Heart of Hearts (Nurses of New York Book 4)

by Amelia C. Adams

  “I know. Isn’t it great?” Kate wiggled her eyebrows. “I’ll let you get back to work. Thanks, Meg—this is going to be the best.”

  Meg gathered up the packet materials and slid them into the envelope. “You’ll probably want this back. Plane tickets and so forth.”

  “Well, not really tickets—vouchers for tickets.”

  “Whatever. Don’t lose it.”

  “Thanks.” Kate hugged the envelope to her chest. “Call me after work and we can talk it all out, okay? What we’re going to wear, what we need to get—shopping! This just gets better and better. Bye.”

  “Bye.” Meg watched Kate leave the office, an amused expression on her face. She had no doubt that if the itinerary included getting a Quinn Dawson tattoo, her friend would be totally up for that too.

  ***

  Quinn Dawson sat up a little straighter in the uncomfortable chair and tried to focus on what the doctor was saying. He was pretty sure the man was using all the medical jargon he could in an attempt to intimidate the family, and that didn’t feel too good to Quinn. After another moment, he lifted one hand, and the doctor paused.

  “Yes, Mr. Dawson?”

  “Let’s cut to the chase. If I understand you correctly, you’re saying that my mother is going to continue to deteriorate, and there’s nothing more to be done except keeping her safe. Is that about right?”

  “I believe you’ve summed that up rather well.” The doctor took off his glasses and laid them on the table, then threw an apologetic glance at Quinn’s father, who’d been sitting quietly during the whole meeting. “I don’t believe that your father is in a position to take care of her by himself anymore. She needs round-the-clock professional care, and if your father continues on as he has, he’ll find himself losing what good health he still has remaining.”

  Quinn turned to his father. He could see what the doctor meant—Ray Dawson had always been a hard worker, cut from granite, no nonsense in all the best ways. Now he looked worn out, tired, older than he really was. There was nothing easy about being the primary care giver for someone with dementia, but Ray had refused to let anyone else take on that responsibility. Maybe now he’d see the need to share the burden.

  “Dad? What do you think?”

  Ray shook his head. “Been married to that woman for forty years. She stuck by me through thick and thin, losing your sister, almost losing my business—how can I turn my back on her now?”

  Quinn studied his father’s face before turning back to the doctor. “What about a long-term care facility that will allow them to stay together? Like an assisted living apartment complex or something?”

  The doctor put his glasses back on and closed the folder in front of him. His body language couldn’t have made it any more obvious that he was done with this conversation. “My secretary can give you a list of care centers on your way out. It’s your decision, but one I recommend you not take lightly. Placing both of them . . .” He let the rest of his thought dangle, whatever it was.

  “There’s nothing about this entire situation that we’ve taken lightly,” Quinn said, feeling heat rise in his chest. “What you’re seeing here is a reluctance for a man to leave his wife to the care of others. Is that such a rare thing?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a solution. If you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.” The doctor stood, buttoned his suitcoat, and held out his arm to indicate that they should leave.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Quinn said as they walked toward the reception area. “It’s like he didn’t want to help you and Mom stay together.”

  “We’ll figure it out. Let’s get that list and start making some phone calls,” Ray said. “I’d like to get back to your mother as soon as possible—she wears Mrs. Armstrong out these days.”

  They collected the list of recommended care centers, then Quinn pulled his baseball cap low over his eyes and put on a pair of sunglasses. It wasn’t the most unique disguise, but it seemed to be enough to keep the paparazzi off his back when he had to go somewhere. It probably helped that he was wearing sneakers instead of his usual boots, too—those and his cowboy hat would draw too much attention, even in Nashville, where that was pretty much the dress code.

  They climbed into Ray’s blue pickup truck and hit a drive-through on the way back to the house. Annabeth Dawson wasn’t eating like she ought to be, but if there was one thing she’d always go for, that was a chocolate milkshake.

  Mrs. Armstrong met them at the door. “I’m sorry, Ray, but she’s a little agitated.”

  “That’s all right. Thank you—I appreciate it.”

  Mrs. Armstrong gave a quick nod and slipped out the front door, pulling it closed behind her. She went way above and beyond the call of neighborly duty, and Quinn had noticed how tired she seemed. She wasn’t trained for this—so few everyday people were trained for this. It was time to bring in the professionals.

  Quinn set the food bags down on the kitchen table and listened to his father talk to his mother through the bathroom door. He’d set his parents up in this condo shortly after his first album came out—he’d had almost instant success with it after years of playing in bars and paying his dues, and there was nothing he wanted more than to give his parents a better life. What he’d thought was a nice gift had turned into a prison of sorts, however, as his mother’s health deteriorated and his father spent countless hours worrying about her. Trips to the doctor’s office were just about the only outings Ray got.

  “Annabeth, Quinn brought you a milkshake,” Ray was saying. “It’s chocolate.”

  The bathroom door opened a crack, and she slowly opened it farther to glance toward the kitchen. Quinn held out her milkshake cup and grinned, and after another moment of hesitation, she shuffled into the kitchen, her slippers making scuffing sounds on the tile.

  Moments later, everyone was settled in at the table, each with their meals. Quinn all but dove into his bacon cheeseburger—it had been a long day, and breakfast had been eaten on the run what felt like a million hours ago. Stress always made him hungry, and worrying about his parents was a special kind of stress.

  “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?” Ray asked.

  Quinn grabbed a napkin and sopped up the juices that were running down his chin. “I have to be in the studio at eight, but they swear I’ll be done by noon. We’re just working on one song this time. What did you have in mind?”

  Ray glanced over at his wife, who was contentedly engrossed in her shake. “I thought I’d make some calls this afternoon while she sleeps, see if I can make appointments to go check out these places. Could use your support.”

  “Want me to sit with Mom or come with you?”

  “Come with me, please. I don’t want to place her anywhere, and if this choice is left to me, it’ll never get made. I’ll see if Mrs. Armstrong is up for another go-round.”

  “Of course I’ll come, Dad.” Quinn reached out and gave his dad’s hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll be here by twelve thirty.”

  “Thanks, Quinn. I . . . couldn’t do this without you.”

  Quinn gave a sharp nod and finished his burger, then chased it with several swigs of Coke. Neither of them wanted this, but if they had to go through it, at least they had each other.

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