by Lucy Kerr
“Where’s your son?”
“At a friend’s house.”
A tech in soccer-themed scrubs walked by, squeezed Laura’s shoulder, and murmured condolences before leaving us alone again.
“Do you work here?” I asked. “Everyone seems to know you.”
“CJ has epilepsy. We’re here a lot for tests and doctor’s visits, so we’ve gotten to know people. Hospitals are kind of like small towns, aren’t they?”
“Especially when they’re in small towns,” I muttered.
“It’s so sudden,” she said. “I mean, my dad had heart problems, but they weren’t life-threatening. He even applied for a drug trial last year, and he wasn’t sick enough to qualify. Ironic, isn’t it?”
Ironic, but not unheard of. Besides, I was concerned about last night, not last year. “How did he get to the hospital? I’m surprised he drove himself in with a heart attack.”
“He thought he had the flu. He’d been feeling poorly for a few days and finally decided to come in. I offered to drive him, but he didn’t want me to leave CJ alone so late at night.”
“Ms. Madigan?” A tall, silver-haired man in a doctor’s coat and burgundy silk bow tie approached. Behind him stood a blonde woman in a boxy navy suit, eyeing us curiously. “I missed you upstairs. I’m Alexander Hardy, the cardiologist who treated your father. I wanted to give you my condolences in person.”
“Thank you,” she replied, stumbling over the words. “It’s . . . a shock.”
“I want you to know that we used every available means to resuscitate your father, but the damage to his heart was severe and irreversible. There was nothing we could do.” He turned to me. “Are you a friend of the family?”
“This is Frankie Stapleton,” Laura said, before I could introduce myself. “She’s the one who found my dad outside. She’s helping me get . . . closure.”
His eyebrows lifted. “That’s very kind of you.”
I shrugged, unsure how to respond. Instead, I directed my words toward the woman behind him. “I didn’t catch your name. Are you on the cardiac team?”
“Ashley?” Hardy frowned. “Of course not. She’s—”
“Ashley Ritter, Pharmagen Biomedical,” she said, stepping forward to shake my hand. “I’m the project manager for the Cardiodyne trial.”
“Yes,” Hardy said with a forced laugh. Clearly, he didn’t like being interrupted. “She’s a regular Girl Friday. Knows her way around a spreadsheet and a coffeemaker.”
The dismissal was blatant. I met Ashley’s gaze, saw the flash of anger there, quickly replaced by a pained smile. I’d been in her position a thousand times when I was starting out, dismissed as a pretty young thing instead of treated like a colleague. Countless surgeons had sent me to get coffee while they “practiced real medicine.”
They were still waiting for their cappuccinos.
“Would you like to join us?” Laura asked, breaking the awkward silence. “I had some questions . . .”
“We’re on our way to a meeting.” Hardy said regretfully. He withdrew a business card from his chest pocket and set it on the table, the gesture stiff and fumbling. “Contact my secretary, and we can set up an appointment, if you’d like. Again, my condolences.”
He strode away without another word, beckoning for Ashley to follow. She hurried after him, glancing back at us with a frown.
I shook my head. If Ashley wanted respect from Hardy—or anyone else—she needed to start demanding it. But I had bigger concerns right now. “Laura, I’m happy to answer any questions I can, but I wasn’t your dad’s nurse. I can’t explain any of his treatment.”
“I know, but you spent time with him. Did he seem like he was in a lot of pain? Or scared? Did he say anything?”
“He mentioned CJ,” I said. The truth would only make her grief more raw; rather than lie, I sidestepped her other questions and asked one of my own. “Were they close?”
“Best buddies,” she said wistfully. “They were always going fishing or working on a project around the house. My dad is—” She caught herself, closed her eyes, and tried again. “He was a handyman—a real jack-of-all-trades. Plumbing, electrical, house painting, carpentry. You name it, he did it. CJ loved working with him, especially since his own father is barely around.”
“You’re divorced?”
“We’ve been separated for almost three years,” she said. “But I can’t afford a lawyer on top of CJ’s medical bills, and Jimmy’s more interested in gambling chips than chipping in. Money’s been so tight that my father had started paying for CJ’s new medication. He said it was the least he could do to help.” Her voice broke on the words.
Just wanted to help, Clem had said.
“He sounds like he was a great guy.”
“He really was.” She wiped her eyes, seeming to gather up the shreds of her composure. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you. It would have been worse, thinking that he’d died out there, all alone. I would have wondered if the doctors could have saved him. At least I don’t have to wonder now.”
I knew the danger of second-guessing yourself, of imagining how things could have been. Of thinking a different choice might have saved a life that had been lost. In a hospital, it was a staggeringly heavy responsibility. You could either learn to carry it or be crushed by it. I’d seen plenty of nurses burned out for exactly that reason, and I’d seen plenty of patients’ families paralyzed by it.
I was glad I’d been able to give Laura some measure of comfort alongside her answers. But for me, our conversation had only raised more questions.
FIVE
On impulse, I gave Laura my number, telling her to call if she wanted to talk further. Clem’s death had left me feeling oddly unsettled. It was as if my blue polyblend scrubs were a kind of armor, and treating a patient without them, away from my own hospital, had stripped me of my usual defenses.
I headed up to the maternity ward, where Charlie insisted I go home. “You couldn’t nurse a teddy bear, you’re so wiped out.”
I wanted to point out that this was fine advice from someone who, a day before, had begged for my help. But Rowan was stable, Riley was starting to go stir-crazy, and my mother was looking frazzled.
“Come back after dinner,” Matt suggested, handing over my backpack and steering me toward the door. “We’ll put you on diaper duty.”
“But . . .”
“Aren’t you the one who loves the night shift?” Charlie asked, dragging her eyes away from Rowan to wrinkle her nose at my appearance. “Seriously, Frankie. You’re a wreck. Go home.”
Going home meant enduring an interrogation about failed engagements and my failure, thus far, to provide my fair share of grandchildren. I wondered if Rowan’s arrival would buy me a reprieve. Probably not. But my thoughts were starting to blur from fatigue, and even the simple act of scrubbing my hands seemed unmanageable.
“You’ll call me if anything changes?”
She nodded. It was good to see my sister bouncing back to her usual no-nonsense self, even if she was sporting a variety of IV bags. Worry was etched at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but she’d lost the panicked, desperate look that she’d worn when I arrived. “Tell Mom to stop at the store and get the weekend’s totals, will you?”
“Focus on Rowan,” I said. “Forget about the store.”
“Some of us don’t have that luxury,” she snapped. Matt touched her shoulder, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sorry. Can you give Mom the message, please? It’s not like I’m asking you to take over.”
“No problem.” She was even more exhausted than I was, I reminded myself. Stressed beyond belief. The store had always been a bone of contention between us—Charlie blamed me for leaving her to run it alone, and I was hurt that she’d rather see me miserable behind the counter than doing what I loved.
I’d thought coming home now might have healed that wound, but a single visit couldn’t repair a decade-old rift. I forced a smile, blew a kiss to Rowan through the is
olette, and made my escape.
My car was still in the ER lot. I kept my head down as I walked through the waiting room, not wanting to chance another encounter with Dr. Costello. One glimpse of me through the ER doors, and he’d be calling what little I’d seen of hospital security.
I couldn’t get Clem out of my head. I replayed every moment since I’d arrived at Stillwater Gen, unable to shake the feeling that I was missing something. Plenty of things in medicine were inexplicable—miraculous recoveries, freak accidents, long shots that paid off, and sure things that didn’t. Maybe Clem had been more ill than he’d told Laura. Maybe he’d been bad about taking his medicine or started an all-bacon-and-butter diet. Maybe he’d given up. Nothing was more fatal than a loss of hope. But I thought about his “World’s Best Grandpa” hat, and the fact he’d used what little breath he had to talk about CJ, and “giving up” didn’t fit.
I didn’t notice the person in front of me until I’d slammed into a broad, dark-blue chest. I yelped, stumbling backward, and someone gripped my arms to steady me.
“Geez, Frankie. Am I that forgettable?”
I closed my eyes. I knew the voice, low and amused, and it wasn’t forgettable. Not even close. Not even when I’d tried, and I’d tried very, very hard over the last twelve years.
I opened my eyes, looked up (and up, and up, because the owner of the navy-blue chest was a solid foot taller than me), and saw exactly what I expected. What I’d expected since the minute I’d crossed the city limits.
Noah MacLean.
Ex-fiancé number one.
“Sorry,” I croaked. “I was . . . somewhere else. It’s good to see you, Noah.”
Like a puppy who’d grown into his feet, my high school boyfriend had grown into his looks. The face that had been swoon-worthy at eighteen had lost its softness, the dark-blond hair cut military short instead of straggling over his collar. The scar over his right eyebrow, a memento from a stray baseball sophomore year, added character, as did the faint beginnings of lines around his moss-green eyes.
“You, too. Saw you last night, actually.”
For the first time, I noticed the badge on his pocket and the gun at his hip. “You’re a cop?”
“Sheriff’s deputy.” He let go of me, and my arm tingled where he’d held it. “We were spread pretty thin last night, thanks to the bus crash. I rode along and helped transport some of the kids.”
I flashed back to the girl with the pom-pom, the tug of familiarity when I’d heard the paramedics’ chatter.
“That was you? Why didn’t you say something?”
He grinned, the broad smile throwing me off-balance. “I figured you’d heard enough from Costello. Somebody told me Charlie’s here?”
“Yeah. She had a little girl this morning.” I couldn’t help smiling, and his own grin matched it. But I didn’t want to talk about Charlie. “Do you know Costello?”
His brow furrowed. “Sure. I know most of the ER staff.”
“What about the patients? Did you know Clem Jensen?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Who is he?”
“The heart attack I found. The one Costello was so angry about. He died this morning.”
“Aw, crap. That’s a tough break, Frankie.”
I waved the words away. “Could you look into him?”
He drew back. “You want me to run a background check on your patient?”
When Noah put it like that, it sounded . . . sneaky, not to mention presumptuous. The last time we’d spoken, I’d thrown his ring—and his promises—back in his face. Now twelve years later, I was asking a favor? Coming home had scrambled my brain.
“He seemed like a nice guy, and now he’s dead. It doesn’t seem right.” I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to work out the kinks. “I guess I wanted some closure. Never mind. It was stupid of me to ask.”
“Not stupid. I can’t run an official background check for no reason, but I can ask around. You know how Stillwater is—somebody must have known him.”
“Thanks,” I said, marveling at his nonchalance. Was this Noah’s way of making amends? More likely, it was his way of saying I was forgiven for my part. In light of all the hurt I’d caused—Noah, Peter, my family—a little forgiveness felt nice.
“You’re welcome.” He paused. “You look good, Frankie. City life agrees with you.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. “You, too” seemed too flirtatious; agreeing seemed vain. Rather than parse out the right answer, I asked, “Did you figure out what caused the crash?”
“Bus driver was new. They were coming back from a game in Silver Lake, took a turn too fast, overcorrected, and collided with the second bus. Remember that hairpin curve over by the quarry?”
The quarry, where all the kids used to swim on hot summer days. And nights.
I fiddled with my watch. “I remember.”
He smiled, slow and easy, and I knew he remembered, too. Finally, he said, “It’ll take me some time to find out about your patient. How long you home for?”
“Not long,” I said, flustered. “I . . . Charlie needed me, and I had some vacation, and . . . here I am.” I took a deep breath and willed myself to stop babbling. “I’m not sticking around. In fact, I should go now. Good to see you, Noah. Deputy MacLean.”
“Always zero to sixty with you, isn’t it?” I couldn’t tell if his tone was amused or mocking. “Then you slam on the brakes.”
Ah. That explained the whiplash.
* * *
Downtown Stillwater was as quaint as ever. Late on a Sunday afternoon, pedestrians milled about the sidewalks and the grassy town square. Kids chased each other around the white gazebo while their parents looked on. Some of the storefronts had changed, but most were filled, and all boasted picturesque autumn displays of pumpkins and dried corn. The sandy-orange brick village hall watched over it all, a chalkboard sign announcing coffee with the mayor next Wednesday. And anchoring the northeast corner of the square was the family business I’d run from, twelve years ago.
The sign in front of the two-story clapboard building hadn’t changed, dark blue with white letters: Stapleton and Sons Hardware, Est. 1873. The windows displays were cheery and inviting: rakes and mums, firewood and cast-iron pans, and red wool blankets. When I was little, the displays had been covered with dust, stubbornly utilitarian: a ladder, some cans of paint, teetering boxes of drywall screws. After my dad had died, my mom threw herself into keeping the store afloat. She quickly realized that if Stapleton and Sons was going to survive, we needed to do more than sell hand tools and two-penny nails and other bits of home improvement. We needed to sell the idea of home.
Despite the steady flow of pedestrians, not enough of them were entering the store, I noted. Especially not on a Sunday afternoon. Charlie might have a reason to worry after all.
As I craned my neck to peer in the windows, a bundle of orange fur shot across the street. I hit the brakes just in time to avoid flattening whatever it was. The creature disappeared down the alley, and I set off again, heart pounding.
Five minutes later, I was home.
The saltbox Cape Cod I’d grown up in hadn’t changed, either. Red brick, green shutters, carefully tended beds of marigolds in the yard, and window boxes full of vibrant, shaggy mums.
My key chain held only three keys: apartment, car, bike lock. Simple, light, uncomplicated. And at the present moment, inconvenient. I was locked out.
Before I could knock, the door swung open. “What took you so long?” my mother asked. “We got here ages ago.”
I slipped inside, keeping my face averted. “I ran into someone.”
“Who?”
“Nobody,” I said. “An old friend.”
An old friend I’d need to see again if I truly wanted more information on Clem. The realization didn’t bother me as much it should have.
My mother tapped her foot. “Well, which is it? Nobody or somebody?”
I ignored the question. “Charlie wanted you to pick up the we
ekend totals from the store before your next visit. Where’s Riley?”
“In back with her soccer ball, as usual. So we can talk.” She settled her arms across her chest.
“I know.” I toed off my gym shoes and threw myself onto the couch, anticipating the same lecture I got every time I set foot in this house. “I’m never going to find someone. I’m never going to be happy. I’m going to die alone and bitter and miserable.”
Had Noah found someone? I hadn’t thought to check for a wedding ring, not that I had any reason to—or any right, for that matter.
“That’s not what I was going to say,” Mom began.
I cut her off, temper mounting as I straightened. “I’ll give you the first one. But I am happy. I’m not alone—I have friends and a career and a very busy, fulfilling life. I’m not bitter, and I wasn’t miserable until we started having this conversation. What I am is exhausted.”
She eyed me, spine stiff. “Are you finished with your speech?”
My shoulders sagged, exhaustion compounded by guilt. “Yes.”
“Good. What I wanted to say is that I am very grateful that you came home. We all are. I hoped that you would consider staying, at least for a while.”
“Mom . . .”
“Since you’re so happy with your busy, fulfilling life, however, I won’t waste my breath.” She stalked back into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Your bed’s made up. I suggest you use it.”
Thirty-four years old and I’d been sent to my room.
* * *
The tidy brick house, like the business, had been in our family for generations. Following in my parents’ footsteps, Matt and Charlie had lived in the apartment above the store for a few years, moving back in after Riley came along. Squeezing three generations under one roof required a game of musical bedrooms—my mom took over the guest bedroom on the first floor, while upstairs Matt and Charlie took my parents’ old room, and the room I’d once shared with Charlie had become Riley’s. Cozy, my mother called it, but we all knew she meant cramped.
I slogged my way upstairs, every step an effort, and stumbled toward the tiny guest room I usually stayed in. Barely big enough for a twin bed and a nightstand, it was the only spot in the house I was guaranteed privacy. But when the door swung open, the bed was gone, replaced by a crib and a rocking chair. I slumped, backpack sliding to my feet, and gave serious consideration to curling up on the pink-and-green braided rug.
