Chance of Loving You

by Terri Blackstock

  Lucas laughed, then held Aimee’s gaze long enough to unsettle her again. “So . . .” His eyes swept the magnetic-letter menu. “Can I get a burger?”

  “Sure.” Aimee reached for the freezer drawer.

  “Wait. Make that one of those veggie burgers.”

  “Those are black bean burgers.”

  Lucas smiled. “All the better.”

  Aimee’s pulse did a skip. “Anything with that?”

  “Sweet potato waffle fries and . . .” The blue eyes captured hers. “Coffee with the sous-chef, maybe? Later?”

  “Um . . . sure.” If this kept up, Aimee could try out for the middle school pep squad. Her heart just accomplished a backflip. “I’m off early today. In about half an hour.”

  “Great. And it’s my day off. So unless I get called in, I’m free too.”

  The veggie burger sizzled as it hit the grill. “Won’t your grandmother be expecting you?”

  “I’ve been kicked out. She says I’m an insufferable bully whose weapon of choice is a fork.”

  “Ah. You got her to eat something?”

  “Barely two bites. But almost four ounces of the liquid supplement. Mixed-berry flavor—you don’t want to know what she said about that stuff. Anyway, I told her I’d give her a break. And have coffee with you. She liked that—said maybe there’s hope for me yet.”

  Aimee smiled despite the ache in her throat; the loving and playful relationship between Lucas and his grandmother—and the threat to it—prodded memories of her mother.

  “There’s that place down the road,” Lucas continued, raising his voice over the sputter-hiss of his frozen fries meeting the cooking oil. “Nemo’s. Great coffee, but lousy acoustics and packed like a sardine can. I thought I could grab coffees and bring them back here. And we can walk down to the overlook? I should stay fairly close since I’m supposed to get word about a meeting with one of my grandmother’s doctors.”

  “That’s perfect,” Aimee assured him, with some relief. She wasn’t dressed for anything that resembled a date and wasn’t ready to start her imagination trotting down that path anyway. Rhubarb and strawberries were all she had room for this week. Along with some take-out coffee. Definitely room for coffee. “I’ll finish up here while you eat your burger. Then I’ll get out of this uniform and this ridiculous chef hat.”

  Lucas raised his brows. “The hat is part of the uniform? I thought it was some new fashion trend. I was going to offer you a pair of crime scene shoe covers to go with it and—”

  “Careful.” Aimee brandished the cooking spatula. “My weapon of choice.”

  “IT’S POISONOUS?”

  “Only the leaves,” Aimee explained, obviously unaware how amazing she looked with that coastal sun mining the copper in her hair. “The rhubarb stalks are what you eat. The curly green leaves get tossed.”

  “Unless you’re on the chef’s hit list.”

  Aimee shook her head, causing gold to meld with the copper. Her smile over the brim of her coffee cup made Lucas’s pulse hike. “Never talk cuisine with a crime scene guy.”

  “The only time I ever tasted rhubarb was when I was a kid. I thought it was red celery. And smeared it with peanut butter.” He grimaced.

  Aimee laughed. “Bitter as all get-out. That’s why you add sugar.” She lifted the glazed scone he’d bought with their coffees. “But probably not more than in these, because I’m mixing the rhubarb slices with fruit—strawberries. Natural sugar.”

  “The bitter with the sweet.” Lucas nodded, gazed out over the spectacular view. Even after a lifetime in San Diego, he never tired of seeing that blue ocean beyond the sand, hearing the soul-soothing sound of the waves. “I’m sure there’s some sort of life metaphor there.” He met Aimee’s eyes again, remembering, like he had late into the night, the sensation of holding her close. “Today I’d rather just think about the sweet. So, rhubarb, sugar, strawberries, and . . . ?”

  “Nice try. But no chance.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and Lucas realized they were the exact color of the sea behind her. “You think I’m going to give you the recipe? How do I know you’re not a culinary spy? I’m not about to reveal my secrets.”

  It was no secret to Lucas that this woman managed to stir emotions he thought he’d set aside. Had no time, or need, for. But holding her last night, seeing her now, only proved his grandmother’s often-repeated theory: “There comes a time when you see with your heart.” A week ago he’d seen a beautiful and stubborn young woman working the angles to get herself out of a bad situation. But then he’d seen her kindness, her dogged determination, intelligence, humor, and—

  “Not going to admit to recipe espionage?” she asked, prodding Lucas from his thoughts.

  “You’re safe with me,” he told her, glad she couldn’t guess that he’d started to wonder what it would be like to kiss her. Brush that coppery hair away from her face, draw her close, and . . .

  “Out of respect for my ‘art’?” Aimee asked, the teasing gone from her voice. “You said that about my cooking, called it my ‘culinary art.’”

  “Yes. I think my grandmother helped me to see a lot of things through that lens. She always talked about spiritual gifts. She said we all have them—God-given talents—and that part of our work here on earth is to discover them and use them for good. She thinks of her painting in that respect. And tells me that my eye for photography is a gift too.”

  “I agree. On both counts. Though your contemporary olive work was not the least bit inspired.” She chuckled, brushed scone crumbs from her lips.

  There it was again, the thought of kissing her. Get a grip, Marchal. “Does it feel that way to you, too? Cooking, I mean. That it’s your calling?”

  Lucas didn’t expect Aimee’s reaction, certainly not a sudden welling of tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, swiping at her eye with the coffee napkin. “I’m fine. It’s just that cooking was a huge part of my relationship with my mother.”

  “No need to apologize. She . . . That’s what you meant yesterday, when you said you knew what it felt like to lose someone?”

  “Mom died ten years ago. Ten years on Valentine’s Day.”

  Lucas flinched. “She passed away on your birthday?”

  “My sixteenth. She was sick for a while, but I don’t think you’re ever prepared for . . .” Aimee found a smile. “Mom was a school nurse. She always kept an eye out for kids who needed some extra TLC. And food. You should have seen the sack of homemade power bars and fruit she lugged to school. She was an incredible cook, and I was her sous-chef. I think my first bib was an apron.” She sighed. “Kitchen time with Mom was the best.”

  “That recipe for the contest—it’s hers?” Lucas deduced.

  “Strawberry rhubarb crumble was my favorite birthday ‘cake.’ I could always count on it. And some daphne.”

  “Daffy? Like . . . the duck?”

  “D-a-p-h-n-e.” Aimee spelled it for him. “The February birthday flower. She’d find one and tuck it behind my ear, from the very first birthday I can remember. It’s pink and white, sort of delicate, and smells like heaven. It’s from a shrub that only blooms this month. I guess it’s very finicky to grow.” Aimee shook her head. “Like rhubarb in Southern California. Thank heaven for the Garden of Eatin’.”

  Lucas was quiet for a moment, watching her sea-color eyes and thinking there was so much more behind them than he’d ever guessed. “And now, on your birthday, you’re fixing her recipe. For the Vegan Valentine Bake-Off.”

  “Yes. To honor her. And because the grand prize is full tuition for culinary school. I think she’d like to see me do that.” Aimee took a breath. “I’ve been a little slow at finding my calling. And now all of it—the contest, my birthday, the tenth anniversary of losing her, and that dessert—feels like it was all supposed to happen. Like God had a hand in it.” She met Lucas’s gaze. “Does that make me sound like a crazy person?”

  “No.” He resisted the strong urge to pull her close, hug
her like he had last night. Or maybe Aimee had reached out to him first; Lucas still wasn’t sure. He only knew that it had felt right. Felt that way now too. “I don’t think it sounds crazy at all. I do believe in a divine plan.” He smiled. “And my grandmother would give a big amen to that.”

  “My mother too.” Aimee peered out across the ocean. “You’re talking with your grandmother’s doctor today?”

  “Her geriatric psychiatrist. Or I should say, the one that was assigned to her. My grandmother had plenty to say about that, trust me.”

  “Why a psychiatrist? Unless I’m being too nosy.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Lucas fielded the familiar stab of pain. “To evaluate her for dementia or clinical depression. Find a reason for her refusal to eat and come back after the stroke.”

  “Is dementia possible? I mean, your grandmother seems so clear.”

  “She does—is—from everything I can see. I think the psych component is part of a standard evaluation in these cases.” He hated that his stomach had gone sour. Best to change the subject. “So . . . this dog of Wanda’s, what kind is it?”

  “A corgi named Potter. Old, from what I can tell. And really friendly.” Aimee smiled. “I thought he was going to topple off the tailgate of Wanda’s SUV to get to me. Her best friend, looks like.”

  “My grandmother loves dogs. They had an old beagle until a couple of years ago. My grandfather always talked about surprising her with another one. But . . .” Lucas thought better of restating the obvious. “I’d go out and buy her a dog today if I thought it would help.”

  “You always hear that animals are good medicine.”

  They were both quiet for a while, watching the waves in the distance. A gull soared overhead, his lone cry unanswered.

  Lucas shifted his weight, drew in a breath. He told himself to just say it. “If things heat up on the abduction case I’m working, the way the authorities think they will, I’ll probably be doing some overtime. Hustling between evidence gathering and the hospital. And you’ve got work, plus whatever you need to do to get ready for that contest.”

  Aimee’s eyes met his, and Lucas almost lost his nerve.

  “I mean, it’s a hectic week for both of us. And you’re probably already doing something for your birthday weekend. But—”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “I don’t have any other plans for the weekend. My father will call on Saturday—he lives in Orange County now. And my brother will text, probably two or three days late.” Aimee shook her head. “First-year medical student at OHSU, Oregon. He doesn’t even remember his own birthday. My cousin’s working swing shift all weekend. So even if I win, I’ll probably just be happy dancing at home by my—”

  “I want to take you to dinner,” Lucas said in a rush. “Sunday, if that works. I promise I won’t pay any waiters to embarrass you with a birthday song. Nothing like that.” Either his heart was hammering his ears or a tsunami was about to wipe out San Diego. He was out of practice with this kind of thing. “I like you, Aimee. And I thought it might be good to see each other away from the hospital. You know?”

  Her cheeks were his new favorite color again. “Yes.”

  “Yes, you know? Or yes, you’ll come to dinner with me on Sunday?”

  “Both.”

  He stared, the tsunami becoming a warm eddy. “That’s . . . great. That’s—” his pocket buzzed—“my cell phone. Excuse me a second.”

  “Sure.”

  He read the text and then checked the time. “I need to get back to the hospital,” he explained. “The doctor wants to talk with me.”

  “I’m ready.” Aimee grabbed her paper trash and coffee, reached for her purse. “I’m sure, like you said, that psych exam was simply routine. I don’t think they’ll find a problem.”

  “Right,” Lucas said as they started back up the road to the hospital. “Routine.”

  He thought about taking Aimee’s hand, but it was probably too soon for something like that. Besides, would she want anything to do with him if she knew the truth? Today’s psychiatric exam wasn’t routine. Lucas had asked for it. If his grandmother was found incompetent, it could explain her decisions regarding her advance medical directive—the refusal of IVs and feeding tubes even as temporary measures. Her health was declining. Was Lucas really supposed to stand by and let that happen? Especially if today’s exam showed that Rosalynn Marchal wasn’t as “clear” as Aimee thought?

  A wave of guilt made his gut tense. Am I hoping for that?

  “PICKING UP MY PAYCHECK. Not here to work,” Wanda explained. “But Potter wanted to walk around the grounds and see people. Didn’t you, buddy?” As if to prove her words, the little dog whined and stretched his leash toward Aimee, tail waving like a Veterans Day parade flag.

  “Hey there, fella.” She knelt on the hospital sidewalk, rubbed the dog’s velvety ears as he stretched up to give her a lick. “You look like you’re feeling better.”

  “One more week on the medications.” Wanda shifted the leash from one hand to the other, and Aimee caught a glimpse of the bruise on her elbow. It was changing colors, almost an olive green now, Aimee thought, then quickly shoved any reminder of olives aside.

  “Then he can stay at home while I work,” Wanda added, smiling down at her dog. Once again Aimee was amazed at the transformation in her features. Like that moment the Grinch’s heart grew. “Though I think he’ll miss the chance to make friends. He’s a schmoozer.”

  “You know,” Aimee ventured, chuckling at the corgi’s blissful response to a chin scratch, “I’ll bet the rehab patients would get a real kick out of meeting Potter. I can’t imagine anyone not smiling when they see this guy. And you always hear that dogs are good therapy.” She risked a glance up at Wanda, expecting the terse twitch of the woman’s lips.

  “Rules.”

  “I’ve seen patients in the extended-care wing have pet visits,” Aimee countered, standing again. A thought struck her. “Mrs. Marchal and her husband lost their dog a few years back. Her husband planned to get her a new one, but . . .” Aimee saw by the pinch of Wanda’s brows that she understood the widow’s loss. Not the same as her own ugly situation, but she’d suffered too. “Maybe meeting Potter would perk her up,” Aimee continued. “And of course, Margie—”

  “Needs no perking—please!” Despite the aide’s attempt at a grouchy smirk, there was an inkling of amusement in her weary eyes. Wanda glanced down at Potter. “I suppose I could slip in the side door, say I forgot something at my locker.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well . . .” The aide reached down and lifted the little dog into her arms. Then shot a pointed look at Aimee between his oversize ears. “If I do it, and if I get in trouble, I’ll say it was your idea.”

  “Deal.”

  Aimee walked across the parking lot to her own car, thinking this was the second deal she’d entered into with this nurse’s aide. Both of them a bit of a risk, but maybe some risks were worth taking. Like the baking contest. And . . . She smiled. Accepting a date with Lucas Marchal.

  “It’s a cliché, I know,” the psychiatrist told Lucas as she rubbed her glasses on the hem of her blouse, “but this really is such a small world.” A dimple appeared in the rosy roundness of one cheek. “I have a Rosalynn Marchal oil hanging in my office. I won the bid at a Humane Society auction a few years back. It’s an ocean study. The most amazing azure blue, with those two whitewashed chairs on the beach . . . Everyone comments on it. Peaceful being the key word.”

  Lucas nodded; he could use some peace in his small world right now. “Did my grandmother . . . ? Was she able to talk much?”

  “She’s weak.” The doctor glanced toward the doorway of the visitors’ lounge as if to assure their privacy. “But we talked. About painting, actually—marvelous for me, since I learned a bit more about my purchase—and then about your grandfather. His illness and her stroke on the heels of that.” The psychiatrist slipped her glasses on and met Lucas�
��s gaze directly. “I wouldn’t be discussing this without her permission.”

  “I know that. I respect it. I . . . love my grandmother.”

  “It shows.” The doctor’s eyes were kind. “And you’re very important to her as well. She doesn’t see a conflict between her love for you and her decisions regarding her medical directives.”

  “Choosing to give up and die?” Lucas knew he sounded blunt.

  The doctor was quiet for a moment. “I can understand how it might feel that way. And that her living will puts you in a very uncomfortable position.”

  “Tell me about it.” Lucas’s lips compressed. “She seems mentally clear to you?”

  “She does. Your grandmother’s given this a lot of thought, and not just recently. Though I have the sense that her losses have reinforced what she’s always felt was true: that, when the time comes, she’s not leaving this world as much as she is ‘going home.’ I’m sure you know that her faith is a huge source of comfort. And peace.”

  Lucas dragged his fingers through his hair, struggling to form the words. “Did she say she wants to die?”

  “No.” The doctor sought his gaze, empathy in her eyes as she repeated, “No. She simply said that, right now, life on earth has lost its flavor. And that heaven is calling.”

  Lucas frowned. “Well, if you ask me, heaven’s got the wrong number—and I’ll do everything I can to find some ‘flavor’ my grandmother likes. If I have to hire Baskin-Robbins to do a drive-by.”

  “I hear you.” Once again the doctor’s expression was full of warmth. The dimple reappeared. “And she told me to expect that kind of reaction. She says that you’re a ‘science guy,’ and you’ve got to map things out on a spreadsheet to make sense of them. She thinks you still need to learn that there comes a time when you—”

  “See with your heart,” Lucas said, finishing the thought. “I’ve heard that a few times before.” He drew in a deep breath and released it, trying to convince himself that this was good news. A positive report from a doctor in the midst of too many bad ones lately. “Did my grandmother say anything else?”