Chance of Loving You

by Terri Blackstock

  He stopped at a green clump, snapped on the gloves, and focused his flashlight beam. Shiny red stalks, about an inch wide—he was in the right place. Now to . . . Lucas knelt, grabbed a stalk, and gave it a twist at the base, the way Aiden had instructed. It broke off cleanly. He smiled, blocked the collie as she tried to lick his face, and twisted a second one, then a third. He slipped them into the evidence bag. Easy. He’d been told to take no more than four per plant. Aiden thought a dozen stalks, about a pound, should be more than enough for strawberry rhubarb crumble.

  Aimee.

  Lucas had tried to call her several times, but the cell coverage was bad out here. He wanted to let her know he had the rhubarb, and he wanted to say he was sorry for how he’d been on the phone. Guilt jabbed again. She’d sounded anxious, concerned. And he’d blown her off the minute he’d determined she’d be of no use to him. For his plan. His need to control it all—make sense of his grandmother’s situation in the same way he deconstructed a crime scene. Tidy, organized, palatable.

  Lucas twisted another stalk, then gazed across the moonlit field, up at the sky. Stars had begun to appear. He took a deep breath of the fresh, loam-scented air and thought of his grandmother. Her garden, her art, her strength . . . and her deep faith. Her humor and gentle wisdom had been a gift to him all these years. “See with your heart.”

  Maybe he’d been so busy trying to control what was happening with her—to save himself from grieving another loss—that he couldn’t see the truth: she was being “called home.” Maybe his stubborn need to hold her here was selfish and unfair. Unrealistic. Maybe, like Aimee was trying to do for her mother with that birthday dessert, Lucas ought to be thinking more of honoring his grandmother by respecting her decisions.

  Even if it meant letting her go.

  “Lord, please . . .” He bowed his head and whispered around the deepening ache in his throat. “Help me to accept what I need to.”

  AIMEE REACHED San Diego Hope’s rehab unit just after the aides prepared the patients for sleep and dimmed the hallway and room lights. Margie was already snoring, a valentine teddy bear hugged tightly against her chubby neck. It was hard to see, from the doorway, if Mrs. Marchal was still awake. But even in the scant light, she looked fatigued and drawn. As Aimee approached, she could tell that someone had applied moisturizing balm to her lips, giving them a faint sheen, and her long hair lay over one shoulder, brushed and secured with a blue ribbon. The tray table was pulled close, her Bible and the French Alps photo within reach of her unaffected arm.

  Aimee saw the water pitcher on the bedside stand and wished she knew if Lucas’s grandmother had taken any of her dinner. She took a slow breath, remembering her mother’s most important “ingredients.” With love, patience . . .

  Mrs. Marchal’s eyes opened, then widened as she recognized Aimee. “How . . . delightful.” She glanced toward the darkened windows. “It’s late for you to be here, isn’t it?”

  “I’m adapting my schedule. To make time for things that really matter.” Aimee smiled and pulled a chair close. “Like seeing you.” She reached through the bedrails, gave the woman’s arm a gentle squeeze. “How are you today, Mrs. Marchal?”

  “Depends on who you ask.” The woman sighed. “Those doctors, with all their useless talk of tests, therapy plans . . . If they had a paint palette, it would be nothing but black and gray.”

  Aimee thought of Lucas’s photos of his grandmother’s art. “If it was your palette, what color was this day?”

  Mrs. Marchal tipped her head, clearly amused. “Paint my day?” Her slow smile was much like her grandson’s. “Is this a clever new plan guaranteed to have me jogging the halls and ordering pizza delivery? Did Lucas send you on a mission of mercy?”

  “Not exactly,” Aimee hedged, feeling guilty all over again. “Pizza wasn’t mentioned—or paint.” She smiled back at the woman. “But I’ll admit, I’d be happy to tell him I found a way to coax you into drinking a tall glass of that berry-flavored supplement.”

  “Berry?” Mrs. Marchal shook her head. “By no stretch of the imagination. And I still have quite a good one, even if my grandson would prefer to prove that I’ve lost my mental faculties.” She rubbed the weakened fingers of her right hand. “Along with everything else.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Aimee told her. “Lucas has nothing but respect for you. And so much love. It’s just that . . .” She hesitated, choosing her words. There were boundaries even on a mercy mission. “I think I know how he feels, Mrs. Marchal. I lost my mother when I was sixteen, ten years ago tomorrow. I knew it was coming and that only a miracle could change things. I prayed for that miracle, right until the end.” Aimee’s throat constricted. “I’d still give anything to have more time, even one day with her.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Marchal glanced at the silver-framed photo.

  “Lucas doesn’t want to lose you,” Aimee said, lowering her voice as an aide peeked through the doorway. She met Mrs. Marchal’s gaze. “He’s doing everything he can because, even if he’s a grown man, he still needs his grandmother.”

  “Ah . . . I see. Of course . . .” Mrs. Marchal lay back against her pillow, closed her eyes.

  Several minutes passed. Silent, except for Margie’s muffled snore and the occasional sound of staff voices down the hallway. Just when Aimee was certain she’d fallen asleep, she spoke again.

  “Rembrandt Perm Red,” she whispered, a wistful look on her face. “And Aliz Crimson . . . No, perhaps Quinn Red instead of the Aliz. Mix it a little.”

  Aimee scooted the chair closer. “Are those paint colors, Mrs. Marchal?”

  “Oils. The palette I’d use for real berries.” She rubbed her weakened fingers again, then lifted her left hand as if making brushstrokes. “French Vermilion and Burnt Scarlet can be lovely. I like a glaze, but . . .” The invisible brush swept the air in fluid, unhesitating strokes. “The layers must be dry. It takes time if you want the berries to look beautifully real.”

  Aimee thought of the photo Lucas had shown her. Layered blues and reds . . . His grandfather’s wool cap filled with—“What kind of berries are you painting?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

  “Strawberries.” Mrs. Marchal lowered the imaginary brush, and her gaze moved to the framed photo on the tray table. “Fraises des bois. Mountain strawberries.” She took a breath, let it out slowly. “Louis climbed hours to pick them for me. So small. But so . . .” Her eyes closed a moment, and a smile teased her lips.

  Aimee leaned closer. “Sweet?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Marchal lifted her fingers to her lips, her eyes soft and her expression almost luminous. A tear slid down her cheek. “They taste . . . like heaven. If only I could . . .”

  Strawberries.

  “Wait. Don’t move. Stay right there,” Aimee stammered foolishly, her thoughts racing as she slid from her chair. “I’ll be right back. I’ll hurry.”

  It took her ten minutes to find the evening supervisor, three more to convince the woman to open the dietary door, and another few minutes to lift the sack of farmers’ market strawberries—complete with Don’t Touch signs in two languages—from the refrigerator. That she jogged back to rehab without crushing any of the berries was a complete miracle. The first of two miracles, she prayed.

  “I brought you something,” she rasped, pulling her chair close to Mrs. Marchal’s bed again. “I have something for you.”

  Aimee reached into the sack, retrieved a basket of Rembrandt Red berries. The scent—sweet as heaven—filled the air scant seconds before two fat berries rolled from the basket and plopped onto Mrs. Marchal’s hospital gown.

  “Oops.”

  “You’re pelting me with strawberries?” Mrs. Marchal chuckled, her fingers closing around one. “That’s your newest plan, Aimee Curran?”

  “My plan . . . and my paint palette,” Aimee told her, waving the basket slowly under her nose. The scent wafted like sun-warmed hope. “More red for both of us. What do you think, Mrs. Marchal?” />
  “I think . . .” Lucas’s grandmother brought the berry to her lips. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I think if we’re going to sit up half the night eating strawberries together, you should probably call me Rosalynn.”

  “MISS CURRAN WITHDREW her name from the competition,” the man explained in a German accent, his spotless white cook’s clothing identifying him as an official even without the name badge. “She said something quite important had come up.”

  “Important?” Lucas shifted the bulky evidence bag. “Did she say anything more?”

  “Only that she was sorry for any inconvenience.” The man peered at the bag in Lucas’s arms. Pale dawn light through the contest kitchen windows caught the ruby color of the stalks. “That’s very lovely rhubarb.”

  “Uh, yeah . . . Well, thank you for your help.”

  “Please tell Miss Curran that I wish her well.” The man smiled. “I have a hunch we can expect great things from that young lady.”

  Lucas said good-bye, then tapped Aimee’s number into his phone. It went to voice mail the same way it had last night. He checked the time and decided it was too early to swing by her apartment and completely wrong to abuse his resources to track down an address she’d never given him.

  “She said something quite important had come up.” What did that mean? Had she simply given up on the baking contest because of the rhubarb? It didn’t sound like Aimee.

  Lucas shelved his concern, drove on to the hospital instead. Hopefully his grandmother was awake and there would be time to talk with her before the rehab evaluation team came by. After those insightful moments last night—while being hissed at by a goose patrol in a rhubarb patch—he’d decided that his only priority was to be his grandmother’s advocate. He’d offer loving support of her wishes. Even though he was still holding out hope that this morning’s blood tests would show some improvement. . . .

  “It’s Lucas!” Margie cheered as he crossed the room’s threshold. “You’re in time for the party. It’s been going all night!”

  He chuckled, waved, took a few steps in his grandmother’s direction . . . stopped and stared. She was sitting in a wheelchair, right arm in a sling, left hand holding a large plastic cup, from which she was sipping with a straw.

  “Juice,” she told him, setting the cup on the tray table next to something that looked like an empty stack of those green plastic fruit baskets. And maybe one of her paintbrushes? “Don’t look so surprised.” Her smile teased as if she’d bested him at skeet. “I was thirsty.”

  “I . . .” Lucas’s heart climbed toward his throat. He wasn’t imagining it; there was color in her cheeks and her eyes were clear, bright. “Did they do the blood tests?”

  “No.” His grandmother waved her hand. “I told them to go away. And I canceled that meeting with the doctors.”

  “That’s right. She sure did.” Wanda Clay walked toward the bed, offered a smile that made Lucas wonder if he was hallucinating from rhubarb toxicity. The fact that her corgi was trotting behind her only increased his suspicions. He was toxic or dreaming.

  “I’m confused,” he admitted. “What’s going on here?”

  Wanda tossed a knowing look at his grandmother. “Rosalynn talked with the dietitian, and we’re trying some new things—starting with breakfast. Your grandmother’s feeling a lot better.”

  “Because of our party!” Margie crowed, waving one of the green fruit baskets. “Everyone had strawberries, even Potter. And everybody’s feeling better now. All because of Aimee.”

  “Aimee?” Lucas asked, his confusion complete. “What— ?” He stopped midquestion as his grandmother pointed. He turned to look, and his heart stalled.

  “Hi,” she said, walking toward them. Her hair looked sleep-tossed, clothes sort of rumpled. “Remind me to bring a hairbrush next time.” Her gaze met Lucas’s, and the familiar blush rose in her cheeks. She took a soft breath. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” he managed, the whole tableau beginning to come together in his head. “I tried to call you last night. This morning too. I got your rhubarb. The Owens baby came early; that’s why they weren’t at the market. But they let me go in and pick—”

  “You did that?” Aimee’s hand pressed to her chest. “You went there and got it?”

  “Yes. And when I couldn’t reach you, I decided to go to the contest kitchen this morning. But they said—”

  “I wanted to be here,” Aimee told him, a small pucker of her brows asking Lucas to say no more. She turned to smile at his grandmother. “We made good use of the strawberries, didn’t we, Rosalynn?”

  “We did. Aimee learned a bit about painting, and I came to know some wonderful things about her mother, and that today is this dear girl’s birthday.”

  “On Valentine’s Day!” Margie chirped. “Aimee’s birthday and Valentine’s Day, and she stayed here alllll night to help Rosalynn feel better. Oh!” She pressed her hands together, eyes lighting. “You should give Aimee a kiss, Lucas. To say thank-you and happy birthday and—”

  “Margie . . .” Aimee shot the roommate a pleading look.

  “Happy birthday,” Lucas said, tempted beyond reason and not even caring that everyone, including his grandmother and Wanda’s dog, was watching. He’d never wanted to kiss any woman more than he wanted to kiss Aimee Curran right this moment. “And thank you, Aimee.”

  “That’s nice,” Margie coached. “Now go ahead and—”

  “You’re welcome,” Aimee blurted, reaching out to offer a handshake. “Really, I’m glad I came. But I should go home now and get some sleep.”

  “I’ll walk you out to your car,” Lucas told her, his pulse hiking at the warmth of her touch. “I have all that rhubarb in my truck. I’d have no idea what to do with it.”

  “Right . . .” Aimee cast a wary eye toward Margie, slipped her fingers away. “Okay. Let me grab my purse.”

  She did that, and they walked outside, each quiet with their own thoughts. Lucas got the rhubarb from his truck and handed it to her, knowing Margie would be disappointed by the lack of romance.

  “An evidence bag?” Aimee asked, meeting his gaze for the first time.

  “It’s what I had. You’re lucky there are no feathers or peck marks.” Lucas smiled. “Adventures in the Garden of Eatin’.” His breath snagged as she reached out to touch his arm.

  “Thank you, Lucas.” Aimee’s eyes grew shiny with tears. “That you did this for me . . . it means more than I can say.”

  “You did more. Far more.” He ached to pull her close. “You gave up the contest, your dream, to help my grandmother.” Lucas glanced toward the hospital. “I came here this morning to find her sitting up and eating, when only last night I decided I had to accept her choices. I prayed I’d find peace with that.”

  “I think we both learned some important things last night.”

  “Yeah.” Lucas took a step closer, glanced down at the fruit-stuffed evidence bag. “Nothing like poor planning—hug a woman and squash some rhubarb.”

  Aimee smiled. “As much as I like that idea, I . . .” She stifled a yawn. “I need a shower and a nap.”

  He didn’t want to let her out of his sight. “That dinner,” Lucas said quickly. “Sunday—tomorrow. Are we still on?”

  “Sure. But . . .” Aimee’s eyes captured his over the evidence bag. “Maybe we could get together later this evening for a while too. It’s my birthday, and I just got an idea.”

  “Sounds good,” Lucas told her, thinking nothing could beat Margie’s idea. “I’ll spend some time with my grandmother and then call you later?”

  “Yes. Around three o’clock would be good.” Aimee hugged the rhubarb stalks closer. “I should be ready by then.”

  “IT’S . . . BEYOND WORDS,” Aimee breathed, still mesmerized by the view. “When I suggested having dessert by the ocean, I never imagined this.” Her gaze swept from the sunset-pink clouds and azure water to the graceful branches and blooms beyond the driftwood gazebo high on a cliff above t
he sea. “Your grandmother’s garden is . . .” Aimee shook her head and smiled. “Completely the way I’d expect it to be. It’s amazing because Rosalynn Marchal is an amazing woman.”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  “I love it.”

  Aimee’s heart skittered as Lucas’s blue eyes met hers over the small shell-embellished table. Strings of dainty bulbs cast specks of dancing light over his crisp white oxford shirt. A collection of wind chimes tinkled on the breeze, mixing with the faint strains of classical music coming from Rosalynn’s tiny alfresco art studio. There wasn’t a more perfect setting for a birthday, a more wonderful way to celebrate it. Aimee smiled as Lucas raised his fork to his lips, savored another mouthful of her strawberry rhubarb crumble with something akin to a deep, blissful moan.

  “I’ve changed your childhood memory of rhubarb?” she teased.

  “Beyond that—I’ve forgotten the geese.”

  She laughed, still touched that he’d done that for her. Driven so far, walked up that dark path. So like his grandfather, climbing the French mountain to pick—

  “The strawberries make it perfect,” Lucas told her. “Sweet with the sour. And all this crumbly oatmeal topping . . . It’s your mother’s original recipe?”

  “Right down to the creamery butter. The only adaptation is . . . me, what I want to do with all she’s taught me. She didn’t coach me to be a ‘culinary star.’ I didn’t see that until last night. Now I know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “You’re going to talk with your supervisor tomorrow?”

  Aimee nodded. Lucas was referring to what she’d told him earlier: she wanted to become a registered dietitian. She planned to ask her department head about the required course of study for that profession. And also about the Hope medical system’s educational scholarship program. For some reason, she felt like it would all come together this time.