by Francis Ray
She whirled. “You told Brooke. How many other people have you told? Did you take out an ad?”
His expression harshened. In seconds he was out of the chair and standing in front of her. His head lowered until their eyes were inches apart. “You can fight, yell, but you won’t pick a fight with me so I’ll run off. Get used to me. I promised your parents I’d take care of you, but even if I hadn’t I’d still be here for you.”
For how long? Her lashes blinked rapidly. “I can take care of myself.”
“Then act like it. Getting upset can’t be good for the baby or you.” He put her plate on the table. “You want iced or hot tea?”
Her fist clenched. Her head bowed. “I don’t know what I want,” she admitted.
“Oh, honey.” Lifting her into his arms, he sat and tucked her head between his chin and his shoulder. “Give yourself time. Your hormones are probably going crazy.”
Up came her head. “What do you know about a woman’s hormones?”
He wasn’t going to back down. “I looked up pregnancy on the Internet.”
The temper spike he’d expected didn’t occur. “Why aren’t you running as fast as you can in the other direction?” she asked.
His hand tenderly stroked her cheek. “It’s not in me to walk away from those I care about.”
He was one of a kind. She got out of his lap, picked up her fork, then put it down and looked at him. Misery shone in her eyes. “I may be the first.”
“Whatever happens, I’m not going anyplace,” he told her. Brianna tucked in her head. She didn’t believe him. He’d just have to show her. Getting up, he opened the refrigerator and poured them each a glass of tea.
“Patrick?”
He placed their drinks on the table and sat down. “Yes.”
She lifted her head. “I really had a good time at Bliss. Thank you.”
“You get a massage from those guys?” He picked up his fork.
“No. We both passed.” She sipped her tea, studying him.
“Like I told you, I give a great massage.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Putting the glass down, she picked up her fork and began to eat.
“Do that.” And while you’re at it, remember I’ll always be there for you.
“Why do I do it?” Brianna mumbled.
“Do what?” Justine asked, pulling onto the highway from Dalton’s house. She glanced in the rearview mirror for one last glimpse, not knowing if she’d ever come back again. Dalton said he loved her, but she couldn’t expect him to wait until she obtained her divorce. She swallowed the sadness that threatened to choke her.
Brianna glanced away before answering, “Push Patrick away when all I want is for him to hold me.”
“You’re scared, just like I’m scared.” Justine’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel. “I don’t know when this mess with Andrew will be over so I can see Dalton without feeling guilty. You, on the other hand, are afraid to trust your great instincts because you were going through a rough time and trusted the wrong guy.”
Brianna blew out a breath. “Not as rough as this.”
“The difference is that you met and liked Patrick before you discovered you were pregnant.” Justine stopped at a red light. “My advice is to grab him and hold on. He stands by his word. He’s not going to run scared when you start showing.”
“He hasn’t said anything about us resuming our relationship,” Brianna said, sadness creeping into her voice.
“Because he’s aware of what a tough time this is for you,” Justine said. “He has to have figured out that the father of your baby is no longer in the picture. All you have to do is look at Patrick and see how much he cares about you.”
Brianna cupped her stomach and fought tears. “He could have his pick of women. Why should he settle for a woman carrying another man’s baby?”
“Brianna Ireland, if I wasn’t in the middle of a busy highway I’d pull over and shake some sense into your head. He’ll be a lucky man to have you and he’s smart enough to know it.”
“I would be the lucky one.” Brianna bit her lower lip. “Is he still following us?”
Justine pulled through the green light and glanced in the rearview mirror. She saw Patrick’s black truck behind them when they passed beneath a streetlight. “So that’s what he and Dalton were whispering about when we were leaving.”
“You don’t think Dalton would have let you drive home by yourself otherwise, do you?”
Justine shook her head. “He made life enjoyable again. I’m not sure I can get through this without him, yet I know if we see each other too much we might . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Ain’t that the truth.” Brianna sat up and looked into the side mirror. “I might be crying buckets, my emotions all over the place, but I still have this urge to jump Patrick.”
“We’re a pair.”
“And friends for life.” Brianna lifted her left hand. Justine lifted her right. Briefly they clasped hands.
“We’ll get through this and be stronger women,” Justine said, flicking on the turn signal to pull up to the security gate at the underground parking garage of Brianna’s condo. The security guard recognized them and the iron gate slowly rolled open.
Brianna waved to Toni in the security booth as they passed. “We will, but in the meantime I think I’ll follow your lead.”
“What lead?” Justine pulled into a visitor’s spot near the elevator.
“Not see so much of Patrick.” Opening the door to the van, Brianna got out. “You’re right. Again. I am afraid. I’m almost certain he’ll be there, but until I’m one hundred percent sure I think it’s best that we stop seeing each other.”
Justine saw that Patrick had parked and was sprinting toward them. “They do make it more difficult, but I wonder if that’s a good thing or bad thing. I’ll tell him I’ll wait near the exit.”
Brianna waited for Patrick, although she wanted to run. Saying good-bye wouldn’t be easy.
“You still feel all right?” Patrick asked, his beautiful eyes watching her closely. No man except her father had ever treated her with such exquisite care.
“I’m fine. I waited because I wanted to talk with you.”
He frowned. “I’ll come up to your place as soon as I see Justine home safely.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She gathered her courage. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but now I need some space to decide a few things. I’m asking for that time.”
“How much time?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. A few days, a couple of weeks.”
“All right.” He jabbed the elevator call button.
“Thank you.” She wished she could be happier that she’d at last won an argument with him. The elevator opened, and she automatically stepped on. “Good night.”
“Good night,” he said as the elevator door began to close. “I’ll give you that space just as soon as you aren’t too tired to take care of yourself.”
The door shut just as he got out the last word. She pushed the open button, but the elevator was already climbing to another floor. Score another one for him.
Brianna leaned against the wall and admitted she didn’t want to argue with him. As she’d told Justine, even though she was unsure of their future, she just wanted to lie in his arms. Well, maybe at first, but then they’d get down to some serious lovemaking.
Luckily the elevator opened on three. She’d been so engrossed with thinking about Patrick that she had forgotten to punch her floor. He was a hard man to forget.
Speaking to the elderly couple who waited to get on, Brianna got off and went into her apartment. They were another reminder that love, for some, lasted. Her parents were another.
An image of Patrick popped into her mind. She firmly pushed it away and entered her place. No matter how much she wanted it, she couldn’t be sure of a future for them.
Twenty-four
The next morning, instead of turning over, Br
ianna made herself get up when her alarm sounded. Showering, she dressed in a candy-apple red suit to make herself feel better, then left for her office fifteen minutes ahead of time. Traffic for once moved fairly swiftly downtown. She was congratulating herself on getting to the office twenty minutes early when she pulled into the parking lot and saw Patrick’s truck.
The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word quit, she thought. She parked beside him, entered the back door, and had another shock. “Daddy!”
“Hi, Brianna,” her father greeted her from the small table in the kitchen. “I thought I’d drop by to see if I could help out a bit. Patrick is a pretty good cook. I’m having oatmeal, turkey bacon, and one of his whole wheat biscuits.”
“Morning, Brianna.” Patrick put her plate on a pretty poppy placemat. “Great timing, as usual.”
Brianna tore her gaze away from him to see the soft scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, biscuits, and a bowl of cheese grits. He had to get up early to do all this.
“How did you get in?” she asked.
“I let him in. Your mother dropped me off on her way to her water aerobics class, and Patrick was waiting,” her father explained, reaching for another slice of crisp bacon. “Good thing. The bowl of cereal I had wasn’t enough.”
“You need anything else?” Patrick set a cup of tea on the place mat.
Brianna’s gaze went to his. He waited patiently for her answer. If she’d messed up with the father for her baby, at least she had picked out a good friend in Patrick. “Where’s your plate?”
He smiled and her heart turned over. “Getting it now. Let me have that attache. Sit down, and you and your daddy can talk shop.”
Handing him the attache, she took her seat in the cane-back chair that he held. “Thank you,” she said, then turned to her father, who watched them with so much hope in his eyes it made her eyes misty. She couldn’t fault him. He wanted the best for her. What parent didn’t? Just as she wanted the best for the child she carried.
Yet sometimes, no matter how hard you wished or prayed, it just didn’t happen.
Placing her napkin in her lap, she smiled at her father as Patrick took his seat. “You’re here for exactly ninety minutes, then you’re gone. Maybe you and Patrick can go chase a golf ball.”
“I haven’t played in years, but I’m game.” Patrick buttered his biscuit. “I’ll try not to embarrass myself.”
“I can stay longer to help,” her father said.
“You want me to take care of myself. I want you to do the same.” She stirred her cheese grits. “What’s fair for the duckling is fair for papa duck.”
His father’s mouth twitched. “I’d argue, but I don’t think I’d win.”
“No, sir, I don’t think you would,” Patrick stared at her across the table. “Not many have gotten the best of Brianna.”
You have, she thought, and not once had he used it against her. For once it didn’t bother her.
In the coming days, Justine’s time was divided between the bookstore and the hospital. Andrew’s mother was convinced that her daughter-in-law’s presence was pivotal in continuing Andrew’s progress. With Dr. Lane and Dr. Thomas’s permission, Justine spent as much time as possible there. She wanted to expedite his recovery as much as anyone else.
Her freedom depended on it.
Each day saw some tiny improvement. Andrew went from moving his hand to opening his eyes. The blank stare progressed to his gaze actually following her or his mother around the room. He went from the barest movement of his fingertips to squeezing the doctor’s hand to squeezing hers, attempting to speak, but unable to because he remained on the respirator. A week later they began to wean him from the ventilator. Next came the respirator.
Each day he made more progress. Each day she left the hospital hopeful that it would soon be over, and despondent that it wasn’t.
Two weeks after Andrew began to wake up, Justine arrived home so tired she could hardly make her way to her bedroom. Although she was bone-weary, she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She thought of the perfect remedy. Dalton.
She continued through the great room and wished she wasn’t so weak or he wasn’t as tempting. They hadn’t seen each other since that night at his house. It was for the best. She just didn’t like it.
The cell phone in her purse rang with a familiar tone. “Hello, Brianna. How are you doing?”
“Better than you, if you’re as tired as you sound.”
“More so.” Justine kept walking. If she sat down, she wasn’t sure she’d get up.
“Then the surprise waiting for you on your portico should perk you up. Enjoy.”
Justine whipped her head around and saw a small table draped with a yellow tablecloth and a white candle burning in a hurricane glass. All she could think of was that Dalton had better be there as well.
Her fingers fumbled with the locks, then she was outside. “Dalton, please be here.”
“For as long as you want me.” He stepped out of the shadows and drew her into his arms. “I missed you.”
“Me too.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I was about at the end of my rope.”
“When you are, just think of me, waiting.”
She lifted her head. “That’s the only thing that gets me through.” Her voice trembled.
His hand tightened for a fraction of a second on her arm. “Sit down and eat. I’ll fill you in on the progress of the house.”
She sat and let his presence soothe her. She laughed as expected when he told her of stepping in the pail of water he’d set aside to wash the paintbrushes, and drank a toast with him when he said he had finished the shelving in the second bedroom, which he planned to turn into a library/office. The third bedroom would be a weight room.
“I can’t wait to see it,” she said before she thought, then sadness hit her.
His hand touched hers. “Don’t give up on us.” He pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the door to the house. “Go get some sleep.”
It was in her heart and in her eyes that she didn’t want to go. “Thank you.” She kissed him on the cheek and slipped inside, but stayed near the glass door to watch him clean up.
Typically male, he’d brought disposable flatware and plates. He put everything in a wicker picnic hamper, folded the table under his arms after one long look at her, and left.
He gave without expecting anything in return. The palm of her hand touched the cool glass. One day she prayed she’d be able to give back.
That night, for the first time in weeks, Justine was able to sleep instead of tossing and turning. She actually overslept and was running late when she reached ICCU the next morning. She glanced at her watch and pushed open the heavy doors. Eight twenty-one. She tried to be there at eight every day and leave promptly at nine thirty to reach the store by ten. Then too, she wasn’t up to seeing disapproval—or was it disappointment?—on Beverly’s face.
Easing open the door, she entered the room. Beverly was standing by the head of the bed, holding Andrew’s hand. Justine wondered again how she did it day after day. “Good morning, Beverly, Andrew.” She included him because his head had slowly turned and his eyes met hers.
Each time they did, she felt uneasy. She knew it was because the vibrancy, the laughter in them, was gone. It was as if the Andrew they’d known was gone.
“Good morning, Justine.” Beverly slowly turned. “We wondered when you’d come.”
“I overslept,” Justine said, coming to stand at the foot of the bed, her usual position unless Beverly asked her otherwise. She felt her uneasiness increase and wished he’d stop look—
“Jussss,” came the hoarse rasp.
Justine went as stiff as a rod. Her eyes widened.
“He said your name! He said your name!” Beverly cried out with excitement, beckoning Justine to where she stood. “Hurry! Hurry!”
Justine rounded the bed without taking her eyes from Andrew. “Andrew?”
“Jusss-tieen,” he whispered, his fo
rehead pleated in a frown as if trying to understand what was going on, why his voice sounded rough instead of smooth and charming.
Beverly grabbed Justine’s hand and clasped it between hers and Andrew’s. “You’re going to be fine, Andrew. You were in an accident, but you’re going to be fine. Justine is here, and I’m here.”
The lines in his forehead didn’t clear. “Wh—aa?”
Beverly pushed the nurse’s call button. A disembodied voice answered. “Yes?”
“Andrew just said Justine’s name. Get Dr. Lane in here immediately!”
Justine didn’t have time to think about Beverly ordering the doctors around; she was still trying to deal with Andrew saying her name first. Did that mean he still loved her?
A few minutes later, Dr. Lane came through the door in a rush. “He spoke?”
“Justine’s name,” Beverly answered.
Justine started to point out that it hadn’t been clear, but Dr. Lane moved them aside. He pulled out a pen light. “Follow the light,” he requested. When Andrew completed the task, the doctor took his hand and asked him to squeeze, then rubbed his finger and then the sharp and dull edge of a safety pin down Andrew’s arms and legs. Next he checked his mouth. Each time Andrew responded. At times he seemed to search the room until his gaze settled on Justine.
“Juss—s tie—nne.”
“See!” Beverly cried in triumph.
“Mr. Crandall, do you remember the accident?” Dr. Lane asked.
Holding her breath, Justine kept her gaze on Andrew, watching for even a hint that he recalled what had happened and the reason. She thought she saw something in his eyes, but couldn’t be sure. He continued to stare at her.
“He doesn’t remember,” Beverly said. “After what he’s been through I think it’s for the best.”
“I agree. It isn’t unusual for victims of traumatic accidents or experiences not to remember the occurrence or the events prior to it.” Dr. Lane stuffed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat.
Justine recalled that Andrew said it was the first time he’d cheated. What if he had been telling the truth? He didn’t seem to want to take his eyes from hers. Perhaps he did love her.
