Toby . . . He lifted the photo from the mantel, the dull ache of grief returning.
“I found it in Toby’s things,” Sam said, walking toward him. “He was always talking about the good times you guys had at your restaurant. The music and the street people you fed after closing time. And what a great chef you are.”
“Was,” he said, looking at the photo and trying to remember exactly when it was taken. Before Leigh? After? He’d have to stop measuring things by her. “Not anymore.”
“C’mon,” she teased, stepping close enough that he could smell her perfume. “You’re being modest. Talent like that doesn’t go away. It’s in your Greek blood.” She rested her hand on his forearm and smiled at him. “And if you haven’t noticed, I have a kitchen. I’d love you to cook for me.”
A shower. A kitchen. A daughter waiting for a story. Was he here because he wanted this? or because he knew she did and what he needed was to be somewhere that he was wanted?
He stepped away and put the framed photo back on the mantel. “I haven’t felt much like cooking since—” He stopped short, realizing that her eyes had filled with tears.
“I know,” she said. “I’ve felt that way about so many things since we lost Toby.”
I meant Leigh. Guilt washed over him and he moved close, putting his arms around her. “I’m sorry, Sam. It must be tough living in this house, with all the reminders.”
She nodded, her cheek moving against his shirtfront. “It’s hard sometimes, and then—” she leaned back and gazed into his eyes—“it’s good too. Especially now. With you here.”
He held his breath, watching her violet eyes and noticing the faint flush on her cheeks, her parted lips, the warmth of having a woman in his arms again, and thinking how easy it would be to fall into this. Too easy.
“I need you, Nick,” she whispered. “I want you here with me. I’m alone; you’re alone. It’s crazy for you to be sleeping on that couch at Buzz’s.” She startled and then frowned as his cell phone rang. “Don’t answer it.”
“Let me check . . .” He scanned the caller ID and his throat constricted. He walked a few steps toward the dining room table. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you.” Leigh’s voice was rapid, breathless.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Harry. He’s agitated, and I need to get him medicated and back on his oxygen. Caro’s helping, but . . .” She was silent for a few seconds. “I need you.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you. I didn’t want to ask, but I know how much you care—” Her voice was drowned out by a deafening series of squawks and Cha Cha’s imperative “Forever and ever!”
He hit the End button and turned back to Sam.
“You have to go,” she said, her tone flat.
“Yes, something’s come up. Thank you for the cake. I really appreciate it. Tell Elisa I’m sorry about the story.”
“We’ll give you a rain check.”
He grabbed his jacket, then jogged toward the car, telling himself that even if Leigh hadn’t called, he never would have stayed past Goodnight Moon.
+++
Leigh barely let Nick through the door before Antoinette rushed forward and flung herself into his arms. “Oh, Nicky . . . I knew you’d come. Thank you. I know you’ll calm Harry down. He thinks of you like a son.” She stepped away and raised her hand to her swollen eye. “I’m sorry; I must look a mess.”
Leigh read the concern in Nick’s eyes. “She fell. But—”
Harry’s voice rose from behind the bedroom door. “I can’t . . . find . . . my cuff links!” There was a muffled curse. Cha Cha mumbled beneath the cover on his cage.
Nick strode a few steps, then turned. “What’s going on?”
Caro explained about the mistaken anniversary date, Antoinette launched into their history at the Tonga Room, and Leigh interrupted as gently as she could to give him her assessment of Harry’s medical status.
“Okay. The first thing is to get him still enough to give the injection of . . .” He looked at Leigh.
“Lorazepam,” she confirmed. “He hasn’t had it before, so I’ll start with a small dose. We can always give more. The goal is to get him calm enough to keep the oxygen on.” She glanced toward the door. “With his emphysema, the low oxygen is enough to make him agitated even without the complication of Alzheimer’s.”
“So, meds. Oxygen.” Nick looked toward Antoinette, the compassion in his expression not lost on Leigh. “Caroline, you’ll keep Antoinette company?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Nick gestured to Leigh. “We’ll double-team him—you, me, together.”
“Okay,” she agreed, remembering what Patrice had said earlier at the barn: “You’re quite the pair.” For Harry’s sake, she hoped that was really true. “I’ve got the dose drawn up and waiting on the table in the hallway.”
“Let’s go.”
“I’ll pray,” Antoinette said as Caro eased her onto the couch and put the package of frozen peas back in place.
Nick led the way toward the bedroom, pausing outside the door as Leigh gathered the syringe of medication and some alcohol swabs. He listened at the door, then looked at her over his shoulder. “Good cop, bad cop.”
“Huh?”
“You know, like on TV. We’re partners here. And poor Harry is the perp.”
“Oh. Right. So I’m the . . .”
“Bad cop.”
Leigh raised her brows. “What?”
Nick smiled. “You’re the one with the needle.”
He waved her back a few steps and tapped on the door. “Harry? It’s your friend Nick.” He tapped again, waited, and opened the door a crack. “Harry?” He pushed the door a bit wider.
“Careful,” Leigh whispered. “There’s glass on the—”
“Uh-oh.” Nick swung the door wide and grasped her arm, pulling her toward where Harry lay faceup on the floor alongside a sequined dress and the still-hissing tank of oxygen. They knelt beside him at the same instant.
“Is he . . . ?” Nick watched as Leigh pressed her fingers against their neighbor’s neck.
“There’s a pulse,” she said, relief coursing through her. “It’s strong and regular. And he’s breathing. A bit fast and shallow . . .”
“So?”
“I think he wore himself out and fell asleep. I’m tempted to give him a shot right here on the floor while we’ve got him at our mercy.” She smiled ruefully at the look on Nick’s face. “But I’m not going to. Help me get the oxygen cannula back in place; we’ll wait a few minutes before we ease him onto the bed. Maybe he won’t be so belligerent if we get his O2 level back up.”
“And if he is?”
She reached for the discarded oxygen cannula. “Then you’ll be glad you brought your bad cop.”
Nick gently steadied Harry’s head as Leigh checked the flow of oxygen—two liters per minute—and placed the prongs in his nostrils, then threaded the tubing over his ears. She secured it under his chin and sat back on her heels, watching as the bluish tinge disappeared from his lips. She reached for his wrist and counted his pulse and respirations.
“Better?” Nick asked, still kneeling beside her.
“Yes. Heart rate’s regular at 88. His respirations are—” she smiled as Harry inhaled with a hearty snore—“down to 28. But I’d like to take a listen to his lungs before we move him.” She glanced toward the door. “Can you ask Caro for my stethoscope?”
“You brought it?”
She smirked. “Got your gun?”
His smile made her breath catch.
Five minutes later, she’d listened to Harry’s lungs and done what she could to examine him for any signs of injury. She’d found none, thankfully. After sweeping aside the pile of plastic leis, grass skirts, scattered photos, and what was left of the champagne glasses, Nick grasped him under the arms, Leigh took hold of his legs, and they hefted him onto the bed. His eyes snapped open, and he immediately reach
ed for the oxygen cannula. “What’s this doggone thing doing in my nose?”
“Easy, Harry.” Nick caught his hand. “It’s helping you breathe.”
Harry peered up at him. “You get that hedge trimmed?”
“Yes, sir.”
Harry’s gaze shifted to Leigh. “He do a good job?”
“He did,” she said, trying not to think of all she’d said to Nick while he was doing that.
“Good.” Harry sighed, then licked his lips. “Well, you two better get dressed. You can’t go like that.”
“Go where?” Nick lifted Harry’s hand away from the cannula again.
Harry looked at Nick like he was crazy. “Tonga Room, of course. We have reservations. And they won’t hold them if we’re late.”
“Harry—” Leigh touched his hand—“we need you to rest.”
“No!” Harry shouted, struggling to sit upright. He swatted Leigh’s hand away. “Don’t argue with me, young lady. I always take my bride to the Fairmont. Haven’t missed a year.” He pointed at Nick. “Now, son, you find me my cuff links, and we’ll go.”
“Yes, sir.” Nick glanced sideways as Leigh discreetly reached for the syringe.
+++
Nick sat on the McNealys’ stiff Victorian couch next to Caroline and Antoinette—who’d switched the thawing peas for a box of brussels sprouts—and watched as Leigh tiptoed back into the room.
“How’s he doing?” he asked, thinking that in the years he’d known her, this was the most he’d observed of his wife in her role as a physician. Which she absolutely was, despite the fact that she was wearing her old riding sweats and a pair of suede slippers. She’d been kind, caring, and sharp; had even managed to get the McNealys’ physician on the phone for a consult. He’d agreed completely with Leigh’s handling of the situation. Nick was impressed.
“Physically back to normal. And calmer. But he’s still insistent on taking Antoinette out for dinner.” She smiled at her neighbor, half-visible behind the box of frozen vegetables. “He said he’s the luckiest man alive to have a wife like you, and the least he can do is waltz you around the Tonga Room on your anniversary.”
“We spent our honeymoon at the Fairmont,” Antoinette said, setting the brussels sprouts on her lap. “And we’ve been back every September since. Never missed one in almost sixty years. But now that Harry’s sick, we can’t make it this year. And next year, well, I’m not sure if . . .” Her words faded away.
If he’ll still be here. Nick swallowed, watching as Caro took Antoinette’s hand. He glanced at Leigh. “There’s no way?”
“That we can take him out?” She sighed. “I don’t see how. Certainly not as far as the Fairmont, and he’s got his heart set on the Tonga Room.”
“What is that, anyway?” Caroline asked. “It sounds like something out of The Lion King.”
Leigh laughed. “You’ve never been there? It’s in the Fairmont, Nob Hill. Sort of a huge, subterranean tiki bar. With grass huts, a ship’s mast, and—”
“Let me, dear,” Antoinette said, nodding at Leigh. “I was there long before you were a twinkle in your daddy’s eye.” She turned to Caro. “The Tonga Room and Hurricane Bar is a grand part of San Francisco history. It began way back in 1929, when it was a seventy-five-foot swimming pool called ‘The Plunge.’” She clucked her tongue. “My parents saw Helen Hayes take the first dive. But the restaurant opened in ’45. It was all the rage, very Polynesian. With a floating stage and tropical thunderstorms.” Her eyes glittered. “And Tony Bennett.”
Caroline smiled. “So all those leis and grass skirts, paper umbrellas, and tiki mugs that Harry pulled out of your closet . . .”
“From parties at the Tonga Room.” Antoinette picked up the brussels sprouts. “We’ve collected them for fifty-nine years. But I guess we’ll just have to tell Harry that we can’t go this year.”
“Don’t,” Nick said, mind whirling as he rose to his feet. “Just stall him a bit and give me some time. You’ll have your anniversary dinner.”
Leigh met his gaze. “But he can’t travel all that way.”
“He won’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
Nick smiled, enjoying the way his wife’s nose wrinkled. “We’ll bring the Tonga Room to him—or rather, to our house. He’d never buy us trying to do it here.” He pointed toward the bedroom. “Harry has all the props. You and Caroline can decorate our dining room, and I’ll cook.” He laughed. “I can cook, remember?”
Antoinette clasped her hands to chest. “I have music, too—Sinatra and Tony Bennett, all the wonderful old tunes we danced to. And home movies from those parties with our friends. I can wear one of my gowns. The blue, that’s Harry’s favorite. And I’ll find his bow tie and cuff links.”
Caroline jumped to her feet, face flushing. “Leigh can be the sous-chef. And I can be a waitress. I love this!”
Nick read doubt in Leigh’s expression. “You don’t like the idea?”
“It’s not that,” she said, discomfort flickering across her face. “Has everyone forgotten? We don’t have a dining room table.”
+++
It took the three of them nearly twenty minutes to get the leaf out of the McNealys’ huge mahogany table, carry it down the steep front steps, across the two driveways, and into the house next door. After they settled the elegant table in their empty dining room—and Nick loosened the chain that had shortened the chandelier all these years—they stood in awkward silence. Leigh realized, once again, that the full moon was to blame for all of this craziness. But then, the effects of lunar phases, like everything else, didn’t last forever.
Chapter Twelve
“Was that part of the hedge?” Leigh’s eyes widened as Caro passed by the kitchen in a grass skirt, with yet another armful of greenery. It appeared she’d ransacked Nick’s trash bags, after borrowing several of Antoinette’s potted plants—including a small palm—intent on filling the darkened dining room with vegetation. Plastic leis dangled from the chandelier over a festive centerpiece comprised of a papier-mâché pineapple, a windup hula dancer doll, and an assortment of Christmas candles wedged into a half-dozen grimacing tiki mugs. Accented by a scattering of feathers that looked too much like Cha Cha’s to be hygienically advisable. Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned from the CD player: “Fly me to the moon . . .”
Nick nodded. “And not bad. For last-minute jungle decor.”
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” She glanced to where Nick was grating fresh ginger, pungent and sweetly exotic. “Or that you actually found something to make a meal from. I haven’t shopped for days.”
He stopped grating, his dark eyes on hers. “There’s everything we need here. It’s just a matter of taking the time to put it together. Building it around a central ingredient.”
Central ingredient. For some crazy reason, she was reminded of something the marriage counselor had said. “Put God in the center of your marriage.” She glanced down at the chopping board. “So that’s the diced chicken,” she said quickly. “Good thing we could thaw it in the microwave. And what else are we putting in here?”
“Soy sauce, honey, star anise—” he pointed toward a bundle of greens—“cilantro, green onions, and hoisin sauce.”
“Hoi . . . ?”
Nick laughed and wiped his fingers on the large dish towel he’d slung over his shoulder. “Hoisin. It’s a combination of soybeans, garlic, vinegar, and chili pepper. Sweet, salty, spicy.”
“It was here?”
“We bought it in Chinatown,” he said, capturing her gaze, “that rainy day we caught the cable car in Ghirardelli Square. And ended up helping the little kid who’d gotten separated from his grandmother.” He glanced down. “Anyway, it keeps. Like I said, you had all the ingredients.”
Except a table and the chef. Leigh watched as he grated a bit more of the ginger, then moved on to the next task. The forged steel knife moved expertly in his hands—swoosh, swoosh—as he rocked it over the cilantro, rele
asing the lush, earthy fragrance. She inhaled, blaming the sudden watering of her eyes on the green onions he’d completed and set aside. Even after all these months, it seemed natural to see Nick here in the kitchen, dish towel on his shoulder, sleeves rolled up, humming to himself as he worked. The look on his face was the same, as if what he was doing wasn’t work at all, was much more than merely cooking. As if it were truly an act of—
“They’re going to love it!” Caro gushed, popping back into the kitchen as Sinatra began belting, “Love and marriage go together like a horse and carriage.” She wrinkled her nose. “Including that corny music. I’ve got the table all set. But I still need to get those flowers that you wanted from Antoinette’s window box. So I think I’ll run over there and check on them while you two are . . .” Her eyes swept between them, the look on her face the same as the one Leigh had seen earlier. Right here in this kitchen, when Caro talked about happy endings and then sobbed in her big sister’s arms. “It’s so good to see you together—doing this for the McNealys, I mean. It was a good idea, Nick.”
“We’re doing it. Meaning you, too, Hula Woman.” Nick smiled at her. “Couldn’t make this happen without you on the team.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m about to slide this dish in the oven; the rice is coming right along. I’ll put your sister to work on the salad.” He frowned, looking down at his clothes. “And see if I can find something clean to wear in those boxes in my car.”
Leigh stared at the chicken, aware of the sudden silence in the room.
“So all right,” Caro said, raising her voice over Sinatra’s refrain. “Let’s get the Tonga Room open.”
In less than hour, the house smelled of Polynesian chicken—sweet, gingery, and complete with hoisin sauce. They’d gathered around the McNealys’ mahogany table, lei-festooned chandelier on a dimmer, tiki candles lit, Sinatra down low, and everyone in a vintage party hat. The McNealys’ home movies, jumpy and discolored but full of obviously happy moments, flickered on the bedsheet Caro had thumbtacked to the wall behind them. Somehow, they’d done it. They’d turned their dining room into a restaurant. And a celebration.
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