By Your Side

by Candace Calvert

  What was this?

  Macy’s smile did nothing to dispel the decidedly awkward moment. And Fletcher had no interest in playing detective.

  “Grabbing something to eat,” he explained to Rush, shifting back into gear after a car inched around them. “Looks like we’re holding up traffic.”

  “Yes.” The Beemer’s engine edged from its expensive, fluid burble to an impressive whine—Rush’s shoe leather goosing the accelerator. “Well then . . . enjoy your evening.”

  “Same to you.”

  Macy said nothing more as Fletcher pulled forward and headed toward the hospital exit. She’d crossed her arms, making him wonder if he should be prepared in case she changed her mind about dinner and bailed out of the Jeep.

  “Careful,” she warned, pointing to a man on a bicycle emerging from the Jeep’s blind spot. He looked to be early forties, with a beard, gaunt features, and a knit hat pulled over straw-colored hair. “He’s not paying attention. In a hurry to get to the ER.”

  “How do you know?”

  “See the bandage on his arm? Piece of an undershirt tied on with a bandanna, dripping wet from trying to stop the pain. A burn, I’d bet. Second degree. From a car radiator or—”

  “A campfire,” Fletcher suggested, thinking once again that their work paralleled. Similar encounters and observations, different points of view. “See the bedroll tied to his backpack? All those layers of clothes? Homeless, I’d say.”

  And there it was again. That enigmatic look on Macy’s face. She went quiet.

  Fletcher waited for the man to cross to the hospital sidewalk and then continued on to the parking lot exit. He flipped on the Jeep’s turn signal.

  “Let’s go the other way,” Macy told him, sitting forward in her seat. “North. And then to I-5. Old Town—the riverfront. Have you been there?”

  “A few times. But not to the restaurants.”

  “I know a place with great salmon.”

  “Works for me.” He was glad to see her start to smile. “Do they bring that to our table already cooked? Or will you have to suit up and kick it into submission?”

  Taylor exited the elevator at the first floor and checked her watch. Barely four thirty. She’d hoped to have a visit with Charly Holt, but apparently the day’s activities—including removal of that miserable but effective nasal packing—had tired her out. Taylor was glad she was getting some rest. Whether that good woman wanted to believe it or not, she’d probably gone back to chaplaincy work too soon after completing her chemo. Taylor thought of that last activation: the death notification. Her first time, and Charly had been more than understanding. She’d even praised Taylor’s handling of the situation, though they’d come up empty-handed at that foreclosed home.

  “Uh, miss . . . which way is out?”

  The bearded, middle-aged man, a tall and rangy blond, appeared from out of nowhere—chest laid half-bare by the hospital gown drooping over one shoulder. He carried a large backpack by one of its straps. His other arm, bicep to wrist, was dressed with thick layers of Kerlix gauze. “Do you know where the doors are?”

  “Where do you want to go?” Taylor asked, fairly sure he was trying to find somewhere to use his phone or sneak a smoke. The Hope hospital sprawl could be a confusing maze to the uninitiated.

  “Back outside—by that bike rack. The way I came in.” The man groped one-handed for the ties to the gown. His remaining clothes, good-quality hiking boots and cargo pants, were dusty and reeked of woodsmoke. Camper maybe, or tending a burning brush pile on his rural property.

  “There’s a bike rack outside the emergency department.” Taylor started to point in that direction but hesitated. “Is that where you came from? The ER?”

  “Yeah. But I’m finished there—bandaged up. Just need my bicycle.” His gaze darted down the corridor, expression anxious. “I need to go.”

  “Did you get your aftercare instructions?” she asked gently, wondering if they’d really discharged him in that gown. Something wasn’t right. No obvious odor of alcohol, but . . . “If you want, I’ll take you back there so we can check on—”

  “No,” the man blurted. “You’re not listening—never mind! I’m going.” He yanked at the hospital gown hard enough to snap the ties. Then flung it to the floor and took off in long, clumping strides down the hallway.

  No way Taylor would try to stop him. Maybe he really had been discharged and simply couldn’t find the exit. She scooped up the discarded gown and then saw the p.m. clinical coordinator, Beverly, rounding the corner from the ER.

  The woman eyed the rumpled gown with an immediate grimace. “Let me guess: my AWOL patient.”

  “Fortysomething, dirty blond, built like the Wizard of Oz scarecrow? With a big dressing on his arm?”

  “Yep.” Bev sighed, sweeping her fingers through her short, steel-gray hair. “I really don’t want to start this shift with a patient elopement report. I’m tempted to let it ride; I already discussed the burn aftercare with him. He thought maybe his last tetanus was less than ten years ago, but . . .” The veteran nurse shook her head. “I think the poor man could use a psych consult.”

  Taylor glanced down the corridor.

  “He said he was camping with his father,” Bev explained. “But I got the feeling he’s a transient—not that that situation makes him crazy. He got really nervous when we were dressing his arm, though, and insisted on reading all the labels: the saline bottle, surgical soap, and then the Silvadene cream. He kept asking where it was all manufactured—if they were US companies. Then he wanted to know who had installed the bedside monitoring equipment. Pretty anxious about that. And when I started to give him the tetanus booster . . .”

  “He booked out of there.”

  “Yep. Mr. Archer took off like . . .” Bev tossed Taylor a grim smile. “Like the Wizard of Oz scarecrow being chased with a fire torch.”

  Taylor sighed. “Maybe the community chaplains can help. Did he leave a phone number or an ad—?” She stopped, eyes widening. “Wait. Did you say his name was Archer?”

  “Ned Archer. Have you seen him before?”

  “Yes,” Taylor told her, amazed. Small, troubled world. “I mean, we tried to see him. There was a crisis chaplaincy call to his home. But he was gone. Evicted.”

  “Ouch . . . sad.”

  “It is.”

  Taylor peered down the hallway where the man had disappeared. It was even sadder than Beverly realized. She didn’t know the chaplain visit to Ned Archer’s house had been a death notification. This poor man couldn’t possibly have been camping with his dad. Her heart cramped at the memory of the confusing and painful fog she’d stumbled around in during the first weeks after Greg’s death. “I think we have a phone number for the neighbor. I’ll check again to see if she’s learned of a forwarding address.”

  19

  “IT’S A GREAT SPOT,” Fletcher told Macy, his blue eyes making another sweep of Rio City Café’s dining area. High ceilings, casually upscale decor—lots of wood, white linens, warehouse light fixtures, colorful local art—with an open view to the bustling kitchen and a fireplace. He glanced out the window, across a wooden dock and a short expanse of green river to the city’s landmark Tower Bridge. Fletcher shook his head. “Painted shiny gold. You folks take that whole California ‘mother lode’ thing seriously.”

  “Probably. But I heard it was more to match the dome of the state capitol,” Macy recalled, noticing how the ebbing sun lit short strands of Fletcher’s hair. Gold as the bridge he was teasing her about. “The bridge lifts in the middle,” she added, nearly dropping her last morsel of grilled salmon as she demonstrated with her fork. “To let the bigger ships through. I’ve watched it from here, and when I’m riding my bicycle, and from below too . . . in a sailboat.”

  Fletcher’s brows rose.

  “A friend’s boat.” She wasn’t going to tell him that Move It Offshore was the Rushes’ sailboat; she didn’t want to open up that conversation. Partly because of the uncomf
ortable moment in the parking lot earlier. There was no excuse for Elliot to go all parental like that. But mostly Macy didn’t want to discuss the reason she was involved with the Rushes in the first place. Because it all led back to the disconnected mess her life had been. Still was. She’d never shared all that with anyone and wasn’t going to start.

  “You were born in Sacramento?” Fletcher asked, spreading some apple-bacon relish over the last bite of his pork loin.

  “I’ve lived here most of my life,” she hedged, certain of what she’d suspected only moments after climbing into Fletcher’s Jeep: it had been a huge mistake to let her hunger—and admittedly some curiosity—put her in this situation. But she could handle it. Not that different from defending herself at the gym. “But I was born in San Francisco.”

  “Really? Amazing city. My parents’ Hawaii cruise started there.”

  “Ah.” Macy smiled politely, took renewed interest in a dab of sweet corn, all that was left on her plate besides the fork and knife. How would this man react if he knew the only cruises Macy and her mother had shared were moving the car they slept in from parking lot to parking lot? Time to switch topics. “Your parents had a FaceTime visit?”

  “Yes. My dad’s in Alaska, near Prudhoe Bay. He’s a geologist for an oil company. Hard for him to get back and forth until the job’s complete.” Fletcher’s forehead wrinkled. “That’s why I’m here, pinch-hitting for a while. Until Mom’s recovered.”

  “You must miss Houston,” Macy mused, sitting back as the waiter cleared their plates. “Your job there. And . . .” She remembered the photo on his mother’s phone. Fletcher and the beautiful young blonde. Regardless of what Charly said, that cozy shot looked more than neighborly. “And your friends,” she added.

  “I guess.”

  Did his eyes look sad? His shrug too forced?

  “Coffee?” Fletcher asked, raising his voice over a chorus of laughter and tinkling glass at the bar, just beyond. “And dessert?”

  “No dessert. Just hot tea.” Macy’s lips quirked. “Being dressed for the gym doesn’t mean this girl burned any calories. After we finish, we’ll just split the check and—”

  “No, ma’am. Not happening. I’ve got this.”

  Macy narrowed her eyes. “The last time you called me ‘ma’am,’ you were flashing a gun.”

  “You should keep that in mind.” Fletcher’s smile spread slowly. “Okay then.” He nodded for the waiter. “You’re dressed for it, and I can’t get enough of this not-Houston air, so we’ll walk off our dinner. Sound like a plan?”

  Macy dabbed the napkin at her mouth. “You’re the man with the gun.”

  “And you have two lethal feet. Neither of us should get too cocky.”

  Macy smiled. The cop had a point.

  Fletcher turned up the collar on his light jacket against the cool evening breeze, a miracle that had amazed him from the first week he’d moved to Sacramento. He smiled. The capital city was alternately dubbed Camellia City, River City, or City of Trees—these Californians couldn’t make up their minds to save themselves. But he’d take their delta breezes wafting off the Sacramento and American Rivers, sometimes dropping the temperature forty degrees in the heat of summer. It was a mercy that allowed folks to sit on their patios without sweltering and made the night feel crisp, like freshly ironed sheets instead of a wrung-out sponge. Breezes that sifted through a woman’s hair . . . like Macy Wynn’s right now.

  She strode, tall and confident, in a mesmerizing sway of that purple top over the black tights, down the raised boardwalks that lined the cobbled streets. Past the Delta King, a huge paddle-wheel steamboat–turned–floating hotel, then an old-fashioned candy store with floor-to-ceiling barrels of sweets, a comedy theater spilling music from its doors, and several touristy T-shirt shops—Macy covered ground like she was intent on creating her own breeze. Even six inches taller, he’d found himself lengthening his stride to match hers.

  “I still can’t get over it,” Fletcher told her as they sidestepped a huge display of Mylar balloons. “This night air you have here. I want to bottle it up and ship it to Houston—the cicadas wouldn’t know what to do with it.” He smiled at her, enjoying the way the streetlamps and shadows played with the planes of her face. “The people either. It could throw the whole culture into a tailspin. Folks walking and talking faster, like . . .”

  “Me?” She peered sideways at him. “Are you teasing me?”

  “Just stating the facts, ma’am.”

  She slowed a bit, shaking her head. “People always say that; I think it’s the ER nurse thing. Always moving, watching over everything, ready to manage chaos. It’s what I do.”

  It was. He’d seen it more than once. Out there on the freeway with that injured schoolgirl. With Dr. Carlyle in the parking lot today. And with his mother yesterday, moving like a stealthy cat around the trauma room, making sure things were done just right. “I admire that. You’re good at what you do. Even if you give me shin splints.”

  An old-fashioned carriage carrying several giggling children moved past, the horse’s huge feet clopping slowly along the cobblestones. Macy made an observable effort to walk more leisurely, close enough beside him that he caught the scent of almonds again. He fought an implausible and foolish urge to take her hand. It only proved she was right: he missed home . . . and Jessica. Though he could count on one hand the times, beyond childhood, they’d ever held hands. And now all she could talk about was some fool named Ben.

  “It’s the California State Railroad Museum,” Macy was saying. They’d reached the end of Front Street and stood at a large redbrick building.

  “My parents have been there a couple of times,” Fletcher remembered, glancing up. He squinted into the deepening shadows. “I guess there’s part of Old Town that’s underground?”

  “Taylor and I took the tour last year. This part of the city was originally about ten feet lower, and they raised it back in the 1860s. Lifted the streets up on jacks and rebuilt. Actually diverted the rivers.” Macy shook her head. “Amazing they could do that. There’s all these old brick walls down there. And storefronts. It was used mostly as storage, but some businesses moved underground after the streets were raised. A few brothels, a Chinese herbalist. The railroad drew lots of Chinese here.”

  Distant ancestors? Fletcher wondered, not for the first time. Macy’s features were definitely intriguing, but she’d never mentioned anything about her family.

  “Anyway . . .” She glanced toward the Sacramento River, close enough to smell its viscid green water on the breeze. “During the gold rush this was a busy little city. But too close to the rivers, so flooding was a huge problem.”

  “You don’t need to tell a Houston boy that floods can be wicked. They’re as common as cockroaches back home. We had a tropical storm last summer that spawned a small tornado—took my neighbor’s roof half-off.”

  “Jessica’s roof?”

  “Right. But how did you know about her?”

  “Your mother.” Macy walked a few steps to a mock-up of a mining cart. Leaned against it. “I saw that cute photo of the two of you on her phone. In costume.”

  Great. He was glad it was dark enough that Macy couldn’t see his face. He couldn’t believe they were talking about this. “Jessica and her sister lived next door to us for a lot of years.”

  “You’re close.”

  “Sure.” Fletcher settled against the cart. How could he explain it? “A big reason my folks chose the house was that there were lots of kids in the neighborhood. I don’t have any . . .” He hesitated. “My sister was killed about a year before we moved to that house.”

  Macy cleared her throat. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  And sometimes it felt like yesterday. The truck careening out of control, jumping that curb. Beth in the red wagon, the handle yanked from his hand so hard it tore his skin and slammed his chin onto the ground. That awful screech of metal shredding over cement. Beth’s si
ngle confused cry as she disappeared under the tires. His mother screaming and screaming . . .

  “A drunk driver ran up onto the sidewalk. Knocked us down like so many bowling pins.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer almost five years to the day later.” He shook his head. “We were all scared, but it was like she knew if she could handle what happened with Beth—trust God to get her through that—she’d beat cancer. And she did.”

  “Then she got leukemia.”

  “Yeah.” Fletcher frowned. “And now she has leukemia.”

  “Lousy deal.”

  “No kidding,” he agreed, “but you don’t tell Mom that. She’s sure there’s a plan for this too.”

  “You mean God’s plan.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You believe that?” Macy asked, studying his face. “That the God of the universe has some sort of cosmic spreadsheet with all of us accounted for? Each tiny human speck? Every trajectory?”

  Fletcher smiled, not surprised the ever-practical Macy would phrase it that way. “If you’re asking, do we matter . . . count? Then, yes, of course I believe that. And I don’t ever doubt that there’s a master plan—a hopeful one. That’s the promise. God, by our side in all things. But . . .” He sighed. “We don’t get to see that spreadsheet. Or know the timing. That’s where faith steps in.”

  “I don’t know.” Macy shifted against the cart, crossed her arms. “How long can you keep that kind of trust before you have to accept that you’re banging on the wrong door?”

  Fletcher didn’t answer. He told himself it was because of that age-old advice about avoiding religion and politics—he’d already tossed far more out there than he’d meant to. But the fact was, he’d give a whole lot to get a look at that divine spreadsheet right now.

  “I mean, if you don’t even consider the mess this whole world is in,” Macy continued, “maybe only look at this last week.” She raised her hand to count on her fingers. “The shooter on the freeway, Mrs. Harrell’s brain bleed, your mother, the dog today—did you see the photo of that deputy’s sobbing kids?”