Kelsey’s shirt. He recognized it now.
His smile dimmed and he looked away. He hated ERs. Hated the sterile, antiseptic odors, the muffled voices over intercoms, the sense of doom—and frustration—that hovered over the room.
“All done,” the doctor said. He dropped the forceps into a suture tray and reached for a bandage. He peeled it out, put it over her wound, then turned to Kyle. “She may be woozy, and watch for signs of concussion. If she has trouble breathing, slurred vision or speech, vomiting, or even if she’s excessively clumsy—”
“You’d better hospitalize her immediately.”
“You’re hilarious, Hueston.” Emma sat up, then grabbed hold of the padded table as her eyes widened.
“See? What did I say, Doc?”
He smiled at them, something gentle. “Just get her home and keep her away from any more bar fights.”
“For the record, I was in the band.”
The doctor stood, picked up her chart. “That’s what they all say.” He winked at Kyle.
“Let’s get you home, Bono.”
He went to sling his arm around her waist, but she pressed a hand on his chest, righting herself on her own. “I know I looked like a damsel in distress back there at the 400, but I’ve been on my own for a couple years now. I can handle getting home by myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but I wouldn’t be a very good cop if I just let you walk out of here with a possible concussion.”
“You’re a cop?”
Something about her tone stung. “Yes,” he said slowly. Why the sigh, the pained disappointment? “The good thing about cops is that we know where to get the best pancakes in town. I know this fabulous all-night breakfast place. How about a little nourishment?” Please? He couldn’t pinpoint why, but being with her had stirred old feelings of home. Or maybe of hope.
She drew in a long breath. “Fine. I am a little hungry.”
He smiled, something victorious in it apparently because she shook her head. “Kelsey always said you were overprotective.”
Oh. Shoot. “Let’s not talk about Kelsey, can we?”
“Agreed.”
He held out his arm. “Hang on, please. I don’t want you toppling over in the parking lot.”
To his relief, she looped her arm through his, and they walked into the night. Tiny flakes had begun to peel from the sky, landing on her eyelashes, her nose. She leaned back, held out her tongue to catch one.
“Doesn’t taste like Deep Haven snow,” he said, catching one himself.
She said nothing as he opened the door to his truck.
Kyle turned the heat up for their drive to the restaurant. “How long have you been living in the Cities?”
She pulled her hands into the sleeves of her jacket, shivering. “Two years. I started at the university, but I dropped out after the second semester. My music kept me up too late for class, and my heart wasn’t in it anyway.”
“What is your heart into?”
The question seemed to leave her empty, just staring at him. “I’m still figuring that out.”
“I get that. It took me two years of college before I figured out I wanted to be a cop. I just finished my rookie year with the St. Paul Police Department.”
“My dad was a cop,” she said softly.
He didn’t look at her. “I know.”
They pulled up to the restaurant. Inside, the lights glowed, beckoning.
He got out and moved around the truck to take her arm. The last thing she needed was another fall.
Emma held on to him as they entered, stamping their feet on the carpet. The place smelled of syrup, baked bread, and late-night conversation. They found a booth near the back, and a woman his mother’s age handed them menus.
It seemed that Emma hadn’t eaten this side of the New Year. She ordered the lumberjack special, gobbled down every last flapjack, drowning them in syrup, then smeared ketchup on the hash browns and went to work with renewed gusto.
He just watched, nursing a coffee and a couple pieces of French toast.
She had an enthusiasm about her, life radiating off her. That kiss kept returning to him, the surety of it, the way she felt alive in his arms.
“I want to see you again,” he said, his mouth a few steps ahead of his brain. But why not? Something about being with her felt easy, right. Hometown.
She finished her bacon, holding it with two fingers as she leaned back in the booth seat. “It’s about time you noticed me, Kyle Hueston. Only took you six years.”
He must have been blind. “Sorry about that. I didn’t pay much attention to my sister’s friends.”
“And I’m sure it was hard to see around the crowds of cheerleaders. I was just a band girl, playing the flute in the far section of the bleachers.”
“I love the flute.”
“Sure you do.” She wiped her mouth, sighed. “I am stuffed. Thank you.” She wore a little smile, her eyes twinkling. “Promise to feed me again and I might say yes to a date.”
His heart took roost in his throat as he paid the bill, then walked her out.
“I think I’m concussion free. You can take me back to my car.”
“Hey, I’m an officer of the law. I’m not allowed to disobey doctor’s orders. I’ll take you home and we’ll get the car in the morning.”
Her smile fell a little. “I hope you’re not thinking—”
“I’m staying at my buddy’s place, Emma.”
“Right. Good.” She held out her mittens to catch more of the falling flakes.
He couldn’t help it. “You know, when you kissed me, you caught me off guard. I . . . Can I kiss you, Emma? Right this time?”
She turned, and snow had fallen on her nose. “The first time was a little . . . one-sided.”
“Exactly. I can do better.” He cupped his hand behind her neck and lowered his mouth to hers, still sweet from the syrup. He kissed her fresh smile, tasting her buoyant spirit, the way she had suddenly made him feel strong and full of hope with the future before him. She wove her mittens into the lapels of his jean jacket, tugging him closer.
He wrapped his arms around her tiny body and deepened his kiss.
Oh yes, this was much better.
What if Emma was the girl he’d been waiting for? Sure, he’d dated women over the past few years, but apparently the kind of woman who stirred his heart hailed from the town he loved.
It made sense. Deep Haven contained everything he wanted—family, home. What his parents had. Or what they used to have.
He eased out of the kiss, moved back to smile at her. Touch his forehead to hers, ever so gently.
“So when can I see you next?”
“Tomorrow, 9 a.m.,” she said, shivering a little, her smile in her eyes. “I’ll take that ride please.”
“Perfect.” He moved her away from him, clasped her mittened hands between his. She had tiny hands for such a proficient musician. “What would you say to coming up to visit me?”
Her smile dimmed. “Where?”
“In Deep Haven, of course.”
“You live in Deep Haven?” She held up her hands. “I thought you lived here.”
“I used to, but no—I’ve always wanted to move back and I landed a deputy job a few weeks ago, even bought a house. I came down to pick up the last of my stuff from my pal’s apartment.”
She had slipped out of his grip, and now as she looked at him, something of warning coiled in his chest—a feeling he got right before a suspect took off running or, worse, threw a punch.
“I’m sorry, Kyle. But I hate that town and everything about it. It’s dark and a prison and as long as I live, I’m never, ever returning to the armpit town of Deep Haven.”
How did a woman forget the man she’d been married to for twenty-five years?
Eli rounded on Anne as they exited the ICU, nearly backing her into the wall.
She held up her hands. “Eli, calm down. The amnesia is probably temporary.”
“I’m so
rry. I’m sorry.” He still gripped his hat, his eyes burning from the trip to Duluth through the blinding snowstorm that had stretched out two hours to nearly four. His hands ached and his head throbbed.
Worse, down the hall in the lounge, their seventeen-year-old son waited to hear if his mother would be okay.
Eli took a breath. “What was that in there?”
Anne didn’t ruffle easily. “She’s got some retrograde amnesia. It’s rare—and certainly rare to have her revert so far back.”
“She thinks she’s in college, for pete’s sake. She doesn’t have a clue who I am. She ordered me from the room!”
Anne led him over to a bench, sat him down. “She doesn’t know you right now. But you heard her; she said you looked familiar. There’s a shadow of you in there, and we have to believe that you’ll surface. That her life will surface. It’s most likely just the shock from the fall, perhaps some temporary blood loss in the temporal or frontal lobes. I’ll order a CT scan and find out what’s happening. But she’s responsive; her vitals are fine; her pupils are normal. The effects of the head trauma seem to be abating.”
“Then why doesn’t she know me?”
“Sheriff, you know as well as I do that it’s common for people to forget the events leading up to a trauma. Or even a few days after.”
“The woman has lost half her life, Anne.” Oh, he didn’t quite mean that tone. “And all of the life we shared together.” Or had she forgotten only him? “Maybe we should bring Kirby in there, let him jog her memory. Certainly she’s not going to forget her son.”
Anne had cut her hair since he’d seen her last, lost weight, but she still retained the sense of calm emanating off her that made her so valuable in a trauma. He wanted to drink in her confidence as she pressed a hand on his arm. “The last thing Kirby needs is to see his mother confused and even not knowing him. Let’s wait until morning, and then we’ll assess.”
“But what if she doesn’t get her memory back? What if she’s forgotten . . . everything? Kirby and Kyle and . . .” He cupped a hand over his mouth, drew in a breath.
His loss reflected in Anne’s eyes. “The brain is an amazing organ. It has a way of healing itself. I don’t have to tell you to pray, Eli, but I have seen miracles happen. However, I’m not sure we need a miracle here. It’s too soon to tell how much memory she might have truly lost, if any, and if it is permanent. The best thing you can do right now is stay calm, get some rest, and trust that she’s in God’s hands.”
Eli walked to the glass doors, stared in at his wife. She looked so broken in that bed, her blonde hair plastered to her head, tiny lines of pain on her face. When she’d looked at Anne and asked her to make him leave . . . well, he wanted to weep. How could she not know him?
Or maybe she simply didn’t want to. Maybe after three years of trying to push him out of her life, trying to forget him—all of them, really—she finally had.
He rested his forehead against the glass. No, God couldn’t take his wife from him. At least not like this.
“Eli.”
“Who holds up a coffee shop?”
“On a day like today, maybe the thief thought he could get away, hide out in the storm.” Anne cast a look at Noelle. “The clerk—a high school girl—died at the scene. I’m not sure where Noelle found the courage to run, but she is a Hueston.” She turned to him, and he tried to find peace in her kind smile. “Let the Duluth police do their job. You focus on your wife. I’ll get you a medical stay pass at the hotel across the street. You must be exhausted.”
“I’m not leaving Noelle.”
Anne gave him an expression he’d known himself to give others over the years. “Yes, in fact, you are. We’ll move her out of ICU in the morning if she continues to have a good night, but it’s past visiting hours, and although I made an exception, this dispensation is over. Out of my ICU, Sheriff. Go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She’d moved to stand in front of the glass doors that led into the ICU. Folded her arms.
“You’d make a good cop.”
“So Noah has told me. Good night, Eli.”
Eli tugged his hat back on and trudged down the hall toward the lounge area. How he hated hospitals—the ever-present aura of despair, the fading hope on the faces of the weary stacked and waiting in the padded vinyl chairs.
He and Noelle had probably worn the same expressions as the doctors fought for Kelsey’s life.
Kirby had dropped off to sleep, one long leg dangling over the edge of the brown love seat. His head had rolled back, caught now in the crook of the sofa’s arm. Beside him, his Diet Coke dented a Family Circle magazine on the table. A Sports Illustrated crumpled on the floor where it had slipped off his lap. The kid, with his toned muscles, unruly brown hair, the blue-and-white Deep Haven Huskies letter jacket, reminded Eli so much of himself at that age—so about himself, his sports, his future.
The boy couldn’t lose his mother. Not after all they’d already lost. He reached down, nudged his son with his knee. “Kirbs. Wake up.”
The seventeen-year-old stirred, licked his lips, blinked to consciousness. Focused on his dad. “Oh. Sorry.”
“No problem.”
Kirby sat up, rubbing the heels of his hands over his face. “How is she?” He stood and stretched.
“She woke up.” He didn’t know what else to add.
Kirby leaned down and grabbed the magazine, setting it back on the table. “So she’s out of the coma?”
“Apparently. They’ll probably move her out of ICU tomorrow.”
Kirby picked up his soda, making a face after he downed it. “Can I see her?”
Eli shook his head. “Visiting hours are over. We’ll see her first thing in the morning. I have a voucher for a night in the hotel across the street.”
“She had me worried.”
Eli clapped him on the back. “Me too.”
Kirby was silent as they walked through the corridors, past rooms of sleeping patients. Eli felt it too—the memories lurking in dark corners—with every beep of the machines, the smell of the carpets, the odor of sickness, the lost expressions of the bereaved in waiting rooms, bracing themselves for a nightmare.
If there was one thing he wished he could forget . . .
But would he wish to lose everything?
They rode the elevator down to ground level. Outside, the fresh snow glistened under the cleared sky. The air had warmed, the lake breezes more temperate after the storm. In the padding of night, he could hear the rumbling of snowplows, the graders on the roads, cleaning them for the morning traffic. Tomorrow, all evidence of today’s ice storm might even be melted away.
As Kirby opened the car door and retrieved the window scraper, Eli stood in the parking lot, hands shoved in his pockets, searching for hope in the glistening of stars against the blackness.
“It wasn’t his fault, Ritchie. I’m telling you, there was this groupie there—he’s the one that started the fight!”
Emma sat at her kitchen table, cell phone attached to the wall charger, wincing as Ritchie Huff detailed for her the expenses the bar owner intended on charging the band—namely her—for the brawl.
“Brian says it was this guy you knew, the one who carried you out of there, that started it.”
“Brian is wrong.”
“Well, at the least, you’re off their list of bassists, and they’re spreading the word around town. I’m just hoping I can get you off the hook for liability. But if you want any more gigs in this town, keep your boyfriend away from them.”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” But Ritchie had already hung up. Perfect.
Never mind the fact that for about four hours last night, she’d wanted Kyle to be exactly that. Her boyfriend. She pressed the phone to her forehead, closed her eyes. Oh, why, why did Kyle have to walk—no, he’d practically barged his way—back into her life? She could still feel his arms around her. And his kiss had been every bit as perfect as she’d imagined.
&nb
sp; You never want to return to Deep Haven? She’d hated the hurt in his voice, the disbelief.
But she could have just as easily rounded on him, accused him of the opposite. And I can’t believe you do!
It wouldn’t do any good to try to change his mind. Grief did that—set people on paths they couldn’t always explain.
She’d hurt him with the armpit comment, however. And why not? Most people loved Deep Haven, a favorite vacation spot in Minnesota. Try living there, though. With the memories.
So she’d backed away from him, let him drive her home and walk her ever so gallantly to the door.
He didn’t offer another kiss. She didn’t suggest one.
Now she dialed the Checker cab company, gave her address, then slipped on her UGGs and a parka and went downstairs to wait. The sky hung low over the St. Paul skyline, a gray pallor that still sifted down snow, scurried up drifts. The plow had already cleared her street.
Maybe she should have scuttled her disappointment and let Kyle drive her to the 400 Bar this morning. He’d called her twice before he left for Deep Haven—making sure she didn’t want a ride to her car.
So what, he could kiss her again, make her long for a life she could never return to?
What is your heart into?
His words nagged her. Even more, her answer: I’m still figuring that out. Yeah, that felt like the first honest thing she’d said to anyone—including herself—since leaving Deep Haven.
She pressed her hand to the foyer window, drew it away, watching the outline on the glass.
One more time through, Emma; we nearly have it.
Kelsey could travel into her head so easily, especially after a gig. The songs Emma played, regardless of the genre, always took her back to the last time she actually felt like singing. Like composing.
She’d sat on the ratty green sofa her father had stored in the attic, her acoustic guitar over her knee, experimenting with a lick as Kelsey tried a different setting on her keyboard. Kelsey had always been the flamboyant dresser between them—in this memory wearing a black vest over a lacy tank, a pair of low-cut jeans. She had curves Emma envied, not to mention golden-blonde hair that she’d recently cut to a bob, tucked behind her ears. Raspberry-rose-painted toenails peeked out from the ragged hem of her jeans as she depressed the foot pedal. “I just want to try a different harmony on the bridge.”
The Shadow of Your Smile Page 4
