by JoAnn Ross
“Why didn’t I know him?”
She was familiar with all their regulars. She created files for every one with all their likes and dislikes. She never missed sending birthday or anniversary cards (not always easy to keep up with, considering the number of divorces many went through), enclosing vouchers for chips. Some took advantage of their status to the point her dentist had warned her that if she didn’t stop grinding her teeth, she’d end up eating baby food.
Others, more reasonable, nice ones, Brianna had become close with. Enough that she’d spent part of her Christmas holiday in Florence, shopping with a bond fund manager’s wife and taking care of their children while they’d gone on a Tuscany wine tasting tour. All expenses paid, of course, along with a nice check and a gold mesh bracelet the wife had insisted on buying her at one of the shops on Florence’s Gold Bridge.
“You don’t have him in your book because he’s from Des Moines and usually stays at Wynn Tower Suites or the Mansion at MGM Grand. Which, given his tendency to jump back and forth, suggested that he might be induced to make us his home base when in town.”
“He’s a doctor. Granted, it’s a good profession, but he’s not exactly the type of gambler either one of those places or we would be vying for.”
“Ah, but he’s a doctor who happens to have established a national chain of for-profit medical clinics and is part owner in three more hospitals in Miami, Phoenix and Honolulu. The guy’s rolling in dough. Which, as last night proved, he’s more than willing to throw around. We want him throwing it around at our tables.”
It made sense. And surely Doctor Dick hadn’t been the first rude or even obscene guest she’d dealt with over the years. But, as she sat across from this man she knew to be the son of two high school teachers in Mesa, Arizona, Brianna realized the incident yesterday was close to becoming her last straw.
“What happens if I refuse to write the letter?”
“Of course I can’t force you.” She could tell that Hyatt wasn’t enjoying this any more than she was. One difference was that she was single, responsible only for herself. While, with two kids in college, one of whom was currently in Italy, studying for her PhD in art history, her boss had a great deal more to lose if the gambling doctor went over his head to Midas’s owner, a billionaire who always ranked in the top fifty on the annual Forbes richest list.
“Not that you’d ever try,” she allowed. Hyatt was a good guy who, through no fault of his own, had landed in an untenable situation. Which was only one of the reasons she decided to help him out. “But you would accept my resignation.”
He stared at her for what seemed a full minute. Then dragged his hand down his face. “Oh, hell. You don’t want to do that.”
The idea hadn’t occurred to her as she’d taken the elevator up to this floor. Neither had it crossed her mind as she’d made the long trek across the ocean of pink marble and sat down in the fake antique chair. But as soon as she’d heard the words leaving her mouth, Brianna knew it was exactly what she wanted to do. And fortunately, thanks to a recent surprise inheritance from another favorite guest whose family she’d become personal friends with, she could afford to walk away.
“Yes,” she said, “I do. I assume you’ll want me to leave immediately, so you can assure Dr. Michaelson that I no longer work here. Hell, tell him you fired me. That should gain you points over the MGM Grand and Wynn.”
“Does it matter that I don’t want you to leave?”
“Yes.” He did not, she noted, insist that he wouldn’t play the fired card. She watched the tension in his shoulders, clad in a suit that she guessed cost as much as either of his parents’ annual salaries, loosen slightly. “It matters a great deal and I appreciate it. But it doesn’t make any difference, Hyatt. It’s not the first time I’ve felt that I’m not the best fit here at Midas. So I think it’s for the best.”
He blew out a breath. Then finally stood up, went around the desk and, instead of shaking her hand, surprised her with a hug. Not a creepy boss-copping-a-feel hug, but the kind two close friends would share. “I’ll miss you,” he said.
“Back at you,” she said, meaning it. He’d been not just a mentor, but a friend. Perhaps, she’d often considered, because they’d both come from similar middle-class backgrounds.
Her second thought, coming right on top of the first, was that although she was friendly with many people, she no longer had anyone she could consider a true friend. At least not the kind she could share secrets with, or who’d play designated driver while you got drunk because you’d been dumped by some guy your always loyal friend would assure you was a tool who’d never been, and would never be, good enough for you.
Zoe had been that type of friend. But now, although she’d have been the first person Brianna would have called, she was gone. Forever. And although Brianna had exchanged emails back and forth with Seth for the first few months after the funeral, their correspondence had drifted off when he’d stopped responding, suggesting he’d moved on with his life.
“You’ll be impossible to replace,” Hyatt said, breaking into her thoughts.
She laughed at that and felt the tension inside her melt away, like one of the glaciers on Mount Olympus back home at spring thaw. “You know that’s not true. No one’s irreplaceable.” Except possibly George Clooney. “You might take a look at Brad,” she suggested.
“Are you sure he’s ready?”
“He’s young,” Brianna allowed. “But he’s been in the business since he was eighteen and has worked hard to learn the job along the way. He’s also eager to please and is a natural at this business.” She knew he had three younger sisters and had often thought that when they’d played tea party, he’d have been the one setting up the table and pouring the pretend tea. “If you move Greg to days, Brad should be able to handle nights. Especially with Greg to act as a mentor.”
“I’ll give it a thought. Thanks for the recommendation.”
He’d already mentally moved on. As he should.
“You’re welcome.” She patted his arm. “Take care. I’m off to write a polite, gracious response to the not-the-least-bit-truthful Yelp rant, pack up my desk and be on my way.”
“I’ll write a glowing referral. Just let me know where to send it.”
“It’s not necessary.”
Again an arch of the brow. “You already have a new place in mind?”
“I do.” The answer was so obvious she was surprised it wasn’t flashing in neon bright lights over her head. “I’m going home.”
CHAPTER FIVE
IT WAS MORNING in Kabul, Afghanistan. Traffic was streaming through the Bagram Airfield gates: suppliers, contractors, civilian workers, local residents who were members of the ANA, the Afghan National Army. The sun was rising, the base buzzing as the day medical staff at the state-of-the-art Craig Joint Theater Hospital caught up with patients who’d transferred in or out during the night. Widely recognized as one of the most advanced hospitals in the US Central Command, as well as the premier medical facility in Afghanistan, CJTH had the admirable record of a 95 percent survival rate. Thanks to dedicated medical personnel like Army Captain Zoe Harper, who was currently assigned to the intensive care department.
She was busy mentoring a local nurse, teaching her to tend to one of the unit’s favorite patients, a nine-year-old boy who’d been burned when the family’s propane tank blew up, when shouts started ringing out through the wing. Then automatic gunfire.
Instructing the nurse to bar the heavy metal door, she threw herself over her patient just as the world blew up.
When his phone alarm crashed into the all-too-familiar nightmare, Seth, drenched in sweat, dragged himself out of the inferno and threw the damn phone across the room. He resisted, just barely, taking a hammer to it.
The events that invaded his sleep weren’t real. Or maybe they were. He had no way of knowing because the only
facts the Army would share with him were that his wife had been working in the IC ward when security had been breached, allowing suicide terrorists dressed in medical uniforms to attack the hospital.
She’d told him about her patients. Both military and civilian, but he could tell that the little boy, whom she’d been treating for six months, had been a favorite. She’d even asked Seth to send a box of birthday party paraphernalia and Star Trek and Star Wars figures. Which he’d done. She’d emailed pictures of the birthday party two days before her death. The boy had been grinning up at Zoe, who was wearing a silly, definitely not standard issue Princess Leia wig with her military scrubs. It was obvious the kid had fallen in love with her. As everyone always did.
Her stories had created endless possible scenarios of her death. All were violent and horrific, and too often, followed Seth throughout the day. Which, in its own way, was even worse than the nights.
And not just because morning meant going out into the world where he might be forced to interact with people, but mostly because the one person he would not be able to avoid was his dad. Who, if Seth arrived at the job site a nanosecond past the seven o’clock start time, would spend all damn day complaining about the supposed lack of the younger generation’s work ethics.
Stumbling out of his side of the bed (he couldn’t make himself breach his wife’s cold, empty side), he let Bandit out to do his business, then opened a can of dog beef stew that had more vegetables than Seth ate in an average day. He figured he’d banked about a month’s worth at last night’s dinner.
Drawn by the sound of the electric can opener, the mutt came racing back in, skidded across the wood floor, dove his head into the bowl and dispensed with breakfast in three huge gulps.
He followed Seth into the bathroom and would have continued right into the shower if not barred by the ceiling-high glass door. The vet had explained that along with eating issues, separation anxiety wasn’t uncommon in rescues. Especially one who’d been all mangy skin and bones when he’d started showing up at the job site.
Having learned to ignore the unwavering eyes watching his every move, Seth braced his hands against the tile walls of the shower, lowered his head and let the cold water pouring out of the rain shower slam down the hard-on that continued to taunt him every damn morning. Closing his eyes, he kept his hands flat on the walls because even getting himself off would feel like he was committing adultery.
But not taking care of the ache wasn’t easy as he fought against envisioning what he’d be doing if Zoe was in this multihead shower he’d built solely with her in mind. She’d seen one on an HGTV makeover show, and sexted him with ideas of how much fun it would be to work on their baby making in one. Graphic, hot ideas that had had him immediately driving to the plumbing supply store.
There were days, and this was one of them, when he thought he ought to just sell the damn house. But then he’d wander through the rooms and see things like the rooster wall clock in the kitchen and the trio of small, seemingly useless little porcelain boxes she’d bought for the bedroom side table, or photos of her planting the living Christmas tree they’d bought from the Mannion farm so their future children could grow with it, and he knew that there was no way he was ever going to be able to abandon this house that he’d remodeled, but she’d turned into a home.
After he’d toweled off, dressed in boxer briefs and jeans, layered a flannel shirt over a black Harper Construction T-shirt and pulled on his socks and work boots, Seth took off his wedding band and put it into the box in the bedside table drawer.
One of the few things he and his father agreed on was that wearing rings when doing construction could be dangerous. Seth himself had seen guys seriously bruised, had one guy on his sheet metal crew whose finger had been amputated when the ring caught in a piece of machinery, and his electrical contractor’s finger was burned to the bone from an electrical arc during his apprentice days.
So, every work morning since returning home from his weekend honeymoon, he’d put the ring away in its black box in the drawer of the table that still held a framed photo of Zoe and him on their wedding day. And every evening, as soon as he walked in the door, he’d put it back on. Although his main reason was that wearing that simple gold band was a way of keeping his wife close, of not forgetting her and all they’d shared together, the simple truth was that after all these years it had become a habit.
Not a habit, he decided as he walked, with Bandit following right on his heels, out to the garage. Habits, both good and bad, became mere routines, something done without thinking. Taking off and putting on his wedding ring was more like a ritual. Which was a good thing, right?
Rituals were important. They were what bound societies together. Without them, the world would spiral into disorder. The type of chaos that could blow up a beautiful young woman, who’d never done anything to hurt anyone, in the bloom of her life.
Two years after its detail job, Zoe’s Civic still sat in the second car stall. It was concealed by the cover he’d bought after seeing her off on her deployment, but he could still envision it in all its Rallye Red glory. Many people in town, including Quinn, who’d actually shared a personal opinion for once, had suggested he sell it. Easy for them to say. Seth would rather cut off a limb with a rusty chain saw.
He wondered what all those well-meaning folks would say if they knew that once a week he’d drive it to Olympic National Park, up to Hurricane Ridge and back (except in the winter when snow closed the road), to keep the battery charged and gunk from building up inside the various internal parts, none of which he knew all that much about, but it’s what the guys on the car radio shows when he was growing up were always saying. The ranger at the Heart O’ the Hills entrance station, whose kitchen he’d remodeled, had quit asking for his park pass and merely waved him through. She’d also never, not once, asked him the reason for such regular visits.
It wasn’t easy keeping a secret in Honeymoon Harbor, but the fact that his mother hadn’t known about his weekly trips to the ridge suggested he owed that ranger a debt of gratitude.
Over the past years, Seth had learned a funny thing about death. The funeral, held in St. Peter’s because Honeymoon Harbor wasn’t a big enough town to have a Greek Orthodox congregation, had been packed, with every pew filled and standing room only in the side aisles and at the back. The townspeople, along with soldiers from Fort Lewis-McChord who’d come to honor one of their own, had even spilled out into the church parking lot.
Even more people from the peninsula lined the sidewalks on the way to the cemetery, holding their hands over their hearts, their kids waving miniature flags. Although much of that time was a blur, Seth remembered the members of the fire department, dressed in full uniform, standing at attention in front of their gleaming red trucks, having to stop for a freight train carrying a load of logs, and how the engineer had respectfully left his finger off the whistle at the crossing. He also recalled how, as the cortege wound its way along the waterfront, one old man, wearing fisherman’s rubber overalls and black boots, stood on the dock beside his trawler, shoulders squared, back straight as a ramrod, briskly saluting as the hearse drove past.
They were forced to hold the lunch after the internment in the parish community hall because neither his and Zoe’s home nor her parents’ house had enough room for everyone who’d wanted to attend. Tables groaned with casseroles, salads and cakes, and although he’d protested, the women who’d planned the occasion with the precision that Eisenhower had probably used for the D-Day invasion had sent him home with Tupperware and foil-wrapped packages labeled with the contents and name and mailing addresses of who’d made them so he could send thank-you notes. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.
Unwilling to allow people to believe their efforts weren’t appreciated, his mother had handwritten notes on cards she’d made herself. Later, he’d learned from Ethel Young, who ran Harper Construction’s office, that she’d
taken time to write a different, personal message on each card.
The first few weeks after the funeral, everywhere he went, people would stop to tell him how sorry they were for his loss, and ask—with great concern in their eyes and sadly sympathetic expressions—how he was doing.
To which he always lied and said something along the lines of, “Well, you know, it’s not easy, but I’m doing okay.” To which all those who’d told him that if he ever needed something, anything, to give them a call, looked openly relieved that they wouldn’t be roped into dealing with Honeymoon Harbor’s youngest widower.
Widower. Seth hated that word, which sounded like something from one of Zoe’s downloaded Jane Austen movies that he couldn’t bring himself to delete from their DVR menu.
But time moved on and apparently everyone had expected him to, as well. Because, except on Memorial Day, when Boy and Girl Scouts put flags on all the veterans’ graves and the VFW held a remembrance ceremony at the Harborview Cemetery, it was as almost as if his wife had never existed. As if she’d never twirled across the stage in a tutu playing the Sugar Plum Fairy in the eighth grade production of The Nutcracker, never waved her blue-and-white pom-poms while he was racing down the high school football field to catch Burke Mannion’s passes, never marched in perfect military formation in her JROTC cadet uniform. As if she’d never exchanged wedding vows with stars in her eyes, dreamed about babies who would never be born, never gone to war to save lives, only to lose her own.
“Fuck.” Although it never got easy, some days were tougher than others. Realizing that this was going to be one of the tough ones, he yanked open the door for the dog, who jumped into the passenger seat. Then he climbed into the truck, punched the button for the garage door opener and headed to work.
As imagined images of the aftermath of the hospital bombing that had seemed to run 24/7 for days on cable TV and were probably burned forever on the inside of his eyes, Seth pulled up in front of Cops and Coffee, conveniently located next to the police station and across the ferry dock from the pub. The coffee shop was operated by three retired Seattle detectives, thus the name and the flashing red, white and blue police light. They’d wanted to put the sign above the door, which the town’s strict historical design committee had quickly nixed, but Seth, who’d done the remodel, had managed to get them to give him a permit to place it in the front window, where visitors coming in or leaving on the gleaming white ferry couldn’t miss it.
