Counting Stars

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Unaware of the drama unfolding around her, Marion continued across the room. Adrenaline surged through Paul as he walked toward Jane.

  She stared at him, her eyes wide.

  “What are you doing—?” Paul broke off, studying her face for the first time. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but it was her intense look of longing that stopped him.

  She’s the one.

  Paul looked around, wondering who had spoken. But there was no one near them. The only sound to be heard was the water running on the far side of the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Jane began. “I had no right, I only wanted . . .” She glanced back at the window as her voice trailed off.

  She wants to be a mother. The voice again.

  Paul didn’t bother looking around this time but instead watched Jane as she folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself as if she were cold.

  Another awkward moment passed, and she spoke again. “I’d better be going.” She brushed past him, heading for the elevator.

  “No—wait.” He heard himself speak before he realized what he was doing.

  Jane turned around slowly, a questioning look on her face.

  He took a step toward her and his eyes locked with hers. She wasn’t what he’d planned on, what he’d expected. How could he even be considering a woman who sold real estate, wanted to have her own business, and had fluorescent toes? And yet . . . She was looking past him again, toward the nursery. Paul turned around, following her gaze. The nurse stood at the window, carefully holding Mark.

  Paul heard Jane’s breath catch.

  “He’s so tiny. So perfect.”

  Perfect? Paul looked at the mess of tubes and wires coming out of his son. Perfect?

  Yes. She is perfect.

  Suddenly it felt as if a portion of the weight lifted from his shoulders. A bit of his tiredness faded away as he turned back to Jane. He walked toward her, his lips curving in a half-smile.

  “I think, maybe . . . Can we start again?” he asked, stopping in front of her. He didn’t wait for a reply. “Hi. I’m Paul. I have terminal cancer. My wife was killed in a car accident, and I’m looking for a woman to raise my children.” He extended his hand.

  Jane hesitated for the merest second before a smile broke out over her face and she put her hand in his.

  “I’m Jane.”

  Chapter Nine

  Paul held up a limp french fry. “I’ve eaten way too many of these lately.”

  Across the table from him, Jane moved her fork slowly around her own plate. The macaroni and cheese and wilted salad weren’t doing much for her. “Kind of makes you wonder if the hospital has some sort of contract with the cafeteria. You know, they supply so many new patients per day from food poisoning cases, and the hospital gives them a deal on rent or something.”

  Paul grinned. “That’s a good theory, though I haven’t succumbed yet . . .” His smile faded, and he looked up at Jane, his face grave.

  “Will you tell me about your cancer?” she asked.

  “There’s not much to tell.” Paul pushed his plate aside and leaned back in his chair. “It’ll be two years this December that I was diagnosed. Liver cancer.” He grimaced. “Made a lousy Christmas present. They tell you right off that it’s fatal. Although actually dying can take years sometimes.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Jane asked. “I mean the years part.”

  He shrugged. “It can be, but . . .”

  “What?” Jane prodded.

  “Though in my case, the doctor originally predicted months, not years.”

  “It would seem you’ve proved them wrong.” Jane put her fork down and picked up her water glass, swirling the ice cubes around as she waited for Paul to continue.

  He nodded. “At first Tami and I were aggressive with my treatments. When you’re told something is going to kill you, I think your feelings can go two ways. You either accept it—give up in essence and succumb to depression, that sort of thing, or you get really mad and decide that no, this is not going to get you. In spite of the terrible odds I was given, Tami and I felt certain we could beat the cancer.” He smiled faintly. “I guess we hadn’t quite outgrown the immortal feeling of youth.”

  “I would think that’s a pretty healthy attitude to have.”

  “It’s great—until your first letdown. When that first CT scan comes back showing no improvement, then you’re hit harder than if you’d just accepted reality at first.”

  Jane leaned forward across the table. “What do you mean?”

  Paul took a drink, then set his glass down and rubbed his eyes. “You said it best yourself.”

  Not understanding, Jane looked at him.

  He inclined his head toward the elevator doors. “How heartbreaking to have to leave them.”

  “But you haven’t. You’re still here,” she said, her voice subdued.

  For how long? he wanted to ask. More than that, he found himself wanting to tell her how long the doctors thought he had this time. Instead, he rose from the table.

  “You’re right. I am here, and I haven’t held my children yet today.”

  “I’ve kept you. I’m sorry.” Jane bent to pick up her purse, then stood. “Thank you for lunch.” She held out her hand.

  Paul took it, holding on a second longer than necessary. “Thank you. It was a nice break. I wasn’t feeling well—needed something to eat.” He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Too much coffee on an empty stomach . . .”

  Jane smiled. “I can imagine.” She turned toward the door.

  Don’t let her get away.

  “Jane, wait.”

  “Yes?” She paused midstride and looked back.

  Paul shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I think I’ll feel even better if I apologize.”

  “Oh?” Jane asked, her eyebrows raised.

  “I went about this whole thing all wrong today. I was a real jerk.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Now that you mention it, yes you did, and you were. However—” Her face softened. “Given the circumstances, I think it’s entirely understandable. Forgiveness granted.” She smiled again. “You’re off my list.”

  “List?” he asked, confused.

  “The never-going-to-give-my-children-that-name list. After this morning, Paul was right at the top.”

  He grimaced.

  Jane continued. “Now your name has been officially removed. Feel better?”

  “Not really,” Paul said. “You see, the thing is . . .” He stopped, wondering how on earth to even begin to ask what he had to. Agitated, he rubbed the back of his neck. “The thing is I feel guilty every time I go upstairs. I only spend about fifteen minutes holding Madison, then I head to the other side of the NICU and spend an hour or more with Mark.” He took a breath and rambled on. “It’s not that I favor him or anything, it just seems like he needs me more right now. And a lot of the time, I can’t even hold him. He’s in this isolette—all these tubes and monitors. I just hold his tiny hand and talk to him—tell him about his mom—tell him to hang in there.” Paul looked up, pleading in his voice. “So you can see how it would really help me out if I knew someone was spending time with my daughter while I’m with my son. It would only be about an hour or two a day. And you have experience. I heard you talking to Mrs. Howard—” Paul stopped, noticing Jane’s sudden frown.

  “Is this a paid position?” she asked, her voice strained.

  “What?—no,” he said, perplexed at her sudden change of attitude.

  “Then quit making it sound like a job. Back at Starbucks I felt like I’d been through a horrible job interview, and now you’re doing it again. Just pretend I’m your friend—that I’ve been your friend for longer than—” She glanced at her watch. “Longer than an hour, and you’re asking me for a favor.”

  “I—I—”

  “Yes, I know.” Jane waved her hand. “You’re bad at this sort of thing. Most men are. All the more reason to practice.”
She clasped her hands in front of her and smiled at him expectantly. “Go on.”

  Paul looked at her a moment more, then took a step closer. “Jane,” he began, doing his best to look sincere. “Would you, knowing there is nothing in it for you—no dating, no relationship—would you, as my friend, be willing to come to the hospital sometimes to help me care for my children?”

  He waited a heartbeat, then watched as Jane’s smile reached her eyes.

  “I’d love to.”

  Chapter Ten

  Reeling with déjà vu, Jane walked through the door to the nursery.

  Paul followed right behind. “If you want to grab a rocker, I’ll tell Amy what we’re going to do.”

  “I’ll be over there, then,” Jane said, heading for her favorite rocker—the glider type with a comfy blue cushion. It was the same one she’d sat in when she’d come to feed Andrew. Jane sank into the chair and looked around. Not much had changed in a month and a half. It was nice to be here, helping someone again. Maybe, like Marion, she should consider volunteering on a permanent basis.

  A few moments later, Paul walked over, his daughter cradled in his arms.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Jane nodded enthusiastically. “Yes.”

  Paul bent over, carefully placing Madison in her outstretched arms.

  Jane looked down at the little girl’s tiny, perfect face, and suddenly being here felt very different.

  With Andrew, Jane had always felt the intruder—certain her nephew recognized her as a mere substitute for his real mother. But Madison had never been held by her mother, and it had been nearly two months since Madison had felt the ties of the womb. Jane knew the nurses’ schedules were hectic, and if Paul only spent fifteen minutes with his daughter each time he came . . .

  This little girl was likely as starved for affection as Jane was.

  Jane placed her finger in Madison’s palm and watched as her tiny hand curved around it. Jane’s heart constricted, and she felt a rush of something that was much more than longing. But it was too soon, and she didn’t dare let herself put a name to it. Pasting a bright smile on her face and looking up at Paul with what she hoped were not too moist of eyes, she said merely, “She’s beautiful.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Paul held the elevator door open as Jane squeezed on amid a group of clipboard-holding interns. With bloodshot eyes and constant yawns, they all looked exhausted. Jane smiled at them anyway. She couldn’t help it. She felt happier than she’d been in—in as long as she could remember.

  Paul looked happy too. “You want to get a bite to eat or something?” he asked as they stepped into the lobby.

  Jane looked warily in the direction of the cafeteria.

  “I didn’t mean there,” Paul said, chuckling. “I wouldn’t try to poison you, not after all your help today.”

  “In that case, yes,” Jane said.

  He followed her to her car in the parking garage, then she drove him to his car and followed him to get fast food—not a big date—but definitely better than the hospital cafeteria. They lingered over shakes and bacon cheeseburgers, talking about Paul’s adorable children for a good hour until Jane realized she needed to hurry to catch her ferry.

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Now I’ve kept you,” Paul said, walking ahead of her to hold the door open.

  “I had a terrific afternoon,” Jane reassured him. “It’s just that I live on Bainbridge and my ferry leaves at 6:30. If I miss it, I’ll be home after dark, and my power doesn’t always work, so it’s best I get there before sunset. That way I can fiddle with the fuse box if there’s a problem.”

  Paul was giving her a peculiar look. “You’re an island-dweller and an electrician too?”

  “No to the electrician part.” Jane rummaged through her purse, searching for her keys. “But I’ve found that if I speak very kindly to my fuse box, it will often do what I ask it to.”

  “And when it doesn’t?” Paul asked, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “Pounding on it is sometimes equally effective.” Jane pulled her keys out and held them up. “Success. And as for the island-dweller part—don’t think you’ve met a rich girl. Last year our agency listed a cottage that had been severely fire damaged. The owner just wanted to dump the place, and I loved the property, so I lucked out and got it. The cottage is still a mess—it passed inspection, barely—but that’s about it. The whole inside needs to be redone, but the yard is gorgeous, and the view . . .” Jane paused. “Well, you have to climb up on the roof to see anything. Someday I’ll build a deck up there, but the view is breathtaking. On clear nights I can see across the bay to the Seattle skyline.”

  “You don’t happen to have a telescope do you?” Paul asked, hopeful.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “I mean, with that great view, it would seem the logical thing.”

  “I don’t even have a deck yet—just a rickety old ladder I climb for occasional roof-sitting. It’s enough to let me count the stars.”

  Jane stopped at her car, parked next to his in the small lot. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon—evening,” she amended, looking up at the sky. “I’ll meet you at the hospital anytime. Just let me know when.”

  “I’ll call you,” Paul said.

  “Great.” Jane opened her door and got in.

  Paul waved as she drove away, then stood, hands in his pockets, staring after her until she’d turned the corner out of sight.

  Something about her had changed over the course of their afternoon together. She’d lost the ponytail hours ago, and in the damp Seattle evening, her hair had curled naturally around her face, perfectly framing luminescent brown eyes. He realized, quite suddenly and happily, that she wasn’t bad-looking at all. In fact, apart from her striped toenails, she was really very pretty. That was good. Pete liked pretty. Paul wondered what else there was about Jane that his brother might find appealing. He imagined there were quite a few things. Maybe this whole idea wasn’t so crazy after all.

  Counting stars. It’s not astronomy, Pete, but it’s a start.

  * * *

  “I’ll call you,” Jane grumbled under her breath as she grabbed a shovel from her garden shed. “Famous last words.” She slammed the shed door shut and marched around to the front of the house. It had been four—nearly five—days since the strange and delightful afternoon she’d spent with Paul.

  Four days without a single phone call.

  “Men,” she fumed as she thrust her shovel into the ground. Levering the blade with her weight, she pulled back, scooping a generous amount of dirt over her shoulder.

  “Noncommittal, emotionally draining, selfish, insecure, egotistical, shallow-minded, oppositionally defiant—” The litany of psychology terms continued as she dug. She may not have graduated, but it was times like these that she recalled with clarity the many case studies she’d written papers about. She jumped on the shovel again. “Narcissistic, antisocial, delusional, anxiety-producing, developmentally delayed. So delayed they don’t know how to use a phone,” she muttered. “Why are they never any different?” Certain she would never know the answer, she threw her anger and energy into twenty minutes of vigorous digging.

  Finished with the task but still agitated, Jane finally tossed her shovel aside and stormed up the front steps and into her house. She headed for the kitchen, pushing the play button on her answering machine as she walked by the phone. But, of course, there were no new messages. She’d had the phone outside with her all morning.

  After pouring herself a glass of lemonade, Jane returned to the front yard. The two holes were dug now—at least her frustration had amounted to something—and she could plant the rose topiaries she’d purchased in celebration of the Sweviecs’ offer being accepted.

  But even the thought of the two new trees flanking her walkway didn’t have the brightening effect on her mood it should have. Tired and dejected, Jane sat down on the crumbling ste
ps and wondered for the hundredth time what had gone wrong.

  She rested her elbows on her knees, head bent forward as she threaded her fingers through her hair, removing dirt. In her mind, she went over the afternoon with Paul, but nothing had changed since she’d replayed it the previous twenty times. She’d think it was all some bizarre dream except . . . Except she’d never forget what it felt like holding little Madison. It was all she’d thought of for the last five days. It was all she could think of now.

  So why hadn’t he called?

  Surely he’d been back to the hospital at least once since Tuesday. He’d told her he went almost every day.

  The hospital.

  A sick feeling erupted in her stomach. What if—while she’d been fretting and then ranting and raving that Paul hadn’t called—what if that whole time he hadn’t been able to call? The man had cancer, for heaven’s sake. Jane rose from the step and went into the house.

  How bad was his cancer? She didn’t really know. He’d seemed okay—except for his obvious fatigue, and she’d chalked that up to worry about his children more than anything else.

  Jane grabbed her purse off the table and headed outside, convinced that something terrible had happened. Something she should have tuned into much sooner.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jane sat in her car, waiting for the ferry to dock. She dialed Paul’s number again and was not surprised when his answering machine picked up after the fourth ring. This time she decided to leave a message.

  “Paul, this is Jane—from the hospital the other day. Tuesday, actually. And since that was four days ago, and you told me you go to the hospital every day, and you haven’t called me . . . Well, I just got worried that maybe something happened to you or your babies. So even if you don’t want to see me again, could you please call and let me know everyone is okay? And if you ever need any help—well, I just wanted to let you know that I really enjoyed holding Madison. It was the best thing I’ve done in a long time.”