A Season to Love

by Nicole Deese

  Easy for him to say. In three months, he would be exchanging vows with his bride-to-be. His future was just beginning. But by the time I was Weston’s age, I had buried my soul mate, had taught my then preschooler to read, and could hear my therapist’s benediction to create a new normal in my sleep.

  But that was the thing about “new normals.” They, too, could change—in a single breath, or with a lost heartbeat, or even with a routine blood test.

  He drummed a finger on his knee. “Besides, you need to make some friends.”

  “I have friends.”

  “No, you had friends. As in past tense. Don’t get me wrong, any person in this town would give you the shirt off their back, but I bet you can’t name a single time in the last year when you’ve done something for the sake of being social. Without Savannah.”

  I lifted my chin, a memory leaping to mind. “I went to coffee with Georgia.”

  “Bzzzzzt!” The irritating sound of a game show buzzer blurted from Weston’s mouth.

  “What? I did!”

  “That was at the hospital’s coffee shop. And Georgia is my fiancée. Doesn’t count.”

  Using one of his favorite lines, I said, “A technicality you didn’t specify.”

  Weston chewed on the side of his mouth to keep from laughing. He was better at masking his expressions than I was.

  To be fair, he was better at most things than I was, including the best at getting under my skin.

  “If you’re gonna take the job, Sydney needs you Monday. It’s front desk work—checking people in and whatnot. You can still drop Vannie off in the mornings and pick her up after school. She’ll never know the difference. And better than that, you’ll get socialized.”

  “I’m not an untrained puppy.”

  “Good, because I told Sydney you were housebroken. Wouldn’t want to lose my reputation as an honest man.”

  I slugged him. Leave it to Weston to bring out the child in me. His laugh was as rich as it was deep, and I couldn’t help but smile. He’d always been the happy type, but since Georgia had moved back to Lenox, his happiness could fill every floor of a Portland skyscraper.

  “You’re positive the position will be flexible around Savannah’s school schedule?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Have I ever led you astray?”

  No. A slow, deflated sigh slipped through my lips. Maybe he was right. Maybe taking this job would be the worry-free break my mind craved, at least while Savannah was in school.

  Better yet, if this job could count as headway in the promise I made to my daughter, then . . .

  “Fine. I’ll talk to Sydney.”

  Weston lifted the newspaper from my lap and tapped the crossword puzzle. “Five across. Victory.”

  Chapter Two

  I’d never been one to hate Mondays.

  Contrary to popular opinion, Mondays were just another day—a neutral day that neither gave nor took. But Thursdays, Thursdays were my nemesis. It was an early Thursday morning that took Chad from me by way of a cerebral aneurysm. And it was a late Thursday evening, huddled in a cold waiting room corner, when I learned of Savannah’s cancer diagnosis. So it was no wonder that the day my daughter showed her first sign of sickness—a runny nose and a barking cough—happened on a Thursday.

  “But Mommy, I really want to go to school today. It’s Art Day.” Savannah wiped her wet nose across the sleeve of her Dora the Explorer nightgown, her whine as pathetic sounding as the whine of the dog circling her feet. Savannah scooped Prince Pickles up in her arms, and he licked the underside of her chin.

  Her laugh quickly broke into a coughing fit.

  “No. I already called in to work.” And I fully anticipated that by the day’s end I’d be submitting my notice and committing to homeschooling for life. Sure, the staff at my new job was friendly and the building nice, but a paycheck and shallow social interaction weren’t worth the risks. Weston was wrong. Taking this stupid job wasn’t a baby step, it was a leap to the moon. Losing focus on what was important always ended in regret. I’d learned that life lesson too many times.

  I grabbed a pair of her jeans and a red sweatshirt from her drawer and then proceeded to pull her nightgown over her head while she shifted her dog from one arm to the other. “But where are we going?”

  “To the doctor.”

  “But you said—”

  I winced at the confusion in her tone. “Savannah, honey, we’re not going to the children’s hospital, we’re just going to visit Dr. McCade down the road. He needs to check your cough.”

  He was quite possibly the only doctor who could keep me from jumping to the worst possible conclusions.

  I slipped a mint from my pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth.

  Dr. Ivar McCade had been Savannah’s primary care doctor since she was a toddler. His practice was busy, but he’d always made Savannah a priority. It was because of his keen eye and attention to detail that Savannah had gone for more testing two years ago.

  His early detection had quite possibly saved her life.

  I took Prince Pickles from her arms and sat him on the ground. I wasn’t certain whose whimper was louder, Savannah’s or her dog’s.

  “Let’s go, kiddo.” I pointed down the hallway.

  She pouted as she turned in the direction of the front door, but not before she let out a confirming sneeze.

  She needed to see a doctor.

  Today.

  McCade Medical Clinic resided in the heart of Lenox. Sandwiched between the library and Jonny’s Pizza, the small brick building with the Scottish tartan sign hadn’t changed much since the McCades moved to town five years ago from Portland, Oregon.

  Doc Ivar McCade and his wife had fallen in love with the white-capped mountains and small-town feel of Lenox, and since moving here they’d become an active part of our community.

  The bells on the clinic door chimed our entrance.

  Marsha sat at the check-in desk, phone to ear, and motioned for Savannah to have a seat in the waiting room.

  I approached the counter.

  “I’ll check you in,” Marsha whispered, covering the receiver with one hand. “Sorry, on hold with insurance.” She rolled her eyes and then slid the symptom sheet toward me. I quickly checked the necessary boxes and handed it back to her.

  With the good fortune of a near-empty waiting room, we were called back to the yellow exam room just five minutes later.

  As I gripped Savannah’s waist to hoist her onto the padded table, my eyes caught on a blur of color next to the door. Hanging on the wall above the light switches was a framed landscape, a forest full of slender white pine trees, all frosted and wintry and beautiful. Yet it was the sunset beyond the timberland that captured my attention. A fireball of glowing oranges, brilliant reds, and radiant yellows spliced through the sleek tree trunks like a prisoner longing for escape.

  The feeling was as familiar as the photograph.

  A quick tap and the door opened. “Morning. I’m Dr. McCade.”

  Only he wasn’t.

  This man wasn’t even old enough to doctor Savannah’s My Little Ponies.

  He stretched out a hand to me as I read—and then reread—the name stitched onto his white coat.

  Dr. Patrick McCade.

  “Hey! You’re not Dr. McCade,” Savannah said, stealing the words straight from my head.

  He dropped his extended hand and turned to face my daughter, hands on his hips. “Oh yeah, why not?”

  “You don’t have white hair. Or bushy eyebrows. Or a potato nose—”

  “Savannah.” My whispered reprimand was ignored by both parties.

  “And I don’t speak like this either.” The man straightened and cleared his throat. “You have a bit of a cold, do ya, lassie? Well, let’s get you fixed up straight away so you can get back to playing on the school yard.” The deep Scottish brogue was identical to Doc Ivar’s.

  Savannah clapped. “You grew young again!”

  The doctor laughed
while he washed his hands at the sink and then pulled out the rolling stool from underneath the cabinet. Hands flat on the seat, he drew it back as if getting ready to race a matchbox car. One lunge, one hop, and two tight spins later, he slammed on the brakes. An inch shy of colliding with Savannah’s kneecaps. “Nah, little lassie. I’m the old doc’s son.” He said the last sentence without the slightest hint of an accent—as if he could turn it on or off like tap water.

  Savannah’s widening eyes were a telltale sign that her curiosity was about to show itself in the form of a thousand uninvited questions . . . if I didn’t intervene first.

  I stepped toward the energetic duo and cleared my throat. “I wasn’t aware that your father wouldn’t be seeing her today.”

  The impostor rotated in his seat, his sky-blue eyes finding mine just as an unruly lock of russet-brown hair curled into a half-moon near his temple. He looked more like the cover model for one of those health magazines set on waiting room tables than a physician.

  “A letter was sent out six weeks ago to explain my father’s leave of absence.”

  “Leave of absence?” My hand hovered above my heart. “Is he . . . okay?”

  A slight hesitation—as if I’d been the only patient who dared to ask such a personal question. But surely that wasn’t the case. Everyone in this town loved Ivar McCade, including me. “He’s in Scotland with my mother, visiting my grandmother for the next few months.”

  “The next few months?” How had I missed this news? And why hadn’t I received the letter? “But—”

  “Where’d you get that scar?” Savannah pointed to a spot I couldn’t see on the right side of his face.

  I opened my mouth, ready to scold her bluntness, but the young doctor twisted away from me and pulled up his coat sleeves to uncover the taut, tanned flesh of his forearms. “The one on my face I got from hang gliding in New Zealand. But this one here”—he displayed a jagged iridescent scar that stretched from wrist to elbow—“I got from bungee jumping off a bridge in South Africa. Swung a little too close to the rocks. It’s a good thing I think scars are pretty cool, huh?”

  “I have one, too. See?” Savannah yanked down the collar of her red sweatshirt, exposing tender healed skin, her closed chemo port on the right side of her chest.

  The man lifted his palm and high-fived my daughter.

  A prickly heat filled my chest, my skin suddenly much too tight for comfort. This wasn’t a show-and-tell visit. And if this stranger had any clue what she’d been through over the last two years—the hospital stays, the spinal taps, the hair loss and drug side effects—he wouldn’t be playing a game of Map My Scars. Or high-fiving.

  He might be the son of one of the best doctors I’d ever known, but he certainly hadn’t fallen close to the tree.

  “You know, on second thought, I think we’ll just go ahead and check ourselves out with Marsha. Sorry about the mix-up.”

  “But Mommy—” Savannah’s words broke into a fit of coughs, and my frustration surged. I’d have to take her to Bend and try to get an appointment with a real doctor before the end of the day.

  “Ms. Hart.” He swiveled on his toy stool. “May I have a word with you in the hallway, please?”

  Savannah had stopped coughing and now she sat quietly, watching me. Reluctantly, I nodded.

  He handed her a tissue and then led me to the door. I glanced again at the picture of the sunset before following him out into the hallway.

  My arms were crossed over my chest, my mind spinning in circles. Confrontation wasn’t in my genetic makeup, yet where Savannah was concerned I’d managed to find my voice.

  “Is there a problem?” He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, but even slouched he had to be close to six foot two. The same height as Chad.

  Everything about this man was just too . . . too much.

  Amusement lurked in his gaze as he waited for me to answer.

  I lifted my chin and straightened my spine. “I’ve been coming here with my daughter since she was barely two, and I’ve never once questioned the practices of your father.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “But you question mine?”

  His nonchalance was irritating. “I question everything when it comes to Savannah.”

  “Seemed to me like she was having a good time.” He shrugged as if this were some kind of casual interaction between old friends.

  I blew out a long breath, willing myself to speak far more calmly than I felt. “Last time I checked, this isn’t a circus. It’s a clinic. And if you cared half as much about her health history as you do about making her laugh, then you’d know—”

  “Savannah Hart. Had her seventh birthday this past June. Saw my father just over two years ago for fatigue and a complaint of a sore leg. After testing positive for anemia, my father referred her to Doernbecher Children’s Hospital in Portland for further testing. She was diagnosed with standard-risk acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Her cancer went into remission after just one round of induction chemotherapy and if what I read is accurate, then she’s likely finished the last of her outpatient visits for maintenance phase—to which you’re both owed a huge congratulations. Would that be the history you’re referring to?”

  Numbly, I stared. I might have blinked or nodded. But I couldn’t be positive about either of those.

  “Now, if you’ll allow me to check her congestion and cough, I’d like to make sure my suspicion is correct.”

  With that single phrase, my throat dried out. “Your suspicion . . . ?” My pseudostrength wilted into a lifeless pile of doubt.

  I felt for a peppermint in my jeans pocket.

  “Yes,” he answered. “My suspicion that she has a cold.”

  He touched my shoulder and squeezed it gently before walking back into the exam room. In an instant, the two extroverts were engaged in a riveting conversation about winter snowfall and skiing on the slopes.

  Silently, I slipped inside the room, careful not to meet the doctor’s gaze as he finished the exam. All interaction between us had ceased, and it was Savannah who held out her hand to take the pamphlet of do’s and don’ts for the common cold. He explained that as long as she didn’t develop a fever, and as long as her symptoms didn’t worsen, then she shouldn’t have to miss school. Savannah beamed all the way out to the car.

  Proverbial tail between my legs, I slinked into the driver’s seat and listened for the click of Savannah’s seat belt. She prattled on and on between coughs about how nice and funny and kind this doctor had been. How he was her “absolute favorite doctor of all time” and how she hoped that the old Dr. McCade wouldn’t get his feelings hurt if he ever found out.

  But as I drove away from the clinic, passing Jonny’s Pizza and my mom’s antique store located on the corner of Main and Pickett, I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the replay of the hallway scene.

  Regret weighed heavy on my heart—made me tired and weak where I had felt justified and strong only moments before. I’d never treated anyone so unpleasantly, never judged a stranger so critically.

  What a way to welcome the son of the man who had saved my daughter’s life. What had come over me?

  Warmth climbed my neck and ignited my cheeks. Unlike the flash of heat lit from anger, the heat of humiliation lingered. And burned.

  Maybe my concern for his youth, his inexperience, and his lack of white-coat professionalism was all a front for a deeper issue. There was something about his flawless magnetism, something about his easy way of conversing, something about his smiling eyes that reminded me of a simpler time—of a simpler young woman. A woman who didn’t wake up each morning and anticipate life’s worst-case scenario.

  A woman who didn’t believe that love and loss were synonymous.

  I coasted into the driveway that separated my tiny house from my parents’ and put the gearshift into park. As I rested my head against the back of my seat, Savannah popped her chin over my shoulder and dropped a small piece of paper onto my lap.

  �
��This is for you, Mommy.”

  I stared down at the prescription and blinked twice. She was right. My name was scribbled in the blank patient box at the top. Beneath it were the words:

  Take a break from worry. You deserve one.

  Chapter Three

  Without a single glance up from her flavor checklist, Georgia slid the crystal cake platter out of Weston’s reach.

  I pursed my lips and waited for the next round of prenuptial battles to begin. They’d been at each other for the last thirty minutes, which in wedding planning time could be considered a millennium.

  “Hey! What’d you do that for?”

  “This is a cake tasting, Weston, not an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet. You’ve eaten all of your samples and mine.” Georgia’s gaze swung from Weston to me, pleading for female backup. I nodded my agreement while Savannah sat giggling at her uncle’s fake pout.

  “Do you see why I asked you to meet us here now, Willa? Weston’s said yes to every flavor he’s tried so far. All thirteen of them.”

  Weston pointed to an orange-yellow square of cake perched on the edge of the sparkling platter. Apparently, it was the outcast. “That’s not true. I said that one tasted like citrus-scented toilet cleaner.”

  Georgia lifted one perfectly arched eyebrow. “And since mango isn’t exactly a December wedding favorite, that particular feedback wasn’t considered to be helpful.”

  Weston locked eyes with his soon-to-be bride, their wordless exchange lasting only a few seconds before Georgia’s lips twitched.

  “You lost,” Weston whispered to her, leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose.

  “And you’re hopeless.”

  Weston winked and slapped a hand over his heart. “Only when it comes to you, babe.”

  His chair screeched as he slid it back from the porcelain-topped table. He tapped a finger to my daughter’s head. “Know what time it is, Vannie?”

  Savannah hopped in place, and I gave my brother the where-do-you-think-you’re-going look.