A bittersweet look flickered across Kate’s face. “That song . . .”
“Van Morrison. ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’”
“My father would sing it to my mother,” Kate explained. “She had these big eyes.”
“Like yours,” Wes said, noticing how bottomless they looked in the dim light. Big, sad eyes.
“I suppose that’s true.” Kate glanced away again. “People have said I look like her.”
Then she was beautiful too. “Let’s dance,” Wes said, taking her hand.
In moments they’d joined the other couples on the dance floor, Kate managing elegance with the somewhat-awkward twirl Wes attempted in the impossibly small space between other elbows and shoulders. The singer continued the familiar love song:
“Standin’ in the sunlight laughin’
Hidin’ behind a rainbow’s wall . . .”
Kate laughed as Wes barely missed stepping on her foot, and she insisted that he attempt the twirl again, her eyes glittering. He twirled; she spun, stumbled, and recovered. Then returned to his arms, nearly collapsing against his chest in laughter, as if she had no cares in the world, no painful past and no uncertain future. Only laughter and music . . . He held Kate, laughing along with her. And then realized something: maybe more than he’d ever wanted anything, Wes wanted to keep the sadness from ever returning to Kate’s eyes.
He raised her arm and twirled her again.
“You my brown eyed girl . . .”
The singer held the last note and then smoothly transitioned to a slower song. Even more smoothly, Kate moved back into Wes’s arms. As before, it felt like she belonged there. Her small hand curled inside his, her chin at his collarbone and that soft hair brushing his cheek. It smelled of shampoo, maybe some kind of flower or herb. Wes breathed it in.
“Safe,” she said, leaning away. A smile tugged at her lips. “No raccoons.”
“I noticed.” A bald-faced lie, of course. Wes wouldn’t have noticed if there’d been a flash flood through the restaurant. All he knew was that Kate was in his arms, and even as she moved close once again, all he could think of was that the song would soon end. And then the evening, too. He didn’t want that to happen.
- + -
Judith crossed the ER waiting room to where Trista was settling her baby’s car seat on a chair. One look at her face and Judith was glad she’d decided to return for a few hours on the evening shift; the girl’s father had been causing quite a ruckus upstairs.
“They said he signed himself out,” Trista told her, eyes anxious behind her glasses. “I don’t get it. He was supposed to stay two more days. They kept saying something like MAA. What does that mean?”
“AMA, dear.” Judith glanced down at Harley; she was wearing a lavender knit hat and her cherub lips puckered in her sleep. The silver rattle Judith had gifted her was wedged under the car seat’s shoulder strap. “The abbreviation stands for ‘against medical advice.’ Meaning that your father has chosen to leave the hospital against the advice of his physician. Even if it poses a risk to his health. They had your father sign the papers so that he would understand the seriousness of his decision.”
Trista frowned. “And to avoid being sued if he dies at home.”
Judith winced, looked down again as Harley began to whimper.
“I talked to his nurse last night,” Trista continued. “Two thirty in the morning and he was wide awake. Shaky, she said. Talking out of his head for a while. They had to give him a pill. She called it sundowning and said it happens sometimes to older people in strange surroundings.”
Judith bit her lip. Though he was certainly an older parent, Trista’s father wasn’t much older than Judith herself was.
Trista pushed her glasses up her nose and let out a withering sigh. “He wants to come home so he can get drunk. Period. It doesn’t take a doctor to figure—”
“There you are!” A wheelchair appeared at the door to the waiting room. Trista’s father wore a bulky bandage, an arm sling, and a very sour expression. “Let me out of this chair,” he barked to the nurse’s aide, who didn’t appear much happier.
“I need to wheel you all the way to the car, sir,” he said, resting a hand on his patient’s shoulder as he tried to rise. “That’s policy, so please—”
“I don’t give a—Trista!” her father hollered, rising from the wheelchair. “Grab that baby and get me out of here.”
A woman near the door pulled her toddler protectively into her arms; another patient stood and walked to a seat farther away.
“I’ll carry Harley,” Judith offered as Trista’s father shrugged off the aide’s help and started toward them. “And I’ll wait at the curb with your father if you want to go pull the car up.”
Trista held Judith’s gaze for a moment. Long enough for Judith to clearly understand that the young mother most certainly didn’t want to go get the car if that meant taking her father home. So sad.
Still, it wasn’t realistic to think that all family relationships were happy. She thought of Matt Callison, sitting here this afternoon. Hoping to see his daughter. The love and pride in his eyes were unmistakable. A lot like Judith’s husband and Molly. Something to be treasured.
Life was fragile. You never knew when something wonderful might be lost. She was glad Kate still had that.
- + -
“You do look like her,” Wes said, standing in front of the framed photo on Kate’s mantel.
“I like to think that,” Kate told him, carrying the daisy mugs to the coffee table. She felt a pang of guilt. The favorite photo of her mother, wearing a floppy beach hat and a sprinkle of summer freckles, had been snipped in half from top to bottom. She’d left the piece with her father’s face on the sink the day she hoisted her backpack and walked out. No note, just a pair of kitchen shears and a cruel gesture that said, “I’ve cut you out of my life.”
Kate set the mugs down, glanced up to see Wes looking at the printed card beside the framed photo. “Engagement announcement,” she explained. “A trauma chaplain I worked with at Alamo Grace. She’s marrying an ER physician in March. In a Fredericksburg peach orchard.” Four months away. The thought came without warning: Would Kate still be in Texas then?
“Ten hospitals in six years? Seven different cities, three states?” Barrett’s words echoed. He’d pegged her in an instant. Did Kate honestly think Wes wouldn’t? Was she foolish enough to hope it could be different this time?
As Wes walked toward where she’d settled on the couch, she wondered briefly if quivers were a sign of hope. They were still here.
“It’s good,” Wes pronounced after taking a sip of the coffee—brewed this time, not instant. She’d made a quick stop at Austin Java on her way home from buying the nail polish. His thumb brushed the flower on the mug. “This cup looks old.”
“My mother’s. She bought them in Carmel on a spring break during college.”
Wes smiled. “About the same vintage as ‘Brown Eyed Girl’?”
“Probably not long after.” Kate slid off her shoes, seeing Wes glance discreetly at her polished toes, and reached for her coffee mug. “There used to be a set, but there are only three left now. They were her favorite mugs.” Kate clucked her tongue. “I remember them filled with my paintbrushes and once with an avocado seed. I poked it with toothpicks and tried to get it to sprout in water on the windowsill. And . . .” Her heart cramped. “I fixed Mom’s herbal tea in those mugs when she was getting chemo.”
“You must miss her.”
She nodded, afraid to trust her voice. Or imagine what her mother would think of her mistake-riddled, vagabond life. “We didn’t have the big, close family that you have. But she was sort of the glue, you know?” Her father’s words, just today, drifted back. “The heart of our family . . .”
Wes’s expression said he understood.
“The house is on Happy Hollow Lane,” Kate continued with a smile. “Mom got the biggest kick out of that; she said it made us sound like a family of chipmunks
. She’d puff out her cheeks and make this goofy face.” Her smile faded. “Afterward . . . I wanted to rip that street sign down. Happy didn’t fit anymore.” She set the mug on the table.
“Your father still lives in Sunnyvale?” Wes’s voice was gentle.
“Happy Hollow Lane.” Except I only use his e-mail address.
Wes took another sip of his coffee and was quiet for a moment. The coffeemaker burbled in the kitchen and Kate wished she’d switched on her iPod for music. She still could. . . .
“It’s funny,” Wes said, his voice low and soft, “the things that stick in our minds. My mom—my stepmom, Miranda—has been in my life for much longer, but I still remember my mother making pancakes. The way you do it to make them into shapes: hearts and Mickey Mouse faces. And a W for my name. You’ve seen that?”
An ache filled Kate’s throat. She nodded.
Wes shook his head. “I had tea with Amelia Braxton today. She reminded me about my piano recital way back when. And about my mother being there, rooting for me. Coaching me when I got lost with the verses. I’d forgotten.” He set his coffee down, met Kate’s gaze. There was vulnerability in his expression. “My stepmom would say it was a blessing. A good thing to hold on to.”
Kate wished she hadn’t just thought of the cross hidden away in the closet, only yards from where she sat with a man who was comfortable talking about blessings. And grace and hope. She didn’t want to think about how nothing about her fit with any of that.
“And I think you are too, Kate.” The blue eyes met hers.
“What?” she asked, hearing her voice emerge in a whisper.
“A good thing.” He reached for her hand. “A good thing I’d like to hold on to . . . if that’s okay with you.”
“I . . .” Kate struggled, the quivers robbing her of speech. “Yes. It’s okay.”
“Great.” He raised her hand to his lips.
“It’s . . .” She heard herself chuckle. Knew it was because she was nervous. And because she was having a ridiculous time breathing now that he’d moved close, cradling her cheek in his big palm. She blinked at him, warmth flooding through her. “The nail polish, right?” Her heart skittered as Wes leaned closer. “You can’t resist this great nail polish.”
He laughed, lips against her cheek. “No. It was the Jeep. Drove me crazy the way you handled that old Jeep.” Wes nuzzled Kate’s neck, a trace of beard growth tickling her skin.
Then he leaned away just enough to smile at her. “And?” he asked.
She smiled back at him. “And what?”
“You can’t resist me because . . . ? C’mon, it’s only fair.”
“Okay. Your eyes, then.”
He chuckled. “Nancy Rae said that too. Just today.”
“She’s too old for you.” Kate’s breath caught as Wes leaned close again. “Too short. Bad hair. And—” She sighed as his lips touched the corner of her mouth and raised her arms, eased them around his neck. He slid his around her, strong but gentle, then brushed his lips lightly across hers. A promise of another kiss to come.
“I’m serious,” he whispered. “I think it’s good that we found each other. Don’t you?”
“Mmm.” Kate nodded, but she didn’t really want to think at all. Right now she only wanted to feel. To be in this good man’s arms even if it was only for a short time. Hope beyond that was too risky. But it was the closest thing to happiness she’d known in so long. It did feel different, safe . . . wonderful.
She buried her fingers in the softness of Wes’s hair, drew him closer. Then closed her eyes and tasted his tender warmth more deeply . . . beginning a kiss he seemed only too willing to continue.
“WHAT’S THAT TUNE?” Wes’s mom covered the serving platter with a cloth napkin and settled opposite him at the porch table.
“Hmm?” He realized he’d been lost in thought.
“That song.” She gazed at Wes over the rim of her coffee cup. The morning breeze wafted scents of sausage and country-fried potatoes—a testament to Mrs. Tanner’s kitchen. “You were humming. It sounded like ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’”
“Probably was.” He smiled, warmth spreading through his chest at the memory. “Heard it last night. In Austin.” Wes picked up his coffee, knowing she’d wait forever. Patience could have been Miranda Tanner’s middle name. He released the breath he’d been holding. “I like her, Mom.”
“I figured.” She left it at that, respectful of his privacy as always, though her caring expression was as effective as the huge welcome mat outside the Tanners’ door. And a walloping dose of truth serum.
“Kate’s different,” he told her. Then was at a complete loss for words. How could he explain Kate to his mom? He wasn’t sure he understood any of this himself. “I mean, she’s pretty, of course—that’s obvious. Smart. And funny, too.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I like that she’s so determined and independent. Strong. And tries like the devil not to need anybody. But . . .”
“But you think she might need you?” There was something in his mother’s eyes that Wes had seen before. That day she watched him slide down the Braxton well to rescue the little girl.
“I’m not sure.” He suspected Kate’s admitted “mistakes” had something to do with her relationships with men. That she’d been disappointed, maybe even hurt. He hated the thought of it. For that reason alone, Wes was determined to take things slowly where Kate was concerned. Be completely respectful. And protective? He had no doubt she’d prickle at that. “Kate’s pretty stubborn. I told you what she said the first day we met: ‘No one here needs to be rescued.’”
“If I recall—” his mom glanced toward the sound of a horse’s whinny—“you told me she was like ‘brushing up against a cactus.’”
“Uh . . .” The warmth returned. “Not so much.” Wes shrugged, knowing that if truth serum were actually on the breakfast menu, he’d admit in a heartbeat that he’d never held a woman as soft and sweet. “She’s had some tough things to deal with in her life.”
His mom waited, the gentle concern in her eyes saying, “As have you, Son.”
“Kate’s mother died when she was a teenager.” Wes stopped himself from mentioning that she’d run away from home. And been gone for a year. The thought staggered him, but he wasn’t about to betray Kate’s confidence. “She and her father had some issues related to all of that. Still do.”
“I liked Matt. I had a sense he was on a much bigger journey than a drive out here from California. And that his daughter was an important part of it.”
“Hmm.” So had Wes. It was the reason he’d risked giving Kate’s father her address. So the man could share his newfound hope. And faith? Wes couldn’t deny that he’d wanted that for Kate too.
But she’d sent her father away. “It’s not a Hallmark movie . . . I gave him instant coffee and told him to drive safely.”
“More coffee?”
“No thanks. Let me help you clear these dishes; then I’m heading to the drilling site. Dad’s going directly there after he drops Dylan at school. I’m hoping to get that job done early—have to go into Austin later.”
“Kate?”
“Travis County Search and Rescue meeting. We’re going over water-rescue plans.”
“Ah yes. The storm that’s coming.” His mom glanced up through the pecan branches.
“Right.” He stacked the breakfast plates.
“That’s fine, Wes. I’ve got the rest of this. Go to work.”
“Thanks.” He stepped close, gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Great breakfast, Mom.”
“You’re welcome.” Her quick smile was replaced by that same look he’d seen earlier. The familiar careful-Son-it’s-a-deep-well expression of motherly concern. “When you said that Kate tries hard not to need anyone . . . does that include God?”
- + -
“You’re smiling,” Lauren told Kate over the din of the hospital cafeteria. She paused as an overhead page for an OB department visitor repeated a second time. “A
nd considering that your fork is hovering over a dubious-meat-source enchilada, I’d say that look on your face indicates . . .”
“That I’m really hungry?” Kate was unable to stop the spread of her smile or the betraying flush she felt at the neck of her scrubs. Lauren had phoned and texted at least a half-dozen times last night, starting around 9 p.m., about half an hour after Wes drove away from her house. He’d left her reluctantly; she’d seen it in his eyes, felt it in that last lingering kiss.
He’d made a joke of not wanting her landlord to see a car sitting late in her driveway, then said he had to be up early for work. She knew Wes was being respectful of her. The way he’d been when he opened the car door, pulled out her chair, and stayed protectively on the side of traffic every time they walked. That he’d willingly gone home early left her feeling both relief and a pang of regret. It confirmed everything she’d started to believe: This man is special.
“I did send you a text,” Kate said, wrinkling her nose as she cut the enchilada—it was an iffy entrée. Not anything like last night’s amazing dinner. The flush reached her ears.
“‘All fine. CU tomorrow,’” Lauren quoted. “You call that a post-date recap? You could never write scripts for The Bachelorette.”
Kate laughed. “I didn’t call you back because I was still talking to Wes. On the phone. He called as soon as he got home and we talked until way late.”
It was Lauren’s turn to smile. “That can only be good.”
“I guess.” Kate prodded something with her fork; she hoped it was an olive. How could she explain that she wasn’t sure she could recognize “good” for certain? The words good and man had never linked up in Kate’s life experience. She only knew that today—everything today—felt better after last night. She took a slow breath. “Yes. I think it could be. Good.” Her mouth was dry. She stabbed the olive and popped it in.
“I’m not going to pry. Don’t worry.” Lauren pressed the edge of her fork against her own enchilada. “I only needed . . .” Her eyes met Kate’s. “I wanted to be sure my pal was okay. You know?”
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