“She won’t hang up.” If she did, he would never forgive her. Samantha was headed in the right direction. He didn’t want her derailed. “She’s not that kind of person. Isn’t that the lesson here?”
Samantha fingered the phone for a long time. “Maybe I should wait.” He thought of the things he wanted to say to Rachel, things he should have said before, things he might never, ever have a chance to say. “Do it now, Sam. That’s a lesson we all have to learn. If you know something’s right, don’t let it go.”
SAMANTHA wanted privacy. Calling Lydia to grovel was hard enough. Doing it in public would be worse. So she walked to the end of the corridor and wedged herself in a lonely corner, and even then she hesitated. If Lydia refused to talk, she didn’t know what she’d do. But Rachel had given her a perfect excuse. The blood clot was something to tell Lydia. Lydia adored Rachel. All of Samantha’s friends adored Rachel. They thought she was the nicest, most interesting, most fun of the moms. Of course, they didn’t have to live with her.
Feeling guilty to have thought that, she pressed in Lydia’s number. When Lydia’s mother answered, Samantha’s throat closed. In that instant, she would have given anything to hear her own mother’s voice.
She cleared her throat. “Hi, Mrs. Russell. Is Lydia up?”
“Samantha! We missed you last night. I thought for sure you’d stop over. Did you have fun?”
Samantha’s eyes teared up. She debated lying, but she was too tired, too nervous, too needy. “No. It wasn’t … what I thought. Is everyone still there?”
“Shelly just left. I think Lydia’s in the shower. Hold on. I’ll check.”
Samantha turned in against the wall and waited.
“Yes, she’s in the shower,” Mrs. Russell said a little too brightly. “Is there a message?”
No Hold on, she’s getting out, no She’ll call you right back—either of which Lydia would have done the week before. “Um, it’s kind of important. My mom is worse.”
There was a gasp, then the kind of worried “Oh dear” that Samantha would never have heard from Pam, Heather, or Teague, let alone any of their mothers. “Hold on, Samantha.” She was an ally now. “Let me get her out.”
Samantha pressed her head to the wall. It seemed forever until Lydia’s voice came through. It, too, was worried, but there was a distance to it. “What happened to your mom?”
Acting as though nothing had ever come between them, Samantha told her about the clot and ended with, “She’s making an awful sound. It’s very scary.”
There was a silence on the other end, then a wary “Do you want me to come?”
Groveling sucked. If Samantha was willing to forgive and forget, she didn’t know why Lydia couldn’t. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“I want to if you want me to be there. Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
The line went dead before Samantha could say another word. The coward in her was relieved to be let off the hook. But the hook was still there, so she felt dread. She also felt humbled. Lydia hadn’t sounded young or stupid. She had taken the phone when she had every right not to. It remained to be seen how she would be in person, but maybe Jack was right. Maybe there was a lesson here.
She jumped when the phone in her hand rang. Thinking that Lydia wanted to say more, even reconcile there and then, she pressed send and was about to speak when a loud male voice beat her to it.
“It’s about time you turned on the fuckin’ phone, Jack. I’ve been leaving messages at every number you have, and you don’t call me back? We’re partners in this business, pal. You gotta carry some of the weight. I know Rachel’s sick and you have a lot on the brain, but so do I. The natives are getting restless in Montana. They hired an architect, they want some plans, and I don’t think they’re gonna like those new ones you faxed. What’s going on with you? Are we talking midlife crisis here? I’m getting the distinct impression you don’t care about work anymore. Tell me this is a temporary thing.” He paused, waited. “Jack?”
“This is Samantha,” she said, standing taller. “If you want to speak with my father, you’ll have to hold on.” Dropping the phone to her side, she walked with deliberate leisure back to Rachel’s room.
JACK saw her coming. He took heart from her composure, until she handed him the phone and said, “It’s David. He is … fuckin’ mad.”
He stared at her for the time it took to rake his upper lip with his teeth. Then he took the phone and stepped into the hall. “How’re you doin’, Dave?”
“I’d be doing better if I thought you just weren’t getting my messages. Why haven’t you called?”
“Rachel’s in the middle of a crisis.”
“What kind of crisis?”
“She’s having trouble breathing. She can’t get enough oxygen.”
“Where are the fuckin’ doctors?”
“Right here, but they’re doing all they can. We’re waiting. That’s all we can do.”
“Jesus.” He gave a long, loud sigh. “How long this time, Jack? When are you coming back on board?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not good enough. I’m trying to run a business. We need you here, Jack.”
“I can’t be there. Not now.”
“When?”
“I’ll let you know,” Jack ground out and turned off the phone.
When Samantha raised a fist and said, “Yesssss,” he smiled. It was a single fine moment in the middle of a mess.
KATHERINE had no intention of going to the Wharf for lunch. It felt wrong, with Rachel so sick. She wanted to be at the hospital, rooting, supporting, fighting for her right by her side.
But Jack and the girls were doing that, Jack surprisingly well. And they were family. Besides, she was hungry. She’d had nothing but tea all day.
There was still the matter of how she looked. The sweat suit was fine, but the hair? The skin? She prided herself on being a walking ad for her shop. She wouldn’t win many customers looking like this.
But this was Fisherman’s Wharf, the major tourist attraction in Monterey. She wouldn’t look any different from the average visitor. She might not gain customers, but she sure wouldn’t lose them. And she was hungry. By promising to be back in an hour with lunch for Jack and the girls, she made it a practical mission and easier to justify.
She went down to the front door, assuming that a CJ-7 was a snappy sports car. The dark green car that waited, though, was an old-fashioned Jeep, with a roll bar on top, neither roof nor windows, and what looked like tin for doors.
“Wow,” she said, fastening her seat belt first thing—second thing being grateful that her hair wasn’t loose. “Quite a car.”
He grinned. “Thanks.” He worked the stick shift, stepped on the gas, and the car headed out. “It’s an eighty-six. I had to look for two years. Then I found it in La Jolla. CJ means civilian Jeep. Know any Jeep history?”
“Uh, no. Beauty school doesn’t go that far.”
He laughed. “Neither does med school. Jeeps go back to World War Two—1941—when the army needed a reconnaissance vehicle that would go anywhere. Lore has it that the name Jeep is a derivation of GP—general purpose. The first CJs hit the road as early as forty-six. So there’s your trivia for the day.”
She had to admit there was a classic feel to the thing. The dashboard was metal—dark green to match the outside of the car—with chrome circling the dials. He touched that chrome once or twice. She couldn’t begrudge him the affection.
He took his time driving—enjoying the fresh air, she imagined, because she surely was. The May sun was relaxingly warm, the ocean air a far cry from the hospital’s sterility.
Despite his promise to make it quick, he parked a distance away. Katherine didn’t fault him on it, nor did she rush the pace as they walked to the Wharf. She figured she owed herself the leisure after two weeks of shuttling between work and the hospital. She figured Steve deserved it, too. Without the lab coat, he looked totall
y casual—sport shirt rolled up his forearms, old jeans, sneakers. She could have sworn he was taking the same reinvigorating breaths she was.
Tourists were milling in groups at the head of the Wharf. They joined one group that circled a tiny monkey who was stuffing his pockets with the quarters children offered, but Katherine could only watch so long. “I always feel bad for that poor little thing,” she murmured when they broke away and set off.
They passed storefront after storefront as they ambled down the pier. Had she been there alone, Katherine would have simply picked out a grill, ordered food, eaten, and left. But the ambling was pleasant, and the Wharf wasn’t long. They reached its end just as a bench opened up. Steve parked her there and left, returning several minutes later with cups of clam chowder, grilled-salmon sandwiches, and iced tea.
Katherine rather liked being waited on. She had spent so much of her adult life doing for herself that it was a treat. She ate every last bit of her portion, not in the least embarrassed, since Steve ate every last bit of his, and with the very same grinning gusto. Passing the bench on to another pair of eaters, they stood a bit longer watching a seal in the water. When they spotted a group of kayakers on the bay, he told her that he was a canoeist. She told him she had never learned to swim. He told her it was easy. She said that was nice. He told her she didn’t know what she was missing. She said she’d take his word for it. They smiled at each other, no offense taken either way.
Walking back up the pier, she bought sandwiches and chowder for the McGills. Steve guided her to the car.
He didn’t immediately start it, but turned to her and sat back. “Thanks. I needed that.”
Feeling safe enough, she smiled back. “So did I. Thank you.”
He looked out the windshield, pensive. Then he looked at her. “There. That didn’t hurt, did it?”
She laughed. “No, Doctor.”
“I’m serious.” She could see that he was. There was no humor in his eyes, just concern and that same vulnerability. “I know it’s hard to do things like play tourist on the Wharf when people you know are in Intensive Care,” he said, “but I live with people I know being in Intensive Care. Part of me wants to be back at that hospital watching Rachel. That part would be at the hospital twenty hours a day. So I make a concerted effort to leave. That thing about emotional involvement? I have to balance it somehow. Walking the Wharf helps. Canoeing helps. Gardening helps.”
“Gardening? Oh dear. I have a brown thumb.”
“I said that once, too. Funny, how resilient nature is. I do my best, and it may not be everything a plant needs, but it’s more than the thing would get without.” He stretched his fingers, palms to the steering wheel. “I kind of look at medicine the same way. Take Rachel. Thirty years ago, without drugs like mannitol and streptokinase, she would have died. Yes, I want her awake. I want her awake now. I do the best I can. It may not be everything she needs, but she’d be worse off without.” His eyes found hers and held for a silent minute. Then, quietly, he said, “I’m a good guy, Katherine. You can trust me.”
She knew he was talking beyond Rachel, and the air grew charged. She tore her eyes away, focused on her lap, then on a brick building adjacent to the parking lot.
“I’ve been divorced for ten years,” he said. “I’ve had it with dating.”
She chewed on her cheek.
“So if I come on faster than you want,” he continued, “it’s because I don’t see the point in beating around the bush when someone appeals to me. Few women have. You do.”
She put her elbow on the door and pressed her knuckles to her forehead.
“Say the word, and I’ll get lost,” he said.
She wanted to say the word, wanted to say any word, but none came.
“Either tell me to get lost,” he said without a bit of smugness, “or give me a kiss.”
“That’s not a fair choice.”
“Ask Rachel about fair. Look, I know the timing of this stinks, but I’m fifty-three. I’m too old to play games. Do you want me to get lost?”
She thought about that. There was something about him, something beyond those blue eyes and that fit body, that appealed to her, too. “No.”
“Then kiss me.”
She eyed him from under her fist. “Why?”
“I want to see if it works.”
“What a male thing to say.”
“And because I said it, you’re totally turned off.”
“I should be.” But she wasn’t, because it went two ways. If his kiss left her cold, she wouldn’t have to worry about the rest. They could be friends without the threat of anything more.
“Okay,” she said and looked at her watch. “One minute. Then we have to leave.” She leaned over and put her lips to his, moved them a little, backed off. “Am I doing a solo here?”
Smiling, he shook his head. He slid one hand around her neck and moved gentle fingers into her hair, slid the other around her shoulder in a gentle message that rose to her jaw before she could begin to fear it would head south. His hands framed her face. His eyes touched her lips. He took his time, moved closer, tipped his head, took more time. His mouth was an inch from hers when, with a less than steady breath, he drew back, faced front, cleared his throat, and turned the key in the ignition.
Katherine stared in disbelief. “What are you doing?”
“Minute’s up.”
She knew that, but her insides were humming. She would have been flexible on the time. “I thought you didn’t play games.”
Shifting in his seat, he headed out of the parking lot. “I don’t. It works. Wasn’t that the point of the exercise?”
“Works for who?” she cried. “Is that your idea of a kiss?”
“Oh, no.” His laugh was quintessentially male. “But it works, Katherine. Tell me you didn’t feel it.”
She jabbed a finger at her lips. “I didn’t feel a damn thing.”
He shot her one look, then, when she didn’t relent, shot her another. Seconds after that, he pulled over to the curb, took her into his arms, and without once giving her cause to tense up by going anywhere near her breasts, gave her a kiss that spelled trouble.
SAMANTHA stood beside Rachel’s bed watching the door. Her head was throbbing again, her stomach was twisting. Her wrist ached and her feet hurt. Going to school in the morning was unthinkable. She didn’t care if finals were coming up. She would make them up in the summer, when no one else was around. By fall, people would forget.
It was thirty minutes since she had called Lydia. Jack had his elbows on the bed rail. He was staring at Rachel. Hope was looking around the room, sitting cross-legged with her butt against Rachel’s cast. Barely five minutes passed without either Kara or a nurse stopping in. Samantha wished Cindy was there, but she wasn’t on duty until tomorrow morning.
Hope straightened her legs and slid off the bed. Her boots hit the floor with a thunk. “I’m getting stuff from the other room. This room could be anyone’s.” She strode into the hall.
“She shouldn’t do that,” Samantha warned. “The point is getting Mom back there as soon as the medicine works.”
Jack had straightened. He was flexing his neck, dipping his head from side to side. “That is the point. But then there’s Murphy’s Law. It says that as soon as we move everything here, she’ll be ready to move back. Hold the fort,” he said and left.
Rachel’s breathing was louder than ever in the silence that remained.
Samantha went to the door and looked down the hall just as Jack turned into Rachel’s regular room. In the other direction, several nurses were clustered, heads together. Lydia was nowhere in sight.
Back at the bed, she curled her fingers over the rail. Just thinking about the fiasco of the prom, she felt lost and sick and scared. The best part, the best part, was getting home. She didn’t know how many of the other dads would have been as supportive as hers had been. So it was possibly a fluke. So maybe he wouldn’t have come for her if he’d been working his hea
d off in the city. So maybe if Rachel woke up he would be gone again.
But, boy, it had been nice listening to fog feet with him. It reminded her of times before the divorce.
The blue tint around Rachel’s mouth brought back another memory. “Omigod, Mom, remember Halloween? We always had the best costumes. Hershey’s Kisses and Crayola boxes and bunches of grapes. And makeup out of food coloring and flour? Blue lips? Purple lips?”
“Sam?”
She whirled around. Not knowing what to say, she turned right back to Rachel. When she sensed Lydia beside her, and still there weren’t any words, she dared a look. Lydia’s eyes were on Rachel, reflecting the same horror Samantha had felt seeing her mother like this for the first time.
“Can’t they do something?”
Samantha waved at the IV pole. “It’s up there. We have to wait for it to work.”
“Oh.” She wrapped her arms around her middle. “Does she know about last night?”
“You mean, did my telling her cause this?” It wasn’t the vote of confidence Samantha needed. “No, Lydia. I haven’t told her. She did this all on her own.”
“You don’t have to get angry. She’d be upset about last night, and you know it.”
Samantha looked at her then. “What do you know about last night?”
“You want me to say? In front of your Mom?”
“Yeah, I want you to say.” Rachel would have to know sometime. Better when she couldn’t speak.
Lydia kept her eyes on Rachel. “You went to Ian’s but left there with Teague and got so sloshed you passed out, so he drove you home. At least, that’s what Teague said when he got back to the party. He ended up with Marissa Fowler, who was supposed to be with Mark Cahill. Mark’s Amanda’s cousin. He picked her up at my house this morning.”
“And told everyone that story?” Nightmare!
“Told Amanda and Shelly and me. Is it true?”
“No, it is not true. I didn’t get sloshed or pass out, and Teague did not drive me home. He came on so strong that I could nail him for rape, hands down—only it never got past the attempted stage. I ran away before it did. Me sloshed? Try Teague. And stoned. My father came and got me.”
Coast Road Page 30
