she could into the reply. “Not that I ever saw. All the way up to the end, she was friendly and social and still matchmaking.”
“Then why?”
“I’ve told you what I know. She had her reasons.”
He scowled. “You sound like you agree with her.”
“I don’t know. I miss her. I know the loss you feel is even greater, but it still tears me apart that she’s gone. This is like hearing the news all over again, but ten billion times worse. I trusted her, though. She saved my life, and I would have done the same if I could, but not if she didn’t want it.” Bailey’s throat was raw by the time she finished talking.
“I guess you’re a better person than I am. I can’t forgive this.” He stepped around her, and the stairs creaked with his weight.
For the second time today, she let him go.
Chapter Seventeen
Bailey could go home now. The storm had passed, and while the paths would be a mess, she could pick her way through them. Sleep in her own bed. Grab a change of clothes that weren’t hurriedly shoved into a duffel bag.
She didn’t want to leave Jonathan alone when he was coping with this. Even if he wouldn’t speak to her, she wanted to be here. She grabbed a book from the living-room shelf, and settled in to read.
The next thing she was aware of was the scent of brewing coffee. She used the smell to force her eyes open. The storm shutters were open, and the early morning sun spilled into the room, striking her face. She stretched her neck and shoulders the best she could, and her book thunked to the ground. Note to self—falling asleep on the couch sitting up was a bad idea. The coffee meant Jonathan was up. What kind of mood would he be in? Angry would be better than impassive. Regardless, she hoped he wouldn’t shut her out.
She padded into the kitchen and found him leaning against the far counter, a mug in hand and a second sitting next to him. “For you.” He nodded at the latter.
She grabbed the cup and put some distance between them again. His eyes held the same haunted look as the night before. He’d shaved. Changed. His hair was damp. Cleaning up didn’t hide his grief. Once again, the words how are you doing died on her lips. She held up the mug. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He didn’t drink his coffee. Silence filled the room, and neither of them maintained eye contact. “Do you have plans this morning?” His abrupt question startled her.
“Same plans I’ve had all week.” What she intended as teasing came out tired.
“We should go out for breakfast.”
“What?”
His smile looked as though it took effort, but it was still pleasant. “We’ll stop by your place, and you can change and shower. Then we’ll go to Bobbie’s. Let someone else who has food in their kitchen do the cooking. Give the locals something to talk about.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not dim. Every single person we’ve run into since I arrived is muttering about what a cute couple we make and how it’s about time. Us at breakfast together ought to make their day, regardless of the reality.”
He did notice the stares and whispers. She shouldn’t be surprised. His qualifier gnawed at something inside, but she couldn’t argue. They weren’t a couple; they’d both agreed. “Breakfast sounds good.”
“Do you need help making sure your cast stays dry in the shower?” He winked. Like all his other expressions this morning, it looked forced.
She shook her head. “You can help me put a plastic bag around it.”
Conversation was stuttered at best, as he drove them to her place. She struggled to get her clothes off around the cast without help. She needed to learn sooner rather than later. When she snagged the plaster, and jarred her shoulder, a scream tore from her throat before she could stop it. Fuck, that hurt.
Jonathan pounded on the bedroom door. “What happened?”
She swallowed past the jolt and let him in, relieved the spike of pain evaporated quickly. “I think I need help.”
“Of course.” He moved stiffly, the way he had all morning, but concern shone in his eyes. Like in the clinic, he was so gentle, working the cotton around her arm, pulling off the shirt and setting it aside, it filled her with a differen
t type of ache. He grazed his fingers over her back. “It’s a pretty shade of neon yellow now, but it’s got some new purple splotches.”
She smiled, but a wave of memories slammed into her from the other night slammed into her—laughing and catching up in the rain, and then sex in the shower... She stashed the images for when she was alone and not dealing with the harshness of reality. “What can I say? I’m a bruise collector.” The attempt at a joke fell flat. “Thanks for the help. I’ve got it from here.”
“I’ll be in the living room.” He stepped around her, gave her one final glance, and then closed the door on his way out.
After the shower, she found looser clothes. Something she could put on and take off by herself.
The diner in town was mostly empty. Even the older men who usually occupied the table in the corner were absent. The waitress was too young to know or care who Jonathan was, so there were no whispers or knowing smiles.
They ordered and still barely said more than I’m glad it stopped raining, and Me too.
Jonathan sighed. “You’re dying to ask.”
“I am.” She hated this new information about Nana’s death. Knowing didn’t change anything, and she could only offer sympathy, not do the coping for him. It gnawed at her, but it seemed to be destroying him.
“Go for it.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m not.” He gave a bitter laugh. “At this very moment, I’m wondering if it’ll ever not hurt. It doesn’t matter what I tell myself—that I can’t change the past; that this was what she wanted—I’m furious. How is it not demolishing you?”
It hurt. What she said last night was true; it was like reliving the news of Nana’s passing, amplified to infinity. The pain wouldn’t ebb so soon, but reason was drifting in. “Maybe it’s because I was there in the end. I got to see more of her than you did. You have access to all of that, by the way. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Right now, I just want to know why.”
“You said it yourself—this was her decision. You know her reasons.”
He snarled. “But I don’t understand. Do you?”
The Second Chance and The Auctioneer (The Love Equation, #3) Page 12
