Just Like Heaven

by Barbara Bretton

  He switched off the lights and locked the door. Scott, Matty, and Ann were waiting for him in the parking lot for the weekly run to Zaslow’s for pastrami and fellowship.

  “I’ve got news,” he said after they’d settled into a booth and placed their orders.

  “You won the Megabucks lottery,” Ann said.

  “You’re trading in that Honda for a Pinto,” Matty chimed in.

  “You sold the house,” Scott said, “didn’t you?”

  “I signed the papers Wednesday morning,” he said. “We close the Thursday before Memorial Day.”

  “Shit.” Matty didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. “That was fast.”

  Ann elbowed Matty in his well-padded ribs. “You knew this was going to happen sooner or later.”

  Scott gave Mark one of those ex-cop looks that had scared hell out of a generation of perps. “You got the job?”

  “I got the job.”

  It was a bittersweet moment for all of them. They had all known he would go back sooner or later, but it surprised them just the same. He told them about the timeline his real estate agent had laid out and about the equally stringent timeline Maggy had set for his return to New Hampshire.

  “I don’t see what they’ve got that we haven’t got,” Matty said. “Maple syrup? You can get that at Costco.”

  Ann shot him a look. “We all have fences to mend. Mark’s happen to be in New Hampshire.”

  The waitress brought their orders and they tucked into pastrami sandwiches while they caught up on the last week. Matty had had a root canal. Ann’s traffic dispute was headed to court. Scott’s insurance work might take him to Dallas next week, but he wouldn’t know until Sunday night.

  “We already know what your week was like,” Ann said, reaching for a kosher dill. “You’re pulling up stakes and leaving us behind.”

  He looked up from the remains of his sandwich. “Actually there’s more.” And he told them about the red-haired woman in the Miata.

  Even he had to admit it was a damn good story. It had drama, a hint of sex, a touch of ER and Grey’s Anatomy. What it didn’t have was any kind of resolution.

  “You went all the way to the hospital with her and you never got her name? What a moron!” Ann was the tactful one of the group.

  “I had other things on my mind.” Her life had seemed more important than her identity at the time.

  “So why are you looking for her?” Scott probed. “Idle curiosity or is it something else?”

  He didn’t answer right away, which was an answer in itself. “She was carrying some Revolutionary War documents in a metal box. I brought them with us on the ambulance but—” They knew the rest.

  “You’ve got a problem, pal,” Scott said as the others exchanged meaningful looks. “No name. No ID. You don’t even know where they took her.”

  “You could take out an ad in the paper,” Ann suggested. “If those papers are valuable, somebody’s bound to know about them and see it.”

  “What you need is a plate number,” Scott the ex-cop said. “If you had that I could run a trace for you.”

  Mark reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper and slid it across the table toward Scott. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  To Kate’s surprise she was able to convince both her mother and her daughter that she could manage without them for one night and persuaded them to go home a little after five p.m.

  Gwynn got all teary when they were saying good-bye. “Be happy for me,” she whispered in Kate’s ear as they hugged. “I know what I’m doing is right.”

  Kate hugged her back, but the words Gwynn wanted to hear wouldn’t come. “Don’t forget to call Aidan O’Malley,” she said instead. “He’s not going to hold your job forever.”

  She regretted her comment as soon as it passed her lips. Gwynn’s slender body stiffened in her arms and Kate felt a wall rise between them.

  Maeve shook her head in obvious disbelief. Kate didn’t blame her. Of all the things she could have said to her daughter, all the words of wisdom or love or comfort she could have offered, she had opted for the practical with a side order of implied criticism. Better hold on to your waitress job, honey, because Fisherman Andy will never earn enough money to support you both.

  They had had their differences over the years. What mother and daughter hadn’t? But she had never felt the sense of isolation that she felt right now.

  For the first time since her heart attack, Kate was alone, and she settled back down against the pillows.

  Sleeping in the middle of the day was still an alien concept. She envied people who could shut out the world and nap while the sun was shining. She flipped through the stack of books and magazines on her nightstand, but nothing caught her interest. Judge Judy was dispensing rough justice on one of the local television stations, but she wasn’t in the mood for battling families and their operatic confrontations. She had had enough of that already today.

  She looked at the clock. The evening crush of visitors was still an hour away. Paul had been there every night, driving all the way down from Manhattan through rush-hour traffic. Her assistant, Sonia; her accountant, Liz; Max the refinisher; Haoyin from across the street; Lydia, the clockmaker; Cookie Moore, the fiber artist from Clinton; even Marilyn Perrone, who had tried to put her out of business last year and wasn’t the least bit apologetic about it: they all made it their business to turn room 405 into Party Central.

  She wasn’t a big fan of early evening. Everyone rushing around, heading home, heading out, hooking up with friends and lovers, planning the night ahead. It was the only time of day when she ever felt lonely, when the choices she had made didn’t fit quite as well as they did the other twenty-three hours of the day.

  It had been different when Gwynn was little and there had been all of the chaos and drama of after-school activities, making supper, supervising homework and bath time, signing permission slips, making costumes, sitting by the window trying to pretend she wasn’t waiting up for her daughter to come home from a date. She had been secretly glad when Gwynn decided against going away to school and opted for Rutgers instead. Not that she dreaded an empty nest, but there was something to be said for delaying the inevitable as long as you could.

  French Kiss was her top priority now, and the hard work and long hours were paying greater dividends than she had ever imagined. She couldn’t wait to get back to the shop and start unpacking all of those boxes and crates she’d brought back from England. It would be like Christmas all over again.

  There it was again, one of those flickering buzzes of memory just out of reach. An appointment? A meeting? Something important but she couldn’t pull it up from the darkness no matter how hard she tried. Lombardi had told her not to worry about the gaps in her memory, that most of the missing bits and pieces would fill themselves in, and even if they didn’t, she had suffered no permanent damage.

  Still, she had been down in the Princeton area for some reason, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember what that reason was.

  She was grateful for the interruption when Janine, her favorite nurse, breezed into the room with an armful of red roses.

  “Good,” Janine said. “You’re awake.”

  “It’s only five-thirty,” Kate said with a rueful laugh. “Of course I’m awake.”

  “Should I give you the standard lecture on resting up while you’re here or would you rather talk about these gorgeous flowers?”

  “Definitely the flowers.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Janine buried her nose in the abundant blooms and breathed deeply. “We took a vote and decided this batch says a whole lot more than ‘Get well soon.’ ”

  Three dozen bloodred roses in a cut crystal vase did make a statement.

  “Are you sure they’re for me?” There wasn’t anybody on her romantic horizon and hadn’t been for a long while.

  “Honey, who else could they be for? You’ve cornered the flower trade around these pa
rts.” Janine plucked a card from the center of the profusion of roses and handed it to Kate.

  Kate read the card and laughed out loud.

  Let’s give ’em something to talk about.—PG

  “So who is he?” Janine asked as she made room for the roses on the windowsill. “That’s one very major statement the guy is making here.”

  “Nothing romantic,” Kate said, laughing at the look of disappointment on the other woman’s face. “Just my friend Paul trying to stir up trouble.”

  “Which one is Paul?”

  “The one who sent pizzas up to the nurses’ lounge yesterday. I’ve known him since I was five years old.” She slipped the card into the top drawer of the nightstand. “Trust me, there’s nothing romantic going on.” Thirty-six red roses? What were you thinking, Grantham?

  “A major hottie sends you a boatload of roses and you’re telling me there’s nothing romantic?”

  It did sound ridiculous, but this was Paul they were talking about. He was like her brother.

  “We found out a very long time ago that we work better as friends.”

  “And he’s not gay?”

  “Definitely not gay.”

  “Then I’d rethink this if I were you. A man doesn’t send three dozen red roses to a pal. Looks to me like you’re wasting an opportunity.”

  Close friendship between a straight man and a straight woman would always be suspect. The hopeless romantics of the world, and there were an awful lot of them, usually hoped for more and were invariably disappointed by people like Kate.

  Romantic love wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She had never experienced that rush of excitement at the sound of a man’s voice or the touch of his hand that sent Maeve’s and Gwynn’s blood racing on a regular basis. The romantic gene that defined the other French women had clearly skipped a generation and left her immune.

  Janine was halfway out the door when she stopped and turned back. “What’s wrong with me? There’s someone here to see you but he wanted me to make sure you weren’t napping first.”

  Her family believed in an open-door policy even when the door in question was locked and bolted. Her friends and co-workers didn’t stand on ceremony either. Only a stranger would worry about whether she was sleeping. Wouldn’t it be terrific if it was the Good Samaritan in the Grateful Dead T-shirt?

  Instead, a perfectly pleasant-looking man in a black turtleneck and black slacks smiled at her from the doorway. Doctor? Lawyer? Renegade therapist?

  “I’m Father Boyle. I apologize for just dropping by, but Sheila Fennessey said you might want to speak with someone.”

  For the second time that day Kate considered making a run for it, but twelve years of Catholic school education were hard to ignore so she stayed put, even though “Catholic” was more of a historical reference point than a current description of her religious beliefs.

  “I’m afraid my aunt Sheila sent you out here on a wild-goose chase.” She shook his hand and motioned for him to take a seat. “She probably forgot to tell you that I haven’t been inside a church for anything other than a wedding in at least twenty years.”

  “God doesn’t keep a calendar on us.”

  “That isn’t what Sister Michael Maureen said back at St. Aloysius.” She meant it as a joke, but the joke carried a slight sting.

  She had to hand it to him. He didn’t flinch. “I’m sure Sister Michael Maureen has updated her perspective since you last talked to her.”

  Clearly he had never met Sister Michael Maureen, but she restrained herself from saying so. She might not believe the way she had as a child, but respect for his religious vocation curbed her tongue. In many ways, once a good Catholic schoolgirl, always a good Catholic schoolgirl. Old habits died hard.

  He inquired about her health and she ran through the story for what felt like the fiftieth time that day.

  “Looks like God has other plans for you,” Father Boyle said when she finished. “You’ve been given a second chance.”

  Why did the notion of second chances get under her skin the way it did? “Maybe it just wasn’t my time.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “I don’t know, Father, and to be honest I’m not sure it matters.” Where was it guaranteed that you wouldn’t make even worse mistakes the second time around?

  “Most people find themselves with a renewed sense of faith after an experience like yours.”

  “To be honest, all I’ve found myself with is a renewed sense of boredom. I can’t wait to get home and back to work.”

  “You’ve been through a life-changing experience. Don’t minimize its effect on your spiritual and emotional life. It takes some people longer than others to process all of the changes. Fortunately God has infinite patience with us.”

  “You sound like my mother.” She didn’t mention that Maeve dabbled in Wicca or that her daughter was exploring the Kabbalah. The man had his ecclesiastical hands full enough with her.

  “Faith can be a comfort in troubled times.”

  “I know,” she said, taken aback by the catch in her voice. Since when did she get all emotional about religion? “I wish—” She shook her head.

  “Go on,” he said. “I’m here to listen.” Father Boyle settled back in the chair as if there were no other place in heaven or on earth that he’d rather be.

  “I wish my daughter weren’t dating a fisherman. I wish I could remember what I was doing in Princeton on Monday. And I wish I had something interesting to say, Father, but I don’t. The heart thing was a minor problem, they took care of it, and I can’t wait to get back to normal.”

  “No, I want to know what was it you stopped yourself from saying.”

  “You’re good,” she said with a small laugh. “I thought I covered pretty well.”

  “You did,” the priest said. “We often hold back from saying the thing that’s most important to us.”

  “Okay,” she said, taking a metaphorical deep breath, “I wish I could thank the man who saved my life, but they rushed me out of St. Francis so fast that we lost each other. That’s what I was going to say.” And she wished she hadn’t. Saying it out loud that way hammered home the enormity of what had happened to her and she preferred to keep it an arm’s length away.

  “Chaplains have a pretty good network. I might be able to find out something for you.”

  “I appreciate that, Father, but I think it’s a lost cause at this point.”

  Father Boyle was a smart guy and he knew the brush-off when he heard it.

  “Would you mind if I said a prayer for your continued recovery?”

  To her surprise, she didn’t mind at all.

  He stood up next to her bed and bowed his head. The words were simple and direct. She didn’t know where those words went or who, if anyone, actually heard them, but to her surprise the gesture touched her mending heart.

  “Call me if you’d like to talk,” Father Boyle said. He propped a business card against the telephone on her nightstand, then said good-bye.

  Her days at St. Aloysius seemed a very long time ago, and for a moment she almost missed them.

  It had been nice to believe that someone was out there watching over her.

  Five

  Dr. Lombardi scrolled his way down the screen of information, then turned toward Kate. “Looks perfect,” he said, breaking into a smile. “You’re a free woman.”

  “You mean, right now?” she asked. “This minute?”

  “As soon as I can fill out the paperwork and you can find yourself a ride home.”

  “And I can go back to work on Monday?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You said everything looks perfect. I feel wonderful. My shop is less than a mile away. It’s almost silly not to go back.”

  “Sit down, Kate. You’re going home but you’re not in the clear just yet.”

  He explained her situation, the slim odds of a recurrence, the steps he wanted her to take to avoid one, the regimen o
f meds and physical exercise that would be part of her daily schedule, some behavioral modifications he hoped she would adopt.

  “I’ll do my best, Doctor, but I have to tell you I’ve tried meditation and it didn’t work.”

  “Try again.”

  “It stressed me out more than the problems I was dealing with.”

  “I highly recommend you keep trying. It will help you deal with the emotional aftereffects that accompany MIs.”

  “Everyone keeps mentioning these emotional aftereffects, but I have to tell you that I just plain don’t know what on earth you’re talking about. I feel the same as I did before this happened.”

  “No euphoria?” he asked. “No renewed appreciation for life?”

  “I wish I could say yes, but life seems pretty much the same as it did before this happened.” Which wasn’t a bad thing. She liked her life just fine.

  “Well, there are exceptions to everything, but as a rule my patients have a period of intense euphoria and renewed joy in life.”

  “Is the euphoria permanent?”

  “No,” he said. “Sometimes it lasts a few days, sometimes a few weeks, and it disappears without warning. I warn my patients not to make any big decisions for a few weeks because their judgment may not be as keen as usual. Most stick close to home and family, but I’ve had a few patients who married, divorced, quit their jobs, and ran off to Tahiti in those first few postcardiac weeks. You need to take care.”

  “You just described my family,” she said. “I had the heart attack, they’re suffering the aftereffects.”

  “Just take it slow,” he warned again. “This isn’t the time to make life-changing decisions.”

  “Doctor,” she said, unable to hold back the laughter, “believe me, I’m the last person you have to worry about.”

  Rocky Hill—later that same morning

  There had to be a limit to how many times a man could check his e-mail without causing serious damage to the motherboard.