by Janet Dailey
The first person I saw . . .
Dr. Jace Rios.
When Jace saw me, he instantly smiled, gently, welcoming, and I was so touched my breath became stuck in my throat. I wanted to pirouette right into that man’s arms and rip off his white coat. I must have looked frightful, though, because his expression instantly turned to deep concern. He ran over to me.
“What happened?” His voice was sharp and he put an arm around my waist as I teetered like a drunken sailor, the floor rollicking.
I leaned heavily against him and shut my eyes against another swell of pain. “I can’t believe it. I was up on the ladder to get into the hayloft . . .”
“You were what?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Why were you on a ladder? You have stitches in your leg.”
“I wanted to see the hayloft, and the ladder broke—” I winced. “I believe that I won the fight with the ladder. The ladder is now destroyed.”
“And your leg?”
“Part of the battlefield. The bruises on my ankle will soon be as lovely as the bruises on my thigh. I’m looking forward to an exciting blend of colors.”
“You’ll match. Right and left legs, both in various shades of blue, purple, and green, with some red thrown in. Perhaps you should stay off ladders and away from horses.”
“Perhaps. Maybe I’ll take up knitting.”
“If you can keep the needles from poking you, it might work.” He shook his head at me, those intelligent, intense eyes looking deep. “Let’s go, Allie.”
I was in the hospital room a long time. Jace took out every one of the splinters imbedded in my leg. The X-ray showed that my ankle was not broken. It was badly bruised, swollen, and truly ugly.
The X-ray did not show anything about my heart because my heart didn’t get X-rayed. I am sure it would have shown it was broken, though, yes, I am. Even after all these years . . .
“Here’s your coffee. I poured whipped cream in.” Jace handed me a chipped coffee mug, then sat down about two feet away from me on my dad’s worn gray couch, my mother’s red-and-white flowered quilt beneath us. I made a note to buy myself mugs without chips.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled, and I couldn’t move, those dark eyes straight on me, intense but cheerful, happy, as if he was glad to be here. Glad to be with me.
It was late morning; Jace had finished his shift at the hospital. He’d asked me, while holding my swollen ankle on his lap, plucking out splinters, if he could come over and check on me later in the day. I had resisted, then I’d melted. I needed him out of my life because our past was an alarming mess, I was a mess and my grief over my dad made me messier, and somehow my dad’s death was bringing up my mom’s death, making me a black cauldron of confusion and not a little anger.
But I wanted him. I wanted to talk to him. I knew it would get my heart even more bent out of shape, but I said yes. I told myself I would talk to him, this one time, and that would be that.
He had helped me out to my car at the hospital; I leaned on his arm, and he strapped me in. I had refused a taxi that he offered to pay for. When I got home I showered, washed my hair, and put on clean jeans, a pink push-up bra, a white lacy camisole, and a white sweater with a deep V. I put on silver hoop earrings, silver bracelets, and perfume that smelled like roses and vanilla. He had seen me, not once but twice, looking as if I’d rolled through hay and taken a dive into a pig’s trough. This time would be different.
Jace had arrived with flowers, a bag of coffee beans, and whipped cream. He looked so darn cute holding those flowers, I couldn’t stop smiling. Ah, Jace.
I smiled into the chipped blue ceramic coffee cup. “I’ll admit to being a tad embarrassed about drinking whipped cream in my coffee.”
“Why be embarrassed? You like whipped cream in your coffee. You like swimming in lakes at night, biking for hours, Jane Austen and crime thrillers—which you sometimes read concurrently—locating the constellations at night, and puzzles.”
I laughed, although I didn’t do puzzles anymore. That’s what Jace and I did together. Too painful to do on my own. “You remember.”
“Yes, I do.”
“And I remember that you also like swimming at night, biking for hours, and crime thrillers. Not so hot on Jane Austen. I remember that you like reading medical textbooks for fun, hiking, and photography—especially of wild animals in Yellowstone that you got too close to.”
He laughed, low and rumbly. “Remember that grizzly bear . . .”
And we were off and chatting, all about the summer we worked at Yellowstone. The animals, geysers, waterfalls, hiking trails, Mammoth Hot Springs, camping. Darn. Why was he so charming?
While we were talking he examined both my legs again, then made us scrambled eggs and toast. “Have you spent a lot of time outdoors in the last years?” he asked.
“No. Mainly I’ve worked. I do bike.” I could never give up biking. Biking leaves my problems in the dust, at least temporarily.
“That’s funny. It’s the one thing I do still, too.”
“It’s traveling on two wheels,” I said.
“A mini vacation.”
“The way to see details in nature. You can’t get that in a car.”
“The air smells better when you’re on a bike.”
I tried not to stare at him, but he was all man. Huggable shoulders, lean but not skinny, rangy and muscled. It was almost surreal that he was here. Before all of the other stuff happened, we never would have sat apart on a couch. We would have been together, close, soon naked. Loving and laughing. We would have been threading our fingers together. Kissing all the time, a roll here and there, Jace’s muscular arms picking me up and putting me exactly where he wanted.
I felt old all of a sudden. Old, as if joy had passed me by, love had passed me by, chance and luck had passed me by.
“So, this is your dad’s place.”
“Yes. I recently cleared out a houseful of junk.”
“What are your plans for the house, then?”
“I’ll sell it. But currently I have no job. I had a condo in the city, but my agent listed it, we had a cash offer, and everything went really fast. I sold the furniture to the new owners and packed up.” I hadn’t liked the furniture. It was cold, modern, and hard edged. I think I used it to hide behind, too, as I did with my fancy-schmancy clothes. The better the furniture, the farther I would be from our trailer.
“I thought I would come here until I get my life figured out, and get a new job. Plus, there are animals all over that I have apparently inherited. Two dogs, as you can see”—Bob and Margaret were at our feet, snoring—“two cats, two horses, and a rooster that is stubborn and fearless.”
“It’s beautiful out here.”
“It is. It’s serenity and peace, all mixed up between the hills and mountains. I even have a little stream out back that runs behind my apple orchard. I can hear birds. I can hear the horses neigh. I can hear the wind and the raindrops. I can hear silence.”
“It rests my brain.”
I laughed. “Yes, it rests my brain, too. You moved from New York, then?” I knew he had.
“Yes.”
“How do you like living here in Oregon?”
“I love it.”
“Are you planning on staying?”
“Yes.”
I nodded my head. “Have you found a place to live?”
“Yes.”
“A house?”
“Yes, on land in the country. No red barn, though, like yours.”
“That’s great, it really is. You always wanted to live in the country.” He had talked about it at length. He wanted to get married, have kids, be a doctor, and live in the country. He had never wavered.
I wanted an education and a pile of money in savings so I would never again have to worry about whether or not I had enough cash and a big-enough coupon to buy macaroni and cheese. I wanted to become someone who didn’t have to fake being courageous and strong. I wanted to become some
one who didn’t come from a scary trailer and had to hide in an apple orchard.
But I had wanted Jace most of all.
“I like having land to walk on.” His fingers, those capable fingers that took care of countless people, in countless critical situations, tapped his coffee cup. “After I operate during the day, or sew someone up, get someone through a traumatic event, I always thought it would be good to come home to a place in the country where there are sunrises and sunsets you can see, uninterrupted land in every direction, nature, animals, and a close-up view of the seasons.”
“It’s ironic, isn’t it? Here we are, in the country, years after we first met, sitting in a house my dad owned.”
“I like this.” He smiled.
“You like it?” I chuckled.
“I do. I like that we’ve met up again, Allie.”
I did, too. Even though nothing would, or could, come of it. “It’s odd that we’re talking like we’ve been together . . .” I stopped and choked back those years and tears. “I mean, not that we’re together, together as in a couple”—oh, be quiet—“I mean, we’re talking as we’ve always talked, and that’s . . . surprising.”
He leaned forward, so close, too close, his elbows on his knees, and my breath caught. “It’s always been like this between us. Why would it be different now?”
“Because—” I pulled back my hair, my hands jittery. “Because we’re not who we used to be. We’re not us.”
“We are us. We’re different people than who we were. But that doesn’t mean that our basic personalities have changed. You’ve recently been kicked by a menopausal horse and you fall through ladders, and I deal with a lot of blood and guts, but it’s still us.”
He smiled, a relaxed smile, his face so lovable to me, so familiar and yet different. The years had made him even more appealing, and I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and kiss him that first day in the hospital, and I still did, preferably with my heels hooked around his back . . .
“I’m still Jace, you’re still Allie.”
“Yes, you’re the Jace who can talk a young man who is high on something into getting care and help, who can handle any emergency, and look good doing it.” I blushed. I had not meant to let that last part pop out.
He grinned. “Well, being handsome is the most important thing when I’ve got my hands in someone’s chest cavity. I’m sure it’s most important to the patient, too. Whenever someone’s been in an accident, the first thing they yell is, ‘Get me the best-looking doctor you can.’ ”
Jace had always had a wicked sense of humor. Tough face, and then he’d crack a joke. “I’m sure your handsomeness is what you think of every minute when you’re sticking a tube down someone’s throat.”
“Oh yes,” he said, his voice deep. “My rampant beauty. Is my hair brushed? What about my shirt? Is it ironed perfectly?”
We laughed together. Jace was the least vain person I’d ever met. He’d shower, dry his black hair with a towel, and he was done. We talked and chatted, drank more coffee. I pushed out all of the trepidation I had felt about seeing him, and I enjoyed him, every single minute of it.
“One more thing, Allie.”
“Oh no. What is it? You have a harem. You’ve grown a tail. You’re moving to Swaziland to learn a new language.”
“No harem. One woman is perfect for me. I don’t think I have a tail. No move to Swaziland.” He smiled again, and I could not look away from him. We sat where we were, everything else gone, the old house receding, the bad memories, my rage at my dad . . . and I tried to restrain myself from jumping on him.
“I told you that I bought a place.”
“Oh yes.” I shook my head and tried to cool my lusty thoughts. “Where did you buy your home?”
“I bought thirty acres and a house.”
“Wow.” I smiled. “Congratulations. That’s incredible. Good for you. You have what you’ve always wanted, then. Did it come with cats, dogs, horses, and an obnoxious rooster? Would you like my dogs, cats, and horses? Please take the rooster. I beg you.”
“I’ll take them. My house didn’t come with any animals. There’s a bridge over a stream, the house has a hot tub, and there’s also part of an apple orchard on it, just like here.”
“Maybe you can teach me about apple trees, then.”
“I’ll learn and let you know.”
“Where is it?”
He clasped his hands together, his gaze not wavering. “Allie, I knew you were in Portland when I applied for the job here, then moved from New York. It was why I wanted to be here. I wanted to see you again. I was going to call you, but I’ve only been here a few weeks, and I wanted to move into my house and get settled before I did. I wanted to show you what kind of life I had, but honestly, I didn’t know that you were here in Schollton.”
“How could you? My dad only recently died. The property is in his name. He only bought it five years ago.” And why was it an issue?
“I didn’t research the property owners around me before I bought my land, I promise you that.”
“Of course you didn’t. Who does that? But what are you talking about?” My hands started to get cold.
“I looked around for quite a while, but then when I saw what it looked like out here, when I found the house, it was perfect, and I bought it.”
“Jace, where is your place?” My knees started to shake.
“Look out those windows.”
I looked out my front windows.
“Do you see that house on the hill?”
I nodded. The Craftsman-style home with the decks. Gorgeous architecture.
“That’s mine.”
Chapter Five
I stared at the urn, filled with my dad, functioning as a doorstop.
That probably wasn’t a respectful way to use my dad, but I needed to prop the door open in the second bedroom, and the urn was doing the job. In essence, then, my dad was currently opening a door. He had opened so few for me over the course of my life, so perhaps it was fitting that he do so now.
Anger and bitterness started creeping on in, so I put my hands on my legs and stood up—gingerly. My legs were still a bruised mess.
I took Bob and Margaret outside for a walk. Bob took off after a dastardly squirrel and Margaret followed, tongue wagging.
Spot the Cat and Marvin walked along the fence line together. They were friends. I would have to find them good homes. I would have to stop getting attached to all of them. That was hard when Bob and Margaret slept with me on the bed and both cats meowed at me as if we were friends having a normal conversation. When I meowed back, I knew I was losing it.
And what about Mr. Jezebel Rooster?
I took a deep breath. My dad’s animals sure were cute, even if he sure wasn’t.
My father had never liked animals. I had seen him kick two dogs. Yet these animals were obviously well cared for and personable. I didn’t get it.
I headed into the apple orchard and wandered among the trees. I wondered which tree it was that my dad had leaned against as he’d had his heart attack. I wondered how he’d felt. Was it instant? Did it take awhile to die? What did he think, staring up into those apple trees? Did he have regrets?
When I was a girl I used to steal apples out of an orchard near our trailer because there was often no food at home. I’d take some for dinner, for snacks, and to pack in my lunch bag. I brought two apples to school so my lunch bag would look as full as the other kids’ sacks. They would take out their sandwiches wrapped in plastic bags, fruit, two types of chips, cookies. Clearly their parents had lovingly packed their lunches.
I would take out two slices of bread with a thin layer of peanut butter or jelly—rarely did we have both at the same time—two apples, and crackers, if we had them. I looked forward to class holiday parties like other kids looked forward to Christmas, because of the cookies and cupcakes.
I knew there were free lunches at school for poor kids, but that would have required my d
ad to fill out paperwork, and he had refused to do it, yelling, “I am not going to take charity, you stupid girl. We don’t need it—now shut up!”
I was often hungry, but I didn’t want the other kids to know we were poor, either. He had rammed it into me that I was part of the problem of him not having money. He had rammed it into me that I was a burden, difficult, stupid, unwanted, and part of the conspiracy my mother had waged against him.
My dad always laughed at how many apples I could eat, but his laughter ridiculed me. I didn’t find it funny. Being hungry is never funny. He told me my face looked like the core of an apple. Hello, apple-core face. I never forgot that. He also said to me, Your brain is about the size of apple seeds.
I often went to sleep by myself in our trailer. My dad always said he was Going out for a short while, be back before a bullet could pierce that there tree. That meant he was going out drinking. He did that all the time. Money for beer, no money for food. The dark outside scared me, and I was usually freezing cold and hungry. I would grab my two blankets and settle in on the skinny bench in our trailer that served as my bed.
The outside noises—the rustling of an animal under our trailer, probably a raccoon, terrified me. Sometimes I’d hear people yelling at each other in other trailers. Cars backfired. People came in and out at odd hours. I always pulled the brown-haired doll with the yellow dress my mother made me close to my chest and went to sleep.
I moved back in with him when I was eleven, after my mom died, and he forgot my twelfth birthday. When I got home from school he was passed out on his bed, black hair back, scars prominent. I asked him where he got the scars one time and he shook me hard and told me never to ask again.
I made a “cake” for myself by slicing up apples in the orchard and piling them together on a paper plate like a layer cake. I sang myself “Happy Birthday,” thought of my mother, and cried the whole way through eating my cake. I was so lonely I couldn’t keep the apples down that day.
My dad sporadically remembered my other birthdays. One time he gave me a box of chocolates. He’d already eaten half of them.
