Every Waking Moment

by Brenda Novak

  After another ten or fifteen minutes, she realized she couldn’t go back to sleep. She forced herself to try a little longer. She had no idea what was in store for them tomorrow. But now that she was awake, she’d started thinking about Juanita. What had Manuel done with her? Had Rosa heard anything?

  Preston had rented a suite, with a bedroom on one side and a small kitchen and living area on the other. Slipping out of bed, she moved as silently as possible through the adjoining door and closed it softly behind her. Then she settled herself on the couch and picked up the phone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SOMETHING PULLED Preston from sleep; he wasn’t sure what. A restless night wasn’t unusual. He always spent long hours thinking about Vince. But for now, he fought to keep the memories, and the emotions those memories evoked, at bay. He’d find the bastard. Soon. No need to rob himself of the few hours of sleep he’d been hoping to get.

  Refusing to open his eyes, he rolled over. But the new position made little difference. The snatches of conversation, the signs he should’ve noticed but didn’t, crowded close, bringing with them the anger and the guilt that were his constant companions.

  Throwing an arm over his eyes, Preston shifted onto his back as a fresh spring day from three years ago played in his mind.

  “Nice shot, buddy,” Vince had said, laughing as he slapped Preston on the back. They were at the Presidio, only ten minutes from San Francisco, golfing among century-old eucalyptus and Monterey pine trees. “If I hang out with you long enough, maybe some of your luck will rub off on me.”

  Preston smiled. For someone who wasn’t very good at the game, Vince sure liked to get out on the golf course. “Next time we’ll have to bring the girls,” he said.

  Vince squatted to line up his next drive. “I don’t know. They prefer to shop or get their nails done, don’t they?”

  Christy enjoyed golf. Preston would’ve invited her, but she’d volunteered to help in Dallas’s class that day. “Christy’s interested in a lot of things,” he said.

  After taking a couple of practice swings, Vince sidled up to the ball and adjusted his grip on the iron. “What do you say we go to Carmel next month?”

  Vince and Joanie didn’t have kids, so Preston knew they’d expect him and Christy to leave Dallas behind. While Christy’s parents were generally good about babysitting, he and Christy didn’t like leaving their son more than once or twice a year. “Isn’t it hard for you to get away as often as you do?” Preston asked.

  Vince shrugged. “I’m in a group. We can always go when one of the other doctors is on call, or I can trade with someone.” Thwack. He hit the ball and they both watched it fly through the air.

  “Not bad,” Preston said as it dropped onto the green about ten feet short of his own.

  Vince leaned on his driver. “See? Your luck’s rubbing off on me already.”

  A cool Pacific breeze ruffled Preston’s hair as he hefted his clubs over one shoulder and headed toward the next hole. They could have rented a golf cart, of course, but Preston preferred to walk.

  “Are you and Christy still planning to barbecue with us this Saturday?” Vince asked.

  Preston hadn’t heard anything about it. “Are we supposed to?”

  “I think Joanie talked to Christy.”

  “She hasn’t mentioned it to me yet. Can we bring Dallas?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Vince grinned. “We’re so glad we moved here. It’s like having a new lease on life.”

  Preston veered around a sand trap, and Vince trailed behind. “Where’d you live before?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

  “Pennsylvania,” Vince said, catching up.

  “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned the town.”

  “Maybe not. Lockwood’s barely more than a dot on the map. Most people’ve never heard of it.”

  “What was so bad about Lockwood?” Preston asked.

  “It was okay at first—great. But then…” A shadow passed over Vince’s face.

  “Then…what?”

  “One of my patients died. It happens, you know. Being a doctor, it’s something I have to deal with. But afterward…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. The place just…haunted me.”

  Preston’s steps slowed. Generally Vince went on and on about how much he loved his profession. This was the first time Preston had heard him speak of the painful side of being a doctor. “How old was the patient?”

  His friend blew out a long sigh. “That’s the worst part. He was only seven.”

  Preston stopped walking altogether. “That would be hard. How’d he die?”

  Vince’s eyes darted to his face. “It was nothing I did.”

  The sudden defensiveness took Preston by surprise. “Of course not. I didn’t say it was.”

  The placating grin that deepened Vince’s dimples should’ve given him away, but somehow Preston had missed it. He’d been too damn gullible, too certain his friend was everything he appeared to be.

  “Sorry. You know how it is,” Vince had said. “A doctor feels responsible for saving the world and all that. Sometimes it’s simply not possible.”

  Now the truth was so apparent Preston cringed to remember how easily he’d accepted Vince’s rationale. “That’s a fact of life, buddy,” he’d said and started off again. “You can’t let it keep eating at you.”

  “Joanie says the same thing.”

  “You should listen to her.”

  Poor Wendell… Tossing on the bed, Preston ground his teeth. How could Vince have painted himself as the martyr in what had happened to Billy Duran?

  It was almost unbelievable. Almost.

  He went back to that day….

  At the next hole, Preston selected a putter. “You’ve shown me some of the letters you’ve received from grateful patients. I know you’re a good doctor.”

  Vince nodded. “Yeah. I saved a little girl in the same town.”

  “Really?”

  “She would’ve died had she been seeing anyone else.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  Vince’s chest swelled with obvious pride. “They did a big write-up about it in the paper.”

  “See? There you go.” Preston placed his ball on the tee, settled himself beside it and tapped it to within a few inches of the hole.

  “Not bad,” Vince said.

  Preston stood back, out of the way. “So how’d the little boy die?”

  No answer.

  “Vince?”

  “Bacterial infection,” he muttered.

  Preston waited in silence for him to finish his put. Vince overshot the hole by nearly ten feet, then Preston birdied.

  “Can’t bacterial infections be treated with antibiotics?” Preston asked as he retrieved his ball from the cup.

  He’d only been making conversation, but all hints of the good-natured friend Preston had known for the past months immediately disappeared.

  “Don’t you think I tried that?” Vince said. “What, are you a doctor now, Preston? It was spinal meningitis. For your information, that’s a very serious disease.”

  And then Preston actually tried to placate him. “Calm down, Vince,” he said. “I was only expecting you to tell me a little more about what happened. I’m sure you did everything you could.”

  “Damn right I did!”

  Preston almost let the subject go, but even then, Vince’s strange response had made him curious. “How’d the boy’s parents take the news?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Vince snapped.

  A bump in the other room jolted Preston out of the memory. Rolling onto his side, he glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Light peeked through the cracks in the blinds, but he’d only been sleeping for three-and-a-half hours.

  Three and a half crummy hours. Where was he, anyway? He traveled so much these days that all hotel rooms were beginning to look alike.

  Rubbing his face, he leaned
up so he could see the other bed. He wasn’t alone, and that brought it all back to him. He was in Salt Lake. With a woman he couldn’t seem to lose. And a diabetic boy who’d nearly died in his arms. Both of whom were being chased by an unstable man named Manuel who liked to burn others with his cigarettes.

  He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. And he’d thought his life was bad before.

  The sound of a television reached his ears, coming from the living room. He scrutinized the opposite bed more carefully. Emma had to be in the living room because Max was still asleep.

  Why wasn’t she getting what rest she could? Was she okay?

  Sliding out of bed, Preston walked toward the adjoining door. Yesterday had been pretty stressful. Maybe she was having a tough time dealing with the residual effects.

  He remembered what she’d said to him that first night. What if the fact that you’ve considered suicide doesn’t scare me? Maybe I understand how you’re feeling. Maybe I’ve been there.

  God, all he needed was for her to crack up.

  As he quietly opened and closed the door, Emma sat up on the couch. “You’re awake? Already?”

  It was a lot brighter out here, bright enough that Preston had to squint against the light streaming through the windows. When he could see, he noticed that Emma’s eyes still had purple smudges beneath them. Her hair was mussed, too, as though she’d spent a sleepless night. He could tell she was tired, stressed, but he didn’t think she’d been crying.

  Maybe life wasn’t so bad. Even when she was wiped out, he enjoyed looking at her.

  “I’m sorry if the TV woke you,” she said. “I had no idea that whoever watched it last had turned it up high enough to shake the building. I turned it down as soon as I could.”

  “It’s fine.” Still a little groggy, Preston took in the way the soft cotton of his shirt molded to the naked body beneath, noticed the gentle sway of her breasts when she shifted position—and suddenly felt a great deal more alert.

  Her expression told him she’d read his reaction, so he put some space between them by walking over to the kitchen for a drink. He didn’t want her to think he expected anything from her. He was helping her for one reason and one reason only: to appease his conscience.

  So where was his conscience when his imagination was painting vivid pictures of stripping away that T-shirt?

  “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

  “I shouldn’t have napped so long in the van.”

  He searched for another topic to occupy his mind. He didn’t want to start thinking about sex. He’d spent a miserable night after Max had interrupted them in Ely, and he refused to ask for a second helping of the same kind of frustration.

  Fortunately, they had plenty to discuss that should go far toward making him want to keep his pants on. “Tell me about Manuel.”

  Preston hadn’t wanted to know anything about Emma’s life, hadn’t wanted to be drawn into the middle of whatever crises she faced. But that was pretty much a moot point now. He was in the middle of it. He figured it might be wise to learn a little more about the man who was causing all this trouble.

  Emma turned the volume even lower and set the remote aside. “What do you want to know?”

  “You said the two of you never married.”

  “We didn’t.”

  “Why does he claim otherwise?”

  Cocking her head slightly, she studied him for a moment. “You’ve talked to him?”

  “We met, briefly.”

  She looked as though she didn’t know whether to believe him. “Where?”

  “In Ely. He was walking around flashing pictures of you and Max, telling everyone you were his wife and kid.”

  “Oh.” She took a few seconds to absorb this information. “So you think I’m lying about being married?”

  “No.” Preston checked the refrigerator and found it stocked with wine, beer, soda and juice. He selected a bottle of sparkling apple cider. “He just made me curious about the dynamics of your relationship, that’s all.”

  “It’s complicated,” she said, rubbing her forehead.

  “Obsession usually is. A normal man would show more interest in reclaiming his son. Manuel seems completely consumed by you.”

  She pulled her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “He doesn’t relate to small children. And he isn’t pleased that Max is…less than perfect.”

  His juice made a hissing sound when he twisted off the cap. “How’s Max less than perfect?”

  She glanced up at him again. “He has diabetes.”

  “So? Max is—” Preston caught himself. He’d been about to say “great,” but that somehow committed him to an opinion he really didn’t want to know he held. “A good boy,” he finished. “How could anyone be disappointed in a son like him?”

  “To Manuel, he’s damaged goods. And yet Manuel loves him fiercely, so fiercely that he drives Max to be the best at everything.”

  “That sounds like an issue of pride—or possession. Far more selfish than love,” Preston said.

  “You’re probably right. Manuel cares a great deal about appearances, about making sure others perceive him as handsome, intelligent, successful…perfect. He wanted me to be perfect, and Max, too.”

  Preston couldn’t see how Manuel could find any fault with either of them. “Then why didn’t he marry you? Make Max legitimate?”

  “I told you. His family wouldn’t accept me.”

  “There’s got to be more to it than that.”

  “It was mainly his mother. She’s got some serious jealousy issues with her sons, especially Manuel. She’s still married to Manuel’s father, but she completely runs his life, and she doesn’t respect him because of it. Manuel is stronger, more driven, like her. She admires that, sees him as everything she’s ever wanted in a man.”

  Preston raised his eyebrows. “Sounds a little too Freudian for me.”

  “It is. I knew she hated me the moment I met her. She couldn’t stand to see another woman in Manuel’s life. I think she feared how much he seemed to care about me. And she rejected Max because she thought that having Manuel’s son gave me too strong a hold on Manuel. So she made Manuel feel guilty for falling in love with someone who wasn’t of the same background, made him feel he was letting his family down or not taking enough pride in his heritage. And, of course, she found fault with everything Max and I ever did.”

  “But Max is her grandson.”

  “To her, he’s simply an extension of me. A rival. She treated us as though we weren’t good enough for Manuel and tried to convince him of that. What he probably doesn’t realize is that she wouldn’t approve of anyone.”

  “So she’s as selfish as he is,” Preston said, leaning on the counter. “Because, from what I’m hearing, it’s all about him.”

  “It didn’t used to be that way. But, with his mother’s encouragement and example, the ambition and drive that once attracted me grew out of all proportion, slowly destroying his better qualities,” she said. “Until he gets older, Max is just another weapon Manuel can use against me, the most reliable in his arsenal.”

  “What’s the point of forcing you to be with him?” Preston asked. “If you don’t want to be there, he doesn’t really have anything.”

  “In his mind, I belong to him, like his clothes, or his car, or his house. He doesn’t feel he should have to let me go simply because I want to leave.”

  “I know this guy isn’t normal, but what kind of man—”

  “It’s possession, like you said. An ego thing, a compulsion to conquer, to own,” she interrupted.

  So Manuel was your basic nutcase, and Preston might be risking his own safety by getting involved. He waited for that small piece of information to diminish his overactive libido—but it didn’t seem to make any appreciable difference. Maybe that was because self-preservation hadn’t been a real priority of late. Or else he wanted Emma even more than he’d thought. “You were attracted to this guy because he had ambiti
on?”

  “Among other things. He wasn’t like this when I first met him.” She combed her fingers through her long hair, which fell straight and shiny around her shoulders. “When we first met, he was away from his family. He was younger, more flexible. We were going to school, having fun, falling in love. But once we moved to San Diego, he started…working in the family business. He…changed.”

  “What’s the family business?”

  He assumed she’d say they owned a restaurant or a dry cleaner or something, but she didn’t. She sighed and said, “You don’t want to know.”

  He finished half the bottle of juice, wondering if he should take her at her word. But he’d always been a glutton for punishment. “Tell me anyway.”

  “They claim to import marble from Mexico.”

  Claim seemed to be the operative word. “But…”

  “I think they import something besides marble.”

  “Something like meth or cocaine?”

  She nodded. So she was talking about drugs. She thought Manuel’s family was involved in drug trafficking.

  Preston tried that on for size. Now he was standing between a nutcase who lived and moved in the violent underworld of the Mexican mafia, and a woman and child. Nice. The perfect position, actually—for a man with a death wish. For the past two years Preston hadn’t been so crazy about living, but he didn’t intend to leave this world without Vince.