Chance of Loving You

by Terri Blackstock

  “Someone told us that Valentine’s Day is also your birthday,” the reporter prompted. “You’ll be competing with three other finalists to win top honors and full tuition at a local culinary school. I’d call that a very auspicious day all around. Any hint of what dish you’ll be making?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” Aimee’s heart cramped. “I’ll be adapting one of my mother’s recipes. She was an amazing cook.”

  “I’m sure of that.” The reporter pressed the microphone close again. “We also hear that you’re an employee at San Diego Hope hospital. A member of that heroic and compassionate health team.”

  The hospital.

  “Yes. I work there. And—please excuse me. I really have to go do something.”

  “Wanda?” Aimee asked, after waiting several minutes for the nurse’s aide to be located and brought to the phone.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “It’s Aimee Curran. How’s your elbow today?”

  “Still bruised. But I’m here—didn’t take the day off. Like some people.”

  Aimee reminded herself that she was a rising culinary star. Who needed to keep her day job. “I’m calling because of what we talked about yesterday. Remember?”

  “Hard to forget.”

  Aimee glanced down the hallway toward the test kitchen and saw another finalist eating one of her brownies. “You haven’t decided if you’ll need to report it as an injury?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ah . . .” Aimee released the breath she’d been holding. “I’d like to come in Monday, after my shift, and help you feed your patients. For two weeks—you know, until you’re feeling good as new. And until little Potter’s feeling better too, of course. I want to help you, Wanda.”

  “I figured you might.”

  “I LOOOVE IT when you come help us, Aimee.” Margie blew a noisy kiss from her wheelchair across the room. Her leg was strapped into a huge postoperative brace; it looked like a torture device. But it hadn’t dampened the enthusiasm of the developmentally disabled roommate. Probably nothing could.

  Lucas smiled as Margie continued her unabashed adoration of the dietary assistant.

  “You’re so nice,” Margie cooed, “and pretty, too. Really, really pretty.” The woman’s dark eyes glittered. “Like a Disney princess! Right, Lucas?”

  “Sure,” he agreed, enjoying the pink flush that rose on Aimee’s cheeks as she stood beside him. She bent lower over his grandmother’s dinner tray, cutting the pallid chicken breast into near-microscopic pieces.

  “Um . . . thank you, Margie,” she said finally, avoiding Lucas’s eyes as she smiled at the still-giggling roommate. “I’m happy to volunteer to help.”

  Volunteer?

  Lucas didn’t know one Disney princess from another, but he could definitely recognize a blackmail victim. Aimee had been here four evenings now, offering to stay after her shift. Wanda Clay must have dangled that black olive garnish like it was O.J. Simpson’s bloody glove.

  “I thought,” she said, glancing up at him finally, “if I got it into small pieces and mixed it with some of the mashed potatoes, it might be easier for your grandmother to swallow. We’ll try it again when she gets back from physical therapy. I’ll probably have to warm it up.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think it’s going to make a difference.” The familiar sadness crowded Lucas’s chest. “The swallowing tests showed that her throat isn’t affected all that much. It’s more that she’s lost interest in eating. In everything, I guess.”

  “Because of the stroke?”

  “And losing my grandfather. Mostly that.” He reached for the silver-framed photograph sitting beside his grandmother’s Bible. There were also several paintbrushes—soft and hinting of turpentine—that he’d brought in another failed attempt to encourage her. “He passed away last summer.”

  “I’m sorry.” There was genuine empathy in Aimee’s eyes. “That photo, it’s your grandparents?” She glanced at the black-and-white snapshot in his hands. A young couple beside a bicycle, a paper-wrapped loaf of bread in its wicker basket.

  “Yes. Shortly after they met.”

  “I thought . . .” A smile tugged at Aimee’s lips. “I thought it was you. With an old bicycle and a wool cap—one of those photos made to look vintage. You look so much like him, with the height and those big shoulders.” She leaned closer to point at the photo, and her scent wafted, faintly sweet, like the flowers in his grandmother’s cliff-top garden. “Same black curly hair, light eyes, even the shape of his lips . . .” Aimee drew back, her expression showing a hint of fluster. Like she’d gone too far, been too personal. “Where was this taken? Looks like mountains. Big mountains.”

  “The French Alps,” Lucas told her, more than a little flattered that she’d noticed those things about his grandfather—about him. “My grandfather was French. Louis Andre Marchal. My middle name,” he added.

  “Louis?”

  “Andre. After his father.” He glanced down at the young, coltishly beautiful woman holding on to the bicycle in the photo. “My grandmother was barely nineteen. An art student. She wanted to paint alpine wildflowers, and he offered to be her guide.” Lucas shook his head. “She always says, ‘Louis begged like such an adorable pest. How could I say no?’ I bet I’ve heard the story a hundred times. They would have been married fifty-seven years this month.”

  “Ah.” Aimee pressed her hand to her throat. “She must miss him so much.”

  “Yes. Enough that I’m afraid she’s determined to follow him.” As the words slipped out, he met Aimee’s gaze, realizing it was the first time he’d admitted that fear out loud to anyone. “The doctors say she should be able to rally and improve enough to go back home. But it hasn’t happened. She’s losing weight, getting weaker . . .” He set the photo back down. Let his fingers linger on her Bible for a moment. “She told our pastor she’s at peace with leaving this world.”

  “Lucas, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s more than that. Because . . .” He stopped, angry with himself. What was he doing? This girl had been coerced into being here. She didn’t sign on for his personal information dump. If he didn’t stop, he’d move right on to telling her about his grandmother’s living will and—“It’s not your problem,” he said quickly. “I doubt very much this is in your dietary department job description: holding the hands of worried family members. Or even feeding patients.”

  “But I’m happy to help. Really.”

  “You mean to ‘volunteer’?” Lucas laughed low in his throat. “I think we both know why you’re here, Aimee.”

  Her brows pinched.

  “What did Wanda do? Threaten to file a complaint against you?”

  “No.” Aimee crossed her arms, lifted her chin. “I wanted to help her, that’s all.”

  “Look . . . I don’t think it’s right, but from what I’ve seen, nobody much likes Wanda Clay.” Lucas glanced across at his grandmother’s roommate, happily licking the last of her dietetic pudding from its container. “Not even Margie. And that says a lot. If you’re a Disney princess, then that poor CNA is peddling poison apples. I’m an investigator. Don’t try to fool me.”

  Aimee frowned. “Okay. Maybe this is related to that incident—though she never said it directly. I’m helping so Wanda can have extra time on her dinner break. She has her little dog out in the car.”

  “A dog?”

  “A cute one. I swear, it’s the only time I’ve seen Wanda smile. Potter needs medications for a couple of weeks. That’s why she brought him with her. If I help with Wanda’s patients, she can take care of her dog.”

  “And you avoid disciplinary action.”

  “Yes.” The beautiful eyes narrowed. “Is that a crime?”

  “No.” Lucas raised his hands. “No yellow tape, no dusting for fingerprints—or pawprints. Do what you need to do. I won’t stop you.”

  “Good.” She glanced toward the door as Wanda entered the room. “For the record, I really like your grandmother
. She’s beautiful and strong despite her situation.” Something wistful, maybe even sad, flickered across Aimee’s face. “I also understand how it feels to lose someone you love.”

  Lucas had no clue what to say. And suddenly regretted everything he already had.

  Aimee covered his grandmother’s tray. Checked the water in her pitcher. She waved to Wanda, took a few steps away, and then turned to look at Lucas again. “It occurs to me that you resemble your grandfather in another way too.”

  Lucas raised his brows.

  “That ‘pest’ thing.” Aimee’s lips twitched. “Minus the ‘adorable’ part.”

  “I COULD ABSOLUTELY kiss you!” Aimee grinned at the farmers’ market vendor, then whipped around to show Taylor a fistful of the slender cherry-red stalks. “Beautiful rhubarb, exactly what I wanted. Organic, local . . .” She turned back to the smiling vendor. “But they’re so finicky to grow in Southern California. How do you do it?”

  “We’re up in the coastal mountains. It’s a little cooler, but still plenty of sun. That’s a Victoria variety, from our five-year-old plants.” The fresh-faced young woman glanced at her tall and lanky husband, Aiden—Aiden and Eve of the Garden of Eatin’ farm. “We mulch with our own compost and hand-tend all the crops ourselves.” She smiled and patted her obviously expectant tummy. “Five more weeks for this particular one.”

  Aimee chuckled. “You’re here every Friday?”

  “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,” Eve assured, handing Aimee her change and a flyer for their family farm. “Like chickens to the roost.”

  “Perfect.” Aimee slung her mother’s faded rope market tote over her shoulder. “I’ll need more of this wonderful stuff next Friday. I’m going to make it famous.”

  Eve grinned. “We’ll be here. Count on it.”

  Aimee thanked her again, then followed Taylor as she wove through the tents, mounded displays of produce bright as a painter’s palette, and a crowd of shoppers already boasting summer linen, sandals, and sunglasses. The air was a delicious mix of sea spray, kettle corn, and Moroccan grilled chicken. Aimee’s stomach rumbled; she reminded herself to think vegan.

  “I can see the creative wheels turning, my little ‘rising culinary star,’” Taylor teased as they settled at a small outside table. “Rhubarb. Your mom’s yummy recipe?”

  “What could be better?” Aimee closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the sun on her face as a light breeze sifted her hair. “Strawberry rhubarb crumble was my birthday dessert as far back as I can remember. All tangy and sweet, with buttery brown sugar–and–oatmeal topping. I’d smell it before I opened my eyes in the morning; then Mom would pretend to smack me with her baking spoon when I sneaked some.” Aimee met her cousin’s gaze, swallowing against a growing ache. “That last week . . . she said she only wished she could make my dessert one more time.”

  “Aw, sweetie.” Taylor reached across the table to touch her hand.

  “So now I’ll bake it for her,” Aimee said with a decisive nod. “And I’ll decorate the crumble top with strawberries cut into little Valentine hearts . . .” She frowned.

  “What?”

  “Lucas Marchal. I can’t even plan a garnish without seeing his face.”

  “Not such a bad face.”

  “I guess not.” Warmth that had nothing to do with the sun crept up Aimee’s neck. “But it’s so obvious that he questions my motives.” She saw Taylor’s brows lift. “Okay, I’m there because I don’t want Wanda to write me up—in smoke trails over the hospital roof while cackling from her broom.” Aimee winced, instantly sorry. “Edward’s awful joke. I shouldn’t have repeated it.”

  Taylor’s eyes were kind. “She’s giving you a hard time?”

  “Not directly.” Aimee sighed. “I heard she’s been an aide for like thirty years. But I don’t think she likes her job. Or anyone there. I get the sense she’s putting in the time and counting the minutes until she can retire. I think the only thing that makes Wanda Clay happy is her dog.”

  “I’ve seen her walking him and . . .” Taylor hesitated for a moment. “Wanda’s faced some challenges. She hasn’t kept it secret that her husband ran off and left her with a mountain of debt. It was a long time ago, but some people have a hard time letting go of bitter feelings. And dealing with unexpected loss.” She took a slow breath. “I’m guessing she’s holding on to all that hurt so tightly that she’s forgotten how good it used to feel to help people. Be part of a team.”

  Aimee studied Taylor’s face. “I swear—when I grow up, I want to be like you.”

  Taylor laughed, raised her hands. “Just don’t expect me to weigh in on your hunky CSI situation. Out of my league.”

  “I doubt that,” Aimee told her, wondering if her cousin had already managed to weigh in without realizing it. “Some people have a hard time letting go . . .” Had she completely missed that about Lucas? She’d empathized with his grandmother’s grief, but this was also about her grandson . . .

  “You’re suddenly lost in thought,” Taylor noted, catching Aimee’s attention again.

  “No, not really,” she hedged. “Just thinking I should go pick up some strawberries so I can do a trial run of that recipe tonight. Make sure I won’t miss something important.”

  By three thirty, Aimee had found the recipe in her mother’s old tin—filed under B for birthday instead of S—read it several times, and then calculated the necessary changes to convert it to an acceptable vegan dish. She popped a few of the luscious, sweet strawberries into her mouth, hulled the rest, and expertly chopped half of the beautiful and tangy-tart Garden of Eatin’ rhubarb.

  Finally she stilled her mother’s German chef’s knife and checked the clock for the third time. And then told herself she was being ridiculous.

  It was her day off. And miraculously, Wanda’s as well. Which meant there was no obligation on Aimee’s part to go to the hospital and volunteer her time in the rehab wing. Someone else would watch Margie make a rabbit out of her paper napkin. Another staffer would encourage Rosalynn Marchal to try a sip of juice and praise the dear lady’s halfhearted attempt to use a fork with her left hand. Lucas would be there too, with concern in his beautiful blue eyes. And so much love. Anyone could see that. Maybe someone else could manage to listen to Lucas without bristling and giving in to her own stubborn pride so much that she completely missed . . . Did I do that? Am I that self-centered?

  Aimee set her knife down beside her mother’s recipe and reached for another strawberry, remembering what Taylor said. “Some people have a hard time letting go.” She’d been talking about Wanda and her bitterness. But why wouldn’t that apply to Lucas as well? Of course he was afraid he’d lose his grandmother. How well had Aimee handled the thought of losing her mom?

  She groaned aloud, remembering her parting shot at Lucas. How she’d smugly called him a pest. She wouldn’t blame him if he managed to avoid her until her obligation to Wanda was completed. Except that he’d trust her to oversee his grandmother’s evening meal about as much as Wanda would trust her with Potter. Lucas would absolutely be there every night. Just the way he was there right now.

  Aimee glanced at the clock again. Tray time. With Wanda off today, Aimee would be challenged about being there. As a dietary assistant, as a short-term volunteer . . . but not as a visitor.

  Aimee gathered up the rhubarb and strawberries, put them in the apartment’s tiny, aging fridge. Then she grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

  LUCAS STRODE through the door of the hospital room, hating that he was late. He’d called and specifically instructed the part-time aide regarding his grandmother’s needs but wasn’t sure if he’d gotten across how critical it was to—

  He stopped short, staring at Aimee Curran. In street clothes, rearranging some containers on his grandmother’s tray.

  “Uh . . .” He blinked, confused at seeing her there and also by the sudden uptick in his heart rate. Maybe it was something about the color of that fitted pink shirt or seeing her i
n those faded jeans, but she looked even more attractive than ever.

  “Isn’t it Wanda’s day off?” Lucas managed finally. “I mean, I didn’t think you’d be here to volunteer.”

  “She loooves us!” Margie chirped, waving her napkin.

  Aimee smiled, a blush rising high on her cheeks. “What can I say?”

  What could he say? After the way they’d parted yesterday—how lousy he’d acted—he figured Aimee wouldn’t be back at all. Then to see her here tonight, when she didn’t have to be . . .

  “Officially,” she continued, pointing to a red sticker badge affixed to her shirt, “I’m here as a visitor. But I told the aide I’d help with her dinner tray.” She glanced at Lucas’s grandmother, the woman’s gaunt face in peaceful repose. “I’m afraid she didn’t eat nearly enough. I wrote everything down.”

  “Thank you, Aimee. Really, you can’t know how much I appreciate this. Especially today.” Lucas dragged his fingers down his jaw. “We had new information on that abduction case, and it got complicated. Lots of media.”

  “I saw it on the news.” Aimee’s brows pinched with obvious concern. “I’m glad I could be here and—”

  “Can I take the tray now?” an aide asked, arriving at the bedside.

  Aimee glanced at Lucas.

  “Yes,” he told the aide, sudden weariness washing over him. “Let’s let her sleep for now.”

  “Sounds good to me, sir.”

  “Well . . .” Aimee stood, stepped to the head of the bed, and patted his grandmother’s shoulder with genuine tenderness. “I should head home,” she continued. “I have some things I need to do.”

  “Don’t leave,” Lucas heard himself say. “Please, stay awhile. We could . . .” His gaze darted from his grandmother across to Margie, talking with dramatic gestures to the nurse’s aide. As if to prove this was hardly a place to socialize, the PA system announced a diabetic feet talk in the extended care department. Hospital ambience.

  “It’s nice outside,” Aimee offered, capturing his gaze. “There’s a patio. And I wouldn’t mind some fresh air. They keep it so warm in here.”