Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  Her phone buzzed with a text. She smiled. Micah had said he’d check in. He couldn’t have been two blocks away yet. She picked up her cell, realizing she hadn’t put his number into her contacts, and . . . Her stomach lurched.

  Paul.

  Call me. Have news.

  Sloane jabbed the Delete button. How was she ever going to feel new, clean and hopeful, with her ugly past stalking her?

  She shoved the Volvo into reverse, backed out, then cranked the wheel and sped away.

  16

  “NINETEEN CANDIDATES NOW.” Micah glanced at Fiona over the small printed sheaf of employee nominations, information carefully filled in under the campaign’s bold header:

  The Face of Hope. Maybe It’s You.

  The PIO had stopped by to offer him some of her mother’s gluten-free persimmon cookies—begged him to take some. She hated them but couldn’t bring herself to toss them out.

  “The candidates are mostly nurses,” Micah continued, “and two staff physicians, but there are some others, too: the woman who runs the dietary department, the discharge planner, and . . .” He touched the topmost paper. “Here’s one for a housekeeping supervisor.”

  “Nice diversity.” Fiona adjusted her glasses. “I ran into Howard Brill this morning and he mentioned something about his niece?”

  Brill was a hospital board member and his niece was a newly hired, newly licensed nurse. Micah decided not to say the board member had mentioned something to him, too. Apparently Brill, a prominent local businessman, was running his own side campaign.

  “Brittany Brill,” he confirmed, setting down the papers. “Newborn nursery.”

  “I’ve met her. And I could probably tell you her NCLEX scores, her weekly Fitbit steps, and her favorite foods.” The PIO shook her head, smiling. “Howard tried to get me to do a press release when she was hired. Proud uncle.”

  Nuisance was the word that came to Micah’s mind, but he’d keep that to himself too. He needed this job.

  “How long will you keep the nominations open?” Fiona asked, casually adding another lumpy orange cookie to the oily napkin on his desk. “You’re aiming for a spring announcement, right?”

  “Late February or early March. Billboards, video, posters, mailers, and a star-studded gala. Timed to coincide with completion of the first stage of construction for the new wing.” Micah tapped the stack of papers. “I’m taking nominations through October.”

  “And then there’s the interviews,” Fiona added. “FYI, my arm can be twisted to be on the panel.”

  “If I take these cookies off your hands.”

  Fiona smiled. “Everyone has an angle.”

  Micah laughed. “So I’m discovering.”

  “Well,” Fiona said, brushing crumbs from her fingers, “it’s a fabulous campaign. It should go a long way toward polishing up the community image of LA Hope.” Her expression looked sincere. “We probably don’t tell you often enough, but your efforts for this department are highly valued, Micah. Personally, I think you’re brilliant.”

  “Don’t go overboard—I’m taking the cookies.”

  Fiona sighed. “Brilliant and merciful.”

  When Fiona left, Micah turned his attention back to the campaign paperwork. He flipped through the printouts, thinking there would undoubtedly be more nominees; he’d done everything but spray-paint reminders on employee lockers. He was making steady rounds to all the departments, talking the campaign up. The winner would receive star treatment, media exposure, a significant cash award, a designated parking place, and hopefully a song from By Grace written in his or her honor. With those incentives there would be plenty of candidates to choose from. Micah would absolutely take Fiona up on her offer to be part of the interview panel; she was sharp, savvy, and fair. He liked what she’d said about diversity.

  And now he needed to decide on some essay questions for the finalists . . .

  Aside from your hospital work, what do you consider your true passion?

  If it were possible, what advice would you give your younger self?

  Micah laughed under his breath, thinking he’d have to amend that last one if Brill’s niece actually made the cut; her younger self would still be playing with LEGOs. Regardless, everyone had an equal chance to be chosen as the employee who “most personified the spirit and values of LA Hope.” As long as they passed their background checks and—

  Micah paused as he read the name of a nominee from the emergency department: Sloane Ferrell.

  She’d given no indication that she knew she was being considered for the Face of Hope. Micah’s best guess was she wouldn’t want to be. Sloane had made it more than clear in the incident with Zoey Jones that she wanted no publicity. He was grateful their relationship had moved past threats of lawsuits. Warmth spread through his chest as he remembered their time together on Saturday. He’d thought about it more than a few times over the last four days. And thought of calling her again but had held back. He didn’t want to come on too strong. After all, that she’d contacted him the other night had been more than a surprise. It had been great discovering new things about her. The quick wit—he smiled, remembering her silly imitation of a Valley girl—that she had a cat and had once been a flight nurse. And . . .

  And the way something about her made Micah want to talk, share. He hadn’t done that with a woman—with anyone—in such depth for a long time. He’d lain awake that night, thinking of what she’d said when he admitted to never putting words to his war experience.

  “You put yourself in that alley tonight. . . . I’m no journalist, but I’d say that’s worth a lot more than a series of war features.”

  Sloane’s words, the emotion in her voice, had touched Micah deeply.

  And when she’d taken his hand to check his fingertips for guitar calluses . . .

  He’d wanted to kiss her when they were standing in the parking lot in Little Tokyo. Not simply take her hand for a moment but draw Sloane fully into his arms, hold her close, breathe her in, and then kiss her thoroughly. He hadn’t wanted anything as much in a long time. But it was too soon.

  Micah had known women, knew them still, who’d be okay with moving fast. Women who’d make the first move themselves and be proud of it. That aimless year after he returned from the Middle East, he’d drifted from one non-relationship to another, his euphemism for what were more often than not one-night stands. And an excuse for promises he didn’t keep. It was like he’d traded military-issue Kevlar for a flak jacket against real intimacy. It was lonelier than being alone. And at complete odds with every value Micah had always held close. He didn’t want that anymore.

  Sloane Ferrell was complex, intriguing, and cautious. A strong woman with firm opinions and, from what he’d glimpsed, a caring heart. But she was protecting her heart like he’d protected his. Micah respected that and was willing to take the time to win Sloane’s trust. Get to know her better. He knew very little about her right now.

  He glanced down at the notes he’d been making about the timeline for background checks and the essay portion of the entry. He doubted Sloane would allow her Face of Hope nomination to go that far, but he had to wonder. How would she answer those questions?

  Sloane frowned, scanning the questions she’d inserted into her parole board statement. She’d been working on them since she got home from the hospital. This still wasn’t right. . . .

  Was my mother’s life worth nothing?

  Did you care what her death would do to me?

  Too emotional. Of course he didn’t care. Her stepfather cared about order, control, maintaining a tactical advantage, and running his home like it was simply one more garrison for Sergeant “Bulldog” Bullard. It hadn’t taken him long to discover that his beautiful, capricious, volatile, and too often melancholy wife was going to have a problem “shaping up, making muster.” That she came with a mouthy adolescent daughter who’d learned to trust no one was yet another obstacle.

  “You think you’re smarter than me? You t
hink you’re going to win this battle? Little girl, I’ve been to hell and back. You are just a rookie.”

  Their final skirmish left Sloane with a handprint on her jaw and the excuse she needed to shove a few things in a backpack and go AWOL.

  Her mother was dead barely three years later.

  Sloane closed her eyes, remembering her mother’s face, her touch, and the way she’d tenderly brush Sloane’s hair. Her breath would smell of mints, her voice a throaty soft slur. “Fifty strokes. They say it was a beauty secret of the classic film actresses. I don’t know. I only know that I love to brush my beautiful baby’s hair. . . .”

  Marty leaped onto the table, nudged Sloane’s chin, and began a purr that rivaled the Volvo’s engine. She stroked his silky fur. Adopting him was one of the few good choices she’d ever made. Both she and her mother had made far too many bad ones. And lately Sloane’s seemed determined to come back to haunt her. There had been no further message from Paul, but knowing it might come at any time had her constantly on edge.

  She glanced at her phone lying beside the draft of the parole board speech. How had he found her number? She’d shared so little information about herself, was practically living like a monk, and—

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

  “Sloane. It’s Celeste.” There was a giggle. “And Piper.”

  Sloane crossed the room, Marty trotting behind.

  “I hope we’re not disturbing you,” the landlady said when Sloane opened the door. Celeste was wearing her gardening clothes, a set of faded surgical scrubs she’d begged from a retired nurse friend. Complete with a scrub cap. “I wanted to see if you had some antibiotic ointment I could borrow.” She wrinkled her nose. “Grandma fail. If I’d run out of Fruit Roll-Ups, they’d have revoked my membership completely.”

  Sloane glanced down at Piper, busy petting Marty, who’d ventured onto the porch. “Did she get a scrape?”

  “No.” Celeste gestured toward the garden area. “It’s for Jerry Rhodes. He donated for the blood drive this morning, and the needle site was oozing a little. He said it was no problem. But I insisted he have a new bandage if he’s going to be working with dirt.”

  “He brought his dogs,” Piper announced, her eyes lighting. “Wiener dogs. I mean, doc-sunns.”

  Celeste smiled. “Long-haired dachshunds. So sweet and comical. They’re named—”

  “Gibbs and McGee,” Piper blurted, squeezing her hands together with obvious delight. “After the TV show. You know.”

  Sloane nodded. “I do.”

  She looked toward the garden and saw Jerry there. Cargo shorts, John Deere T-shirt, shovel in hand—and glancing their way. The nagging concern Sloane had felt before returned. “You knew Jerry from the hospital?”

  “No. He’s new there. He transferred from the Hope outpatient surgery center.” Celeste watched as Piper ran off in his direction. “Jerry’s taking on extra jobs to help with the cost of moving his wife’s mother out from Florida. They’re hoping to get her into the Hope senior living complex.” Celeste shook her head. “I was concerned I couldn’t afford to have the work done. But Jerry was like ‘No problem. Just pay me what you think it’s worth.’”

  “That’s . . . nice.”

  Celeste looked toward the work area, where a radio was playing country music. “More than nice. I needed help; he needed work. I’d say it’s more of a God thing than coincidence.”

  Sloane’s nod was polite. She had no clue about “God things,” but she was definitely rooting for coincidence. She didn’t want to think that Jerry’s being here had anything to do with her.

  “Oh, dear,” Celeste said. “Is it okay if Marty leaves the porch?”

  17

  “AAAGH, NO WAY!” Micah groaned, staring in disbelief as Coop’s wild rim shot was swallowed by the basket. He drew in a heaving breath. “You didn’t just make that.”

  “Did—hold the presses!” Coop laughed and staggered, shoes slapping the cracked asphalt, to recover the ball. His curly hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. “You now owe me street tacos and a beer.”

  “You mean you’re quitting?” Micah swiped his forearm over his face to keep the stinging salt from his eyes. They’d been at it for nearly an hour and his lungs were burning, but he wouldn’t let this reporter, at least four inches shorter, think he’d gotten the best of him. “Wimping out? Can’t last long enough to—”

  “Can’t watch a gone-soft corporate lackey die in front of my eyes. I’m far too humane.”

  “Right. Take the easy out,” Micah said with a smirk, telling himself that the “corporate lackey” jab wasn’t a three-pointer. And that fielding yet another e-mail from Howard Brill wouldn’t become a permanent part of his job. “I’ll let you have this one.”

  Coop walked toward him, basketball balanced on his fingertips. He glanced toward the sunset beyond the palms that lined the recreation pad of Micah’s condominium complex. “Seriously, I can take a rain check if you’re on call for the crisis team. Or, much better, have a hot date. Someone should have that.”

  “No. Nothing definite,” Micah said, Sloane immediately coming to mind. He hadn’t called her yet. Overthinking it, probably. Time to fix that. “But I can’t believe you’d pass up a free meal.”

  Coop’s eyes did that reporter-smelling-a-story thing. “I have something going with my research. I was thinking of taking my resource out for a drink.”

  “The organized crime thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There.” Sloane secured the gate on the small fenced side yard. Marty was already rolling in sun-warmed cedar mulch, his dark fur dusted cinnamon red. “He’s fine there. I’ve been letting him outside a little each day to sort of stretch his boundaries. But I think he’s better off behind the gate today.”

  “Because of the dogs,” Celeste said, finishing her thought. She glanced to where Gibbs and McGee, one a light tan and the other black with red, seemed to be happily competing for Piper’s attention.

  “What’s that she’s doing?” Sloane asked, watching as the child struck some dramatic poses alternating with dance steps. “It doesn’t look like her usual martial arts.”

  “Oh . . .” Celeste shook head. “Poor Jerry. She’s practicing her show routine.”

  Sloane’s stomach dived. “Show?”

  “Talent show. Though she’s not sure if she wants to juggle oranges or hula dance or—”

  “I’ll get that ointment,” Sloane interrupted, ducking back inside. “It’ll just take a minute.”

  “Thank you.”

  She walked the short distance to the bathroom, telling herself it was okay. A talent show wasn’t a beauty pageant. And even those were run far more responsibly these days. Plus, Piper’s mother wouldn’t take any risks with her daughter’s safety. She was a single mother but seemed to be handling things well. Celeste filled in the gaps.

  Sloane grabbed the ointment from the bathroom cabinet, fighting a wave of queasiness. It didn’t help that the last time she’d shared this ointment had been with Zoey. That infected scrape on her hip. Near the tattoo.

  PROPERTY OF . . .

  “You’re my little angel. You belong to me. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Sloane gritted her teeth and made her way back to the door.

  “Here you go.” She handed the things to Celeste. “There’s some Band-Aids too. Don’t worry about returning anything. I get samples from the drug reps.”

  “Perfect. Thanks again.”

  Sloane closed the door and returned to the table. She stared at her parole board speech without seeing a single word. Sergeant Bob Bullard was the horrible, angry man who caused her mother to drown. But at least he’d never . . .

  The shameful secret surfaced, gasping for air.

  Sloane had always worn white for the pageants. Head-to-toe white, sometimes with a halo her mother painstakingly fashioned from dozens of pearlescent pipe cleaners. It was secured with white bobby pins—the kind, her mothe
r said, that nurses used to pin on the caps they wore way back when. The pins pinched but they kept the halo on, and Sloane secretly liked the idea that she shared something with nurses. Graceful white feather wings—when Sloane was nearing six and her mother’s boyfriend Phillip came into the picture—completed the pageant ensemble. He tracked down the materials and hired a seamstress to make them, saying, in his soft, spellbinding Southern lilt, that “an angel needs wings, and anything that makes an angel’s mama smile is my purest pleasure.”

  Sloane’s mother did smile that year. Laughed, sang, danced in the kitchen, and bloomed like a flower in sunshine. It was as if Phillip’s attention erased the “friendly fire” sadness that had always been a part of their lives, their home. Sloane finally began to understand what family felt like. “Uncle Phillip’s” thumbs-up enthusiasm, not simply tolerance, for their pageant bond was like frosting on a cake they’d hungered after for far too long.

  Her stage name was Angel Aames, the double-A spelling chosen in hopes of getting Sloane to the top of the entrant lists. It worked. Time after time, Sloane, beginning at age three, had tiptoed onto stages first. Her trademark blend of “purity and playful pout”—soulful eyes, cherub lips, and a single wayward curl—included a lisping rendition of “Pennies from Heaven,” during which she tossed a few into the audience. She followed it with a wave that ended with her hands clasped in prayer position. In a crowded field of baton twirlers, cowgirls, acrobats, and tap dancers, Sloane was a sweet standout. But not often a tiara winner.

  Uncle Phillip vowed to change that. First with the wings, then with a few suggestions here and there to “sass it up,” and finally with hands-on coaching to help Sloane straighten her posture, cock her hips, roll a shoulder . . .