by Francis Ray
“Please call me Dalton, and not at all. I can bring you back in the morning like last time.”
“I am rather tired.” She turned to her daughter-in-law. “Justine?”
“I’d feel better knowing you got home safely and didn’t have to drop me off,” she said.
“We accept your offer.” Beverly smiled and started toward the elevator. “It’s nice meeting an honorable man, just like my Andrew.”
Dalton didn’t dare look at Justine when he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Parents were supposed to love their children. The bond between them was strong. Although as a youngster Dalton had tried to take wild to a new level with fast driving, underage drinking, and girls, Dalton and his parents were close.
Before he was sixteen his father had taken him on a fishing trip for their “heart-to-heart” about sex and responsibility. Dalton had been too scared and finally ashamed to tell him that he was about two years too late. One of his sister’s girlfriends had seen to that.
But sometimes love was destructive. Perhaps if Gloria’s parents had loved her more they would have sought help for her violent mood swings before it was too late. He wondered if Mrs. Crandall had given in to Andrew as well.
“Where are you staying?” Mrs. Crandall asked. She sat in the front passenger seat beside him.
“Charleston Place,” he answered, pulling into the traffic.
“What a coincidence. Andrew and Justine had their reception there in the Gazebo and Grand Hall. The day was simply spectacular. Light shone through the twelve-foot picture windows as if the angels were smiling down on them.”
A thick silence descended in the vehicle. Dalton wanted to look in the rearview mirror to see Justine’s reaction, but her mother-in-law was watching him too closely.
“The Thoroughbred Club there serves the most divine tea. Andrew and I went there numerous times. They have scrumptious desserts,” Beverly told him.
“So I’ve heard.”
“Could you do me a huge favor?” she asked. “It’s an imposition, but I just have to ask.”
It wasn’t hard to guess what she was about to ask. “If I can.”
“Please drop Justine off first, then take me by the hotel. I want to get one of their delicious strawberry tarts before I go home. The lobby lounge is open until eleven. That is, if Justine doesn’t want any.”
“No, thank you,” came the answer from the back.
“Strawberry tarts are one of Andrew’s favorite desserts.” Dalton finally gave in to temptation and glanced in the mirror. Justine was looking out the window. His heart clutched at the sight. She looked lost. “Are you sure? I could swing by now.”
She spoke without turning. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Dalton’s attention returned to driving. There didn’t seem to be any more he could say. They both knew Mrs. Crandall was trying to make sure they weren’t alone. She could have saved her breath.
Justine walked ahead of Dalton on the curved brick path to her front door. She couldn’t help but recall the last time they were there together, the searing kiss they’d shared, the almost overwhelming need she’d felt. If she was honest with herself she wished he could take her in his arms again, wished she could tell him to come back later. Two things held her back: She was married and she remained a coward.
Opening the door, she turned and stuck out her hand. “Thank you. For everything.”
His large hand closed around hers, causing her heart to speed up. “For you, I’d do anything.”
The whispered words curled through her like mulled wine. Dalton wasn’t a man to talk to hear himself talk. He meant every word. “I know, and that means a lot. Good night.”
Lightly squeezing her hand, he went back to his car. Continuing inside, Justine locked the door, then went to her room and sat on the side of the bed. She might be tired, but her brain wasn’t foggy enough to have missed Beverly’s none-too-subtle reminder to her and Dalton of her marriage to Andrew.
Justine might have been worried if Beverly hadn’t acted the same way on a number of occasions when she thought a man might be interested in her daughter-in-law. She fiercely protected what was Andrew’s.
In the past Justine had taken pride in knowing that a woman she respected and loved warned off men. Now, Justine saw it for what it was, possessiveness and distrust. Andrew was the one his mother should have been watching.
Standing, Justine pulled a nightgown from the lingerie drawer and went to take her bath. Beverly thought Andrew almost a saint. Justine reluctantly admitted she had as well as she sank into the tub brimming with scented bubbles. Looking back on their marriage, she couldn’t think of one single incident that indicated he was cheating. Even when he’d been on out-of-town trips, he called every morning and every night before he went to bed.
In hindsight she could see the possibility that he might have regulated the calls so there would be less chance for her to call at an inopportune time. The wife is often the last to know. She’d heard the old saying often, and always felt sorry for the poor, gullible wives. She had preened like a silly peacock that she was one of the lucky ones, glad that she wouldn’t be like her mother or Andrew’s mother.
Climbing out of the tub, Justine dried, lotioned, then slipped on the gown. As the heavy silk slithered over her body her thoughts went not to Andrew, but to Dalton. She was aware that she was beginning to think of him more, and that she was walking a thin line between friendship and something more perilous. His attentiveness soothed the hurt caused by Andrew’s deception, but was it fair to Dalton?
Did she care about him or was she simply trying to prove to herself that she remained desirable, that Andrew’s betrayal wasn’t because of a lack in her. She just didn’t know.
Turning off the light, she sat on the side of the bed. She was tired, but not sleepy. Her thoughts immediately went to the previous night, when she had slept soundly because of Dalton. If she wasn’t careful, she’d start to rely on him, and that could lead to disastrous consequences.
Her mother had preached to her from an early age that just because someone did something wrong, it didn’t give her an excuse to do the same thing.
The ringing telephone intruded on her chaotic thoughts. She reached for it immediately. “Hello.”
“Did I wake you?” Dalton asked.
Her heart thumped even more. No matter how wrong it was, she couldn’t stop thinking of him, didn’t want to. “No.”
“Having trouble sleeping?”
“A bit,” she said. “I’ll just read a book until I fall asleep.”
“Hope it’s not one of mine that you’re considering reading,” he teased.
“No.” She glanced at the suspense book of a new author on the bedside.
“Good. If you don’t mind company, I can be at the back door in five minutes.”
The front door wasn’t an option. “The fence is six feet tall.”
“It won’t be the first time I’ve scaled a fence to see you. Make that four minutes.”
Justine replaced the phone in the cradle and remembered that other time, the night before she left to stay with her grandmother in Mississippi. Dalton had climbed the six-foot wooden fence in the backyard. Brianna had come by to tell her he was coming to say good-bye. She’d waited an hour for him to come, afraid something might keep him away.
Part of Justine had desperately wanted to see him, the other, insecure, part hadn’t because her eyes were red, the lids puffy. Since the night her mother had decided to send her away, Justine had done nothing but cry. Her mother was unmoved.
“All that boy wants is sex. You’re pretty, but not as pretty as Brianna or some of the other girls. You have to ask yourself why he’d go after you, and face the hard facts. He’s too good-looking to be content with one woman, I’m just keeping you from going through what I went through.”
Then and now Justine had known her mother was thinking of Justine’s father, a handsome man whom women chased and flirted with right in front of her
mother. The sad part was, he’d chased and flirted right back. Still, the words had hurt. There were few occasions in Justine’s life when her mother had approved of her. Marrying Andrew was at the top of that list.
Her mother had been wrong about Dalton and wrong about Andrew. The phone rang, causing her to jump. “Hello.”
“I’m here.”
Justine came to her feet, started toward the back door, then realized she was wearing her nightgown. “Just a minute.” Hanging up the phone, Justine tossed the nightgown on the bed, then quickly dressed in a pair of jeans that sagged at the waist and a black pullover top. Finished, she rushed to the back of the house and opened the double doors leading to the dimly lit portico.
“Sorry it took so long. Come on in.”
“That’s all right.” Dalton’s gaze gently touched her, from her bare feet to her tousled head of hair.
Self-consciously, Justine raked her hand through her hair. “I must look—”
His large hand closed over hers, sending shock waves from her palm up her arm. “You could never look anything but beautiful.”
She didn’t want to feel the warm curl of pleasure, but it was there nonetheless. Then she was free of his touch, and she felt oddly bereft. “Come in.”
“It’s a pretty night and nice out here. Why don’t you come out?”
She hadn’t paid that much attention to the backyard or for that matter much about the house since Andrew’s accident. She glanced around the covered structure, as if seeing it for the first time. Huge pots of blooming pink hibiscus were on either side of the steps leading from the house. Trailing vines covered the four white columns of the portico.
“All right.” She closed the door behind her.
Dalton sat down on the top step and waited until she sat beside him before he spoke. “Mrs. Crandall decided she didn’t want the strawberry tart after all.”
“We both know she never did. She’s always been that way. I’m sorry if she embarrassed you.”
Dalton faced her. “Justine, do me a favor?”
She frowned. “What?”
“Stop apologizing. You aren’t responsible for the actions of others, and Andrew’s are at the top of the list.”
“I know, but I . . .”
“Just hurt, feel stupid. I’ve been there.”
Her mouth gaped. “Your wife cheated.”
“Yes.” He stood, walked a few steps away.
“I’m sorry. Here I am feeling sorry for myself when you’ve been through the same thing.”
He returned to sit beside her and picked up her hand. “With one difference. My wife’s affair made the five o’clock news and newspapers around the country. It wasn’t pretty.”
Justine heard the pain and the disillusion in his voice and ached for him. So that was what Brianna had alluded to. In feeling sorry for herself, she’d never considered how she’d feel if anyone else knew. She could just imagine the whispers, the sly comments that he had had to put up with. “She shouldn’t have cheated.”
“Neither should Andrew. Their fault, not ours.”
“Yes, but we pay.”
His thumb stroked the top of her hand. “That we do.”
“I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been for you.”
“It was rough.” He faced her more. Their knees bumped. “I don’t want you going through what I went through, the sleepless nights, the blame, the questions that had no answers.”
She had been through all that, was still trying to get her life back together. “How did you move on?”
“One hour, one day at a time, by finally accepting what I couldn’t change and realizing if I didn’t accept it, it would destroy me. My family and writing helped.”
Her hand fisted in his. “Mother would probably blame me, but I have Brianna and the bookstore.”
He took her other hand in his. “You also have me.”
The way he said the words and the look in his eyes caused a ball of heat to roll through her. “Dalton—” She didn’t know what she wanted to say.
“I’ve kept you from resting long enough.” He came to his feet, bringing her with him. As soon as she was upright, he released her and opened the door leading into the house. “Get some sleep. Good night.”
She wanted him to stay, but realized it was wiser for him to go. Both of them were too vulnerable and dealing with too many emotions.
“Good night, Dalton.” As soon as she was inside, he closed the door. For a long time they simply stared at each other through the glass, then he walked away, disappearing into the murky darkness of her backyard.
No matter how wrong it was, she wished she could have gone with him.
Nineteen
The next morning, Justine heard the loud voice as she neared the double doors leading into the ICCU unit. She noticed even more the stares from the people in the waiting area. Some of their faces were sympathetic, others bordered on hostile. She hit the door almost running. She heard a nurse call out her name, but she didn’t stop. Over all the voices was Beverly’s, filled with rage.
Justine burst through the door, her frantic gaze going immediately to Andrew, expecting to see the worst. Instead, his respirator continued to wheeze, his IVs dripped, his various monitors functioned as always.
“Justine, I’m glad you’re here.”
She jerked around. At first she couldn’t see Beverly because of the people surrounding her. One Justine recognized as Dr. Thomas, the chief of staff and a friend of Beverly’s, the second was Andrew’s doctor, the third a woman she didn’t recognize. Neither did she recognize the fourth person, a man.
“Tell them I’m not crazy.”
“No one said you were, Beverly,” Dr. Thomas said soothingly. “We just think you should spend less time here.”
“Andrew needs me.” Beverly pushed through the people surrounding her and rounded the bed to stand by Andrew’s side and place her hand on his shoulder. “My son needs to know I’m here.”
Dr. Thomas looked at Dr. Lane, whose lips pursed. “I’ve told you. Your son is unaware of what is going on.”
Beverly’s eyes narrowed angrily. For a moment Justine was afraid she might rush across the room and attack the neurosurgeon. “I want you off this case. You’re fired.”
Andrew’s doctor merely lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Your daughter-in-law is the only one who can do that.”
“Tell him, Justine. Tell him!”
“Please.” The unknown woman held up her hands. “I’m aware that feelings are running high, but this is a critical care unit. This can’t be good for Mr. Crandall, the other patients, or their families.”
Dr. Lane shot her a sharp look, but said nothing.
“Could someone please tell me what is going on?” Justine asked.
“They’re trying to keep me away from Andrew.” Beverly edged closer to the bed. “I won’t allow that to happen.”
“Mrs. Crandall, I’m sorry if it appears that way.” The woman turned to Justine and extended her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Lancaster, head of Social Service.” She indicated the man on the left. “Chaplain Hall.”
“Mrs. Crandall, I’m sure this is confusing, but we’re all here to help you get through these difficult periods,” Chaplain Hall said as he shook Justine’s hand.
Justine’s confusion didn’t clear. She looked from the middle-aged chaplain with his shock of white hair and light blue eyes to the social worker, fashionably thin and attractive in a pink suit that shouted designer. “I don’t understand.”
Dr. Thomas stepped forward. “We’ve gotten reports that Beverly keeps insisting that Andrew is waking up.”
“He is!” Beverly hissed.
Justine went to her. She’d never known her mother-in-law to raise her voice. “Just let him finish, please.”
“No one is making me leave my son!” Beverly insisted.
Dr. Thomas spoke to Justine as if he realized that Beverly’s mind was closed to anything he might want to say. “While it’s not unus
ual for close family members to feel this way, it can lead to problems later on. It’s the consensus that the prolonged visiting hours might not be the best thing for either of you, given Andrew’s condition.”
“The nurses told you what I said,” Beverly accused.
“Who the information came from is unimportant,” Dr. Lane said. “It’s not healthy.”
The social worker looked as if she wanted to throttle Andrew’s doctor. “Our concern is for the patient and the family.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Thomas quickly agreed. “That is why I might have been remiss in allowing the family extended visiting privileges.”
“We’re getting complaints,” Dr. Lane said.
“Complaints?” Justine repeated, trying to make sense of everything.
“Unfortunately, other families have voiced their concerns that we’re giving you special treatment,” the social worker said, sympathy in her voice.
“The families of patients on this unit are often thrust unexpectantly into painful situations. Trying to come to terms with them is difficult,” the chaplain told them.
Justine recalled the faces outside. How would she have felt if others were given special privileges and not her? She understood, but feared Beverly wouldn’t.
“Andrew needs us to help him wake up,” Beverly said, tenderly stroking Andrew’s face.
“He loves you both,” the social worker said.
“More than anything,” Beverly said as she continued to gently stroke her son’s cheek.
“Then he’d want you both to take care of yourselves. Mrs. Crandall, I’m told, has lost considerable weight and obviously needs rest. Andrew would want to see you both at your best.”
Justine didn’t need to have taken psychology to know where the social worker was leading Andrew’s mother. Beverly looked at her, and it was all Justine could do to keep from squirming. The navy blue suit hung on her. There were dark circles beneath her eyes that she no longer tried to hide with concealer.
“Unfortunately, it can be more draining on visitors than patients because the patient is resting, and doesn’t have to deal with all the issues going on outside of the hospital,” she went on to say. “If you left at the posted time you both could rest more. I understand you both were here until after ten, two hours after the posted visiting hours were over.”
