Fletcher’s eyes held hers. “As long as that doesn’t include me.”
“You?”
Her skin warmed as he slid closer on the couch.
“You’re not done with me?” he whispered, watching Macy’s eyes.
“No.” She smiled slowly, very aware of the effect his closeness was having on her senses. “It’s not every day you meet a guy who can find a good burrito before sunrise.”
“Ah.” He smacked a fist against his chest. “Bold kick to the heart—score for the lady.”
“And . . .” Macy was surprised by the sudden quaver in her voice. “Someone who’s willing to take the time to get me. Maybe even be okay with who I am.”
Fletcher was silent for a while, watching her eyes. “It’s more than maybe,” he said finally, a mercy that allowed Macy to exhale. “I think you’re amazing.” He took hold of her hand, lifted it to kiss her fingertips. “And I think I’ll probably offer to paint that old house you’re buying—lug all your sister’s boxes in.”
“Fletcher . . .” Macy’s voice choked. He couldn’t have said anything more perfect. How could she tell him that? Let him know that, impossibly, he’d begun to make her feel hopeful about things in a way she’d never known before?
He crooked a finger under her chin. “When do you get back from Tucson?”
“I’m staying overnight; there’s a family apartment at the center. I arranged for it,” Macy whispered, realizing that almost as much as she felt the need to see Leah, she was already missing this man. “My return flight arrives in Sac tomorrow at 4:10.”
He kissed her forehead. “I don’t start work till three today. I can drive you to the airport. And I’m off tomorrow. So when I pick you up, we’ll go out to—”
“Elliot already hired an airport van. He has some sort of arrangement with the owner of the company.” He’d also insisted on using his air miles to purchase her flight. He’d been profusely apologetic and never once mentioned Fletcher’s name. She saw no point in rebuffing his kindness. Or provoking the issue by canceling on him now. “But I should be back here by five thirty at the latest. And—”
“You’ll be hungry.” His thumb traced her jaw very gently.
“A woman can’t live on airline pretzels.” She sighed as his lips touched her cheek.
“Can’t risk it then,” Fletcher whispered, the faint stubble of his beard tickling her skin. “I’ll make reservations. One of the guys told me about a great place overlooking Lake Tahoe.”
“Really?” she asked, leaning away. “Tahoe?”
He chuckled. “You can wear hiking boots with your skirt.”
She wouldn’t. But Fletcher seemed very okay with that idea, which was staggeringly wonderful. “Sounds perfect.”
“Great. That’s settled. And now . . .” Fletcher dipped his head low, and in less than a heartbeat his lips found hers. His hands slid to the back of her head, drawing her closer as the kiss deepened. Tender, warm . . . dizzying.
Macy didn’t care. Dizzy was fine—she only wanted the moment to go on and on. She needed to trust that happiness could really happen, that her heart was safe. She wanted to dare to hope, finally, that everything could be okay.
She stretched her arms around him, felt the warmth of his broad back through his shirt. And returned his ardent kiss measure for measure.
“They’re kicking me out,” Seth told Taylor, leaning against the doorframe of the triage office. “I talked the transporter into letting me out of the wheelchair in the lobby. I wasn’t going to risk a flashback to the last time I was in your fine department.” He grimaced and rubbed the front of his powder-blue polo shirt. “That cardiac monitor left some pitiful divots in my chest hair.”
“Ouch,” Taylor said, wrinkling her nose. It was good to see Seth upright again. Beyond the stubble of auburn-brown beard growth and some shadowy lines of fatigue around his eyes, he looked no worse for wear. Downright handsome, according to several floor nurses. Taylor would tend to agree. And Seth’s humor was intact, always a positive sign. “Can I assume this means you passed your treadmill test?”
“Flying colors. Well, more lumbering than flying.” He scraped his big palm across his hair, lifting a thatch that left him looking disarmingly boyish for a man pushing forty. “Finding my running shoes—and making some time to fill them—is on my new to-do list.” He flexed his knee. “You probably wouldn’t believe it, but for an old guy with a limp, I used to log some serious miles.”
“I believe it. I think you’d accomplish anything you set your mind to.” Taylor smiled, meaning it sincerely. “All the while giving everyone else the credit.”
“Well . . .” He shook his head, then met her gaze. “That’s why I stopped by here. To say thanks for all you did for me yesterday. I probably gave you a hard time, but I appreciate it, Taylor.”
“I . . . You’re welcome,” she told him, knowing he’d call her on it if she pulled the modesty card. The man practically read minds. “Even though I was a contributing factor, since you ate that molten fudge brownie just to make me feel better.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” His laugh ended in a groan. “I should know better. Half of what we tell our crisis survivors about dealing with stress has to do with taking care of themselves. You know the drill: eat right, get enough sleep, exercise . . . do the things that make you feel good.”
“A case of ‘Chaplain, heal thyself’?”
“Can’t just talk the talk.” He glanced out toward the hallway to the waiting room. “Am I holding you up with triage?”
“No worries; they’ll signal me.”
“So yeah,” Seth continued, “I’m going to pay better attention to things, make a list of where I can cut back.” He caught the reflex pinch of her brows. “Not with California Crisis Care. That’s too important to me. In fact . . . I’ve been asked to head up some training in San Diego.”
Taylor stared at him. There was no way he could know she’d been considering—
“It could work; it’s not like Donovan’s Uniforms can’t run without me. I’ve got an assistant manager at the Midtown store who’s been shouldering a lot of extra work since Dad was forced to cut back.”
“Because of his emphysema.” Taylor had seen the man visiting Seth, carrying a portable oxygen concentrator over his shoulder. Similar coloring as Seth’s, same dark eyes. But thin, barrel-chested, with a grayish cast to his skin—the textbook picture of a COPD patient.
“Dad’s stubborn, but he’s doing his best to follow his doctors’ recommendations to ease up a little,” Seth confirmed. “Anyway, this Midtown assistant should have been promoted to manager a long time ago—doesn’t need me breathing down his neck. I could go to San Diego.” Seth’s eyes wrinkled at the edges. “Beach jogging . . . easier on the knees.”
“You’re going to move?”
“I’m going to commit to thinking about the teaching situation. It wouldn’t require a move, at least not outright.”
Taylor could only guess that his father’s health was a big factor. And maybe that alleged relationship with the CSI staffer? She wasn’t about to ask.
“I have family near La Jolla, not far from there.”
“Small world.”
The triage light flashed overhead.
“That’s my cue to make an exit.” Seth extended his hand. “Thanks. You’re good people, Taylor Cabot.”
She returned his warm handshake. “You too.”
He’d have to talk with her again about locking the front door; his mother had always been far too trusting. Fletcher halted at the doorway to the kitchen, the distant voices confusing him for a moment. Then he smiled: his mother and father on Skype, their voices blending together in that warm, laugh-peppered burble he’d heard all his life. He peeked in.
“Halibut,” she was saying. “In fish tacos, with cilantro, guacamole, and shredded cabbage, the way you like it. From the frozen fillets you sent.” She shook her head. “The doctor said more protein; he wouldn’t buy my sug
gestion that Thena’s pecan brittle was just as good.”
“Those blood tests . . . When is our next round?”
Our. Fletcher caught the thinly veiled worry in his father’s strong voice.
“I have blood drawn next week, I think. I’d have to check. I’ll let you know, John—I promise.” She touched the frame of the laptop gently with her fingertips, the way Fletcher had seen her touch his father’s face a thousand times. “We’ll be okay. I’m sure of it.” She chuckled softly, tipped her head like a flirting teenager. “Getting you back here is the best medicine. Even pecan candy is no substitute.”
Fletcher waited until they said good-bye and walked in as she was closing the laptop.
“Burglar,” he said, pointing to the front of his uniform. “Walked right in—the TV and Grandma’s silver are already in my van.”
“I didn’t . . . I did?”
“Practically wide-open.” He sighed, thinking there was no way he could take a hard line with this woman. “Working on that scrapbook again?” he asked after crossing the room to give her a kiss on the cheek. Stacks of photos, scissors, pens, indecipherable bits of artsy stuff. Fletcher picked up a photo and laughed. “Does Dad know you’re immortalizing his epic fail at ballroom dancing?”
“It was worth my broken toe. He tried it for me. It says a lot about the kind of man your father is.”
“What’s this?” Fletcher asked as Charly went to fill a coffee mug. He lifted a thin, stapled sheaf of papers from a stack of mail and read the first lines. “Reverse mortgage?”
“People do it,” she said, carrying the mug back to him. “Helen in our Houston neighborhood, Granny Astrid at church, and—”
“Old people,” Fletcher interrupted. “Widows and . . . You’re not really looking into this?”
“I don’t know.” She attempted a casual shrug that was about as successful as his father’s fox-trot. “Our real equity is in the Houston house, so we’d have to be living there to qualify.”
“Dad has at least another six months with this project. And your medical care is here, Mom. You couldn’t move back to Texas until—” His heart froze. “You’re not giving up on the treatment?”
“Of course not. I’m only being realistic, Fletcher.” Something in her voice sounded too much like the day they knew that baby mockingbird they’d rescued was dying. “I’m only considering options.”
“Like this, too?” Fletcher snatched an informational brochure from the mail pile. A glossy photo of an elderly couple in each other’s arms, under the heading Viatical Settlements: Selling your life insurance can buy you peace, comfort. He stared at his mother, confused. “What the . . . ?”
“It came in the mail. I thought I’d look it over.” She met his gaze. “It’s a way of collecting on an insurance policy early. A lump-sum payoff. And then an investor takes over the payments and becomes the new beneficiary.” His mother seemed to read the confusion on Fletcher’s face. “It’s a benefit that’s offered to people who are terminally ill.”
His stomach lurched. “Wait—no one’s said that. Right?”
“No.” She touched his arm. “No, the doctors haven’t said that. The information came in the mail. Right along with my Southern Living magazine. I simply thought there’s no harm in checking it out. It seemed . . . hopeful.” She glanced toward the laptop. “If things get worse, it might mean your father could be home. We wouldn’t have to burden you or—”
“Stop.” Fletcher raised his hand. “You’re doing okay—you’ve beaten this thing once. You’ll do it again. If it comes down to a bone marrow transplant, I’ll be set up to do that. No problem.” He turned the brochure over, anger rising. “Who sends this morbid stuff out, anyway? The doctor’s office, hospital . . . ?” His gaze dropped to the ink-stamp logo at the bottom of the page:
Elliot Rush Financial Services
36
MACY SHOOK HER HEAD, still surprised at the turn of events. “I expected that I’d be visiting you at the rehab center again. Not at . . . this apartment.” She refused to say “your apartment” or to bring up the boyfriend’s name. Even if his presence was everywhere in sight: Photos of the young couple on a shelf above the TV—he was cute, of course, sort of clumsy-puppy endearing. An acoustic guitar leaning against the futon where Macy had slept. Close to a dozen baseball trophies. Plus that pair of huge Nikes lined up next to Leah’s dainty sequined flip-flops. “You weren’t supposed to be discharged until Thursday, right?”
“I told them I had an appointment with a nurse-practitioner in the ob-gyn office.” Leah blinked up at Macy from where she’d sunk into a red plush beanbag chair. Her willowy and too-thin limbs, in a black tee and leggings, made her look like an upended ladybug. She nibbled at her dry breakfast toast. “I fudged a little. The appointment’s not until Wednesday.” Her eyes held Macy’s. “I guess I just needed to be back here. To think about it all, you know?”
“The counselors . . . they think you’re okay now?” Macy asked carefully. “On your own here?”
Leah planted her bare feet, pushed herself up higher, and set her toast on the coffee table. “Because I could have a stash of Lortabs in my sock drawer?”
“No. Of course not. I wasn’t thinking that,” Macy said quickly, hating herself.
“You were.” Leah’s pallor made her little-girl dusting of freckles even more apparent. “I would be thinking that if I were you. But don’t worry. They let me go because I did the program and earned their trust. It’s weird,” she said, voice suddenly soft. “I think I even trust myself now. I know I won’t do anything that hurts this baby.” Her fingers, nails polished a pale shell pink, brushed her flat belly as gently as if there were a kitten curled in her lap. Her eyes shone with tears. “I’m going to be someone’s mother, Macy.”
Oh, Leah. Macy slid from the futon to the floor, wrapped her arms around her sister.
“Remember when we talked before,” Leah whispered, drawing back a little, “and I asked you if you believed in a higher power?”
“I think so . . . sure,” Macy acquiesced, thinking only of the Southwest Airlines gift card in her purse. Getting Leah to Sacramento was even more important now.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Leah continued. “A lot. And about Nonni. She was the closest thing to a mother I ever had, you know?”
“I know.”
“And she and God, they were tight.” A faraway look came into Leah’s sleepy eyes. “Once she told me that God knew me before I was born. And he even knew the exact number of hairs on my head.” Her fingers traced a tiny circle on her belly. “The exact number. She said he loved me that much because I’m his child. We all are. Do you believe that?”
An ache rose in Macy’s throat. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the question or because they were talking about Nonni; right now, it seemed one and the same. “I think . . . it must feel really good to believe that.”
Leah was quiet for a few beats. “I want to believe my baby will be loved like that. That it can be different this time . . . starting there.”
Macy stayed silent, though with every fiber of her being, she wanted to shout that it was going to be different. Starting when Leah boarded that jetliner. And then walked onto the porch of their house, saw Nonni’s brass door handle and the backyard with the trees and roses. A real home—a place to study, laugh, and plan a future. A home that would soon be filled with childish squeals, bedtime stories, giggly games of peekaboo . . . and the scent of oven-warm oatmeal cookies. And there would absolutely be love.
Macy smiled, remembering her impromptu breakfast with Fletcher and his offer to paint rooms and tote boxes. “Leah?”
“Yes?”
“It is going to be different, better. I promise.”
Macy wanted so badly to talk about Fletcher. Explain how she was beginning to feel about him, the hope it was bringing her. She ached to share that wonderful news with her sister. But how could she do that when her most critical goal was moving Leah far away from
the man she loved?
Taylor checked the time on the triage computer: 3:20. The p.m. shift would be getting assignments from the clinical coordinator, a substitute today. Macy had asked for the day off, something to do with her sister. No one knew better than Taylor how readily family problems could demand priority. And make a person sleepless, even physically sick. Thank heaven Taylor was past that now. Despite her lingering questions about Greg’s death, she was long past the crippling effects of grief that interfered with work and—
“I’m here to set you free,” the p.m. nurse announced, arriving in the doorway. She hiked a thumb in the direction of the waiting room. “It looks fairly decent out there; nobody vomiting in a wastebasket or waving a weapon.” She raked her fingers through her hair, grimacing. “Probably not a good thing to joke about these days.”
“Probably not. But I’m going to trust you’re right.” Taylor offered her a smile, thinking that the nurse looked familiar somehow. Nearly as petite as Andi, but with burgundy-brown hair worn in short, soft spikes. Lavender scrubs with a Velcro tourniquet and a roll of tape hanging from her lime-green stethoscope. Despite her dark humor, she seemed a little anxious. Taylor glanced at her registry name badge. “You’ve worked here before, Ronda? Familiar with the setup?”
“Couple of times.” The nurse glanced back down the hall. “I’ll be okay.”
“Great.” Taylor smiled. “I’m caught up. Have a seat—” stop hovering, for goodness’ sake—“and I’ll fill you in on who we have out there. In a few minutes we’ll both be good to go.”
“Sure.” The petite nurse sat at last and met Taylor’s gaze. Her dramatic dark-fringed blue eyes prompted Taylor’s sense of déjà vu once again. “Go ahead. Fill me in.”
“Okay.” Taylor scrolled down the registration screen. “Our only priority patient was roomed ten minutes ago. That leaves you a two-year-old with a croupy cough per Mom; he hasn’t made a peep since they arrived. A woman, seven weeks pregnant, spotting this morning. Her OB’s been called. A retired dentist, seventy-six, with ear pain. Looked uncomfortable when he arrived but says it settled down. He and his wife just got off a plane from—”
By Your Side Page 23
