Half Moon Bay

by Meryl Sawyer

  She vowed to make this up to Matt later. When she had recovered a bit more, she would explain, then pray he would forgive her.

  “Shelly, lift your finger if the woman was a friend of yours. Her family will need to be told.”

  She didn’t move, taking the additional precaution of closing her eyes, not wanting Matt to detect the truth.

  “Just what we figured,” the cop said. “That trucker picked up someone. We don’t have any missing person reports in Key West. I’ll check the state’s computer and see what they’ve got.”

  He shook Matt’s hand, then left, and she said a silent prayer. She hated herself for becoming a liar—like Dexxter Foxx—but she was like a turtle on its back in the desert sun. She was utterly helpless.

  “Shelly, I’ve been thinking about your situation, and I’ve come up with a plan.” Matt’s voice was absolutely emotionless now, and it chilled her. “Despite what you did, I’m going to help you.”

  For a soul-searching moment the world froze. What had Shelly done?

  “Without reconstructive surgery, you’ll go through life badly disfigured. Do you know what that will be like?”

  Of course she knew. Better than anyone, she knew to expect stares and whispers. And worse. You’d live a life never knowing the tenderness of a man’s embrace.

  Loneliness stabbed at her heart as she recalled Matt’s arms around her. It had been so brief a moment that he might not remember, but she would never forget the compassion, the tenderness shown her by the only man who had ever held her. Yes, oh, yes, she knew what life would be like without the surgery.

  “I’m going to pay for the surgery, if—and this is a very big if, so think carefully before answering. I want you to swear you won’t come near me or call me or contact me in any way … ever again.”

  Was this the last time she would see him? An ache swelled upward from her heart, causing tears to pool in her eyes. Why? Why?

  “Shelly, raise your hand if you agree.”

  She closed her eyes, reliving the moment when he’d cradled her in his arms. What she was feeling defied all logic. He didn’t know who she was, and he certainly wasn’t hers to keep. Yet something inside her did not want to let him go.

  “Aw, Shelly, don’t do this to yourself.”

  She had no choice, so she opened her eyes and raised her hand slowly.

  He stood up. “This is the last time you’ll ever see me. I don’t want you to go through life a freak, but I don’t want to become involved with you again. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t. Not for the life of her. Did he really mean that she was never going to see him again? Obviously. He turned and walked out the door.

  She cried out for him to come back. But the words were locked in her heart.

  Chapter 7

  Trevor wheeled Amy from the MedVac van up the walk to the Bel Aire Clinic. The short drive from Key West to Paradise Key had exhausted Amy, and she struggled to remain upright in the wheelchair. The time she’d spent in the hospital had weakened her more than she’d realized.

  It had been five days since she had seen Matt. Trevor had taken over, coming in each afternoon to see how she was progressing and giving her a report on Jiggs. He hadn’t mentioned Matt, nor had she asked. After all, she’d given her word.

  It made it much easier to pretend to be Shelly Ralston, since Trevor hadn’t met the woman. She couldn’t help wondering what Shelly had done to make Matt never want to see her again. It seemed to be an extreme reaction, considering how much in love they’d been.

  She couldn’t help missing Matt.

  It was ridiculous, of course, a total waste of her time. Still, she couldn’t stop it. During the day her thoughts often drifted to him. At night her dreams were filled with him.

  “I understand Clive Burroughs is an extremely gifted surgeon,” Trevor told her as he pushed her wheelchair toward what appeared to be a graceful southern mansion not a clinic. “Women fly in from across the country to have cosmetic surgery here.”

  Inside the mansion, clusters of baby pink rosebuds filled at least a dozen exquisite vases. The scent of the flowers and the hushed atmosphere reminded Amy of the funeral home where she’d made final arrangements for her mother. She tamped down the profoundly disturbing memory.

  The antiques and original oil paintings on the walls left no doubt in her mind that Dr. Burroughs charged outrages fees. Criminy! How on earth was she going to earn enough money to pay back Matt? She would do it, she vowed, even if it took years.

  The receptionist was seated at a French writing desk. The woman was so astonishingly beautiful that she had to be a freak of nature—or a cosmetic surgeon’s masterpiece. She looked up and saw Trevor. The warmth of her smile echoed in her voice.

  “Good morning,” she said to Trevor. “You must be Rochelle Ralston.”

  “Actually, I’m Trevor Adams. This is my friend, Shelly Ralston.”

  If she could have moved her jaw, she would have giggled. Trevor had a devastating effect on women, even a breathtaking beauty like this one.

  “Yes, of course. That’s what I meant.”

  The receptionist hadn’t given her more than a brief glance, which was fine. She wasn’t accustomed to direct eye contact. All her life people had avoided looking her in the eye. It made her nervous when they did.

  “The doctor’s reviewed the file the hospital sent over,” the receptionist informed him with a flirtatious flutter of her eyelashes. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  They were immediately led into a mahogany-paneled study lined with leather-bound books. Behind a highly polished desk sat a man about forty years old. Attractive, with close-cut brown hair, and wire-rimmed glasses that magnified no-nonsense brown eyes, Dr. Burroughs smiled eagerly at Trevor.

  The doctor graced her with a quick glance, then directed his remarks to Trevor. “I’ve studied Rochelle’s file, but I’ll need to examine her myself. That hospital’s third rate—at best. I need to assess what damage they’ve done.”

  As silent as a shadow, a nurse appeared from behind a paneled door and wheeled her into a chamber off the study. The woman made small talk while she cut the bandages off her face.

  “Oh, my,” the nurse inhaled sharply, then looked away.

  Amy realized there wasn’t a mirror anywhere in the room. She couldn’t possibly look any more hideous than she had with the birthmark, could she?

  Dr. Burroughs came into the room. His face devoid of expression, he examined her from several different angles. “They did one thing right at the hospital. The dressing on your face is cadaver skin. That prevented further deterioration.”

  Cadaver skin? Her stomach lurched, then took a sickening downward plunge. A dead person’s skin was on her face. How much worse could things get?

  “My nurse will apply another dressing, then we’ll discuss the procedure with Trevor.”

  The nurse followed the doctor’s directions and used a soft brush to apply a viscous gel he called Ryboten, then rebandaged her face. The woman wheeled her back into the study where Trevor was waiting.

  “The underlying bone structure on the right side of her face will have to be repaired,” the doctor told Trevor. “But the damage isn’t as bad as I thought when I read the hospital’s report. Most of the skin was sheared off, but the muscles are intact.”

  Did that mean the birthmark was gone? It must have been sheared off, because no one had mentioned the birthmark. If this doctor could repair the injured bones, she would look like an ordinary person.

  What would it be like to walk into a room and not have your heart pound, anticipating averted eyes and stares? And even more humiliating—whispering. Dear Lord, she would give everything she had or ever hoped to have just to be normal.

  “The challenge will be to replace the missing skin. I use DermaGraft, a new bioengineered product that’s living skin tissue produced in the laboratory. Before it became available, we had to graft skin from another part of the patient’s body.”

/>   She noticed Dr. Burroughs was speaking to Trevor as if she didn’t exist. Trevor had a magnetic effect on people. When he was in a room, no one else existed.

  “This way there won’t be any scarring. She has one excellent cheekbone. By using a matching submalar implant, I can reconstruct the shattered cheekbone.”

  Trevor turned to her and took her hand, then gently squeezed. “Don’t worry about a thing. You’re going to be fine.”

  She held his slim hand, then traced a message on his palm. Bless you. Through the slits in the gauze her eyes locked with his, and he smiled with such sincerity and reassurance that tears stung her eyes.

  Matt gazed up at Nantucket’s blue sky and braced himself for Emily’s next attempt to change his mind. He loved his sister more than anyone on earth, but he had already made his decision.

  “You were born a fighter,” Emily said, her voice pitched low and charged with emotion. “Mom didn’t even get to the hospital. You fought your way into this world, bawling your head off, in the backseat of a police car. And you’ve been fighting ever since. It’s not like you to give up.”

  Matt inhaled the briny scent of the sea and let his gaze drift to the bay, where a pair of sailboats had their rails in the water, racing into the harbor. He silently conceded Emily was right, but the tough kid on the mean streets of Chicago seemed to be another person. In another lifetime.

  “I want to kick back for a while,” he told her.

  To make his point, he swung his bare feet up on the porch rail of his sister’s summer home and pretended to enjoy the spectacular view. It was a flawless Indian summer day, warm, yet with long shadows cast by trees that had already changed colors.

  “Oh, Matt, I’m so glad you’re here. We haven’t spent enough time together these last few years.”

  He ventured a look at her and saw love and concern etched on her pretty face. Although Emily was five years older and distinctly feminine, they’d inherited the same amber-brown eyes and dark, thick hair. They shared similar personalities too. Both of them were driven, determined to be successful. That’s why it was difficult for Emily to understand his decision.

  “I have an idea,” she said. “Why don’t you—”

  He jumped up, knowing his sister well enough to realize she had some new plan—one he wouldn’t like. He hated arguing with her when he’d already made up his mind. “Hold that thought. I need to make a phone call.”

  Key West had been on his mind all day. Okay, Shelly had been on his mind more than he cared to admit. She’d had reconstructive surgery three days ago and come through it without complications.

  He dialed Half Moon Bay’s number, hoping to catch Trevor at home. A feminine, southern-fried voice answered, and he asked Bubbles if Trevor was there.

  “He’s in the kitchen and trying to, like, persuade Jiggs to eat some filet mignon. I’ll get him.”

  Jiggs was Shelly’s half-eared mutt. Apparently, the dog was as nutty as his owner, refusing to eat much of anything. Of course, Trevor wasn’t going to give up. Trevor Adams—friend, brother, vet. You name it and Trevor was there for you.

  “Matt, how’s it going?”

  “Great, just great. I called to see how Shelly is doing.”

  “She’s better every day. I know she’s in pain, but she hasn’t complained.”

  “When do you think they’ll release her?”

  “Clive says the bandages will come off in another two days. If everything’s okay, she’ll blow up like a balloon. She’ll have to stay in bed another day or so to reduce the swelling.”

  “If everything is okay,” Matt repeated. “Does the doctor think something is wrong?”

  “Clive won’t know until the bandages are removed if he correctly repaired the problem. I have some good news for you. He’s going to waive his fee. Shelly’s surgery isn’t going to cost you a dime.”

  Clive? Apparently, Trevor had taken such an interest in Shelly’s case that he was now on a first name basis with her doctor, and he would bet Trevor had persuaded the doctor to donate his services to help Shelly. Christ! Just what he didn’t need—his best friend getting attached to that wacko.

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “There’s an outside chance that Shelly will reject the bioengineered skin. It’s rare, but it happens. Clive will have to graft her own skin.”

  Matt hesitated, then said, “Has she asked about me?”

  A beat of silence. “No, she’s kept her promise.”

  Matt had forced Shelly’s promise, half expecting her to break it. Yet, she hadn’t even asked about him, which would have been a logical first step. Was he just a little disappointed? No way.

  “I don’t think Jiggs is eating the way he should,” Trevor told her. “Don’t be upset. He’s fine, but he’s … finicky.”

  It had been ten days since Dr. Burroughs had performed the surgery. Since then a series of nurses had pampered her, changing her dressings and making sure her head was elevated on a triangular pillow to lessen the swelling.

  Trevor visited every day, spending a little time with Dr. Burroughs to get an update on her condition before coming to her suite. The nurse on duty would be ga-ga in seconds, but Trevor never noticed.

  She took Trevor’s hand to communicate with him. Drawing letters on palms was almost second nature to her now. P-O-P-C-O-R-N.

  Trevor looked up from her palm, his green eyes puzzled. “Popcorn? You feed Jiggs popcorn?”

  She raised her hand to say yes. The brute who owned Jiggs before she’d taken him spent his nights in front of the TV, eating popcorn and getting drunk. The next morning, he flung the leftover popcorn into the yard.

  Jiggs had been traumatized since he’d been a puppy. He was accustomed to eating leftover popcorn and refused other food. On their cross-country trek, she had fed him popcorn, intending to wean him from it later.

  “S’okay,” Trevor said with a soft chuckle. “I’ll try popcorn. Jiggs likes my cats. He even sleeps with Bingo.”

  Beneath her bandages, she almost smiled. Trevor seemed so proud of his work with Jiggs. She owed him, she reflected, every bit as much as she owed Matthew Jensen. Maybe more. He had been with her every step of the way through the excruciating pain of reconstructive surgery.

  “They’re taking off your bandages today, you know.” Something dulled the warmth in his eyes, warning her.

  What was wrong? Had Dr. Burroughs told him bad news? She wasn’t worried; anything was better than a repulsive birthmark.

  “I thought beauty and the beast were two people, not one.”

  Those hurtful words, uttered so many years ago, echoed through her mind. She could still feel the agonizing thrust of the knife in her heart, young love destroyed in seconds by cruel words.

  She sat up in bed while Dr. Burroughs cut off the bandages, and Trevor stood nearby. Please God, she silently prayed. Let me be normal.

  The doctor tossed the bandage in the trash, then closely inspected her face. “The DermaGraft took very nicely,” he said to Trevor. “Smile for us, Shelly.”

  Her lips quivered, but nothing happened. Her jaw was too tight. She tried again, and this time her lips parted. She managed a shaky twist of her mouth.

  “You can talk, Shelly,” the doctor told her. “The wire they inserted has been removed.”

  She tried to open her mouth, but her jaw refused to budge. Finally, it gave a little and her lips parted just enough for her to feel air on the tip of her tongue. Her mouth was as dry as the dead palm fronds skirting the tree outside her window. Her parched throat worked up and down. No sound emerged.

  Nothing.

  “Have a little water.” Trevor handed her a glass with a straw. She took a sip. Instantly her throat felt better, but her jaw was like a vise. Her vocal cords seemed to have been removed.

  With mounting alarm she tried to recall the last time she’d spoken. True, she’d whispered to Jiggs and talked a little during their cross-country sojourn. But her last real conversation had taken place over t
wo months ago on the fateful night of the federal marshal’s visit.

  Maybe her vocal cords had somehow been damaged by the accident or the operation on her jaw, or by medications she’d been given. Please, please let me talk. There is something I have to say.

  Trevor encouraged her. “Try again.”

  She ran her tongue over her dry lips, then attempted to speak. All that emerged was a wheezing sound. Trevor and the doctor exchanged concerned glances.

  “Take your time,” Dr. Burroughs said.

  Finally a sandpaper-like whisper came from her mouth. “H-how … can I … thank you? B-both of you.”

  Trevor shrugged, clearly embarrassed by the emotion that must have shown on her face. It certainly wasn’t in her gravelly, three-pack-a-day voice.

  “Thank Clive,” Trevor responded. “He performed the surgery for nothing. Matt won’t have to pay anything.”

  “Th-thanks so much.” At least she didn’t owe Matt money. Considering the way they had parted, this was for the best.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Dr. Burroughs said. “You have a little swelling, but now that the bandages are off, you’ll be Miss Pumpkin Face just like my face-lift patients.” He pressed the buzzer attached to her bed. “Let’s get your head down and have the nurse put a Koldpak on you. Twenty minutes on, ten minutes off for the next forty-eight hours.”

  What do I look like, she wondered. Judging from their faces, she couldn’t be too terrible, but she wanted to see for herself.

  “May I have a mirror?” Her voice was louder now, but with a distinct croak.

  The doctor glanced at Trevor, and Trevor nodded. She could see the two had become good friends during this process.

  The doctor took a hand mirror out of a nearby cabinet, saying, “I don’t want you to be upset. Your skin is very pink, but it will tone down in a few days.”

  “Clive was careful about getting an exact match with the bioengineered skin,” Trevor added. “Until your own skin grows back, no one will notice.”

  “Don’t be concerned about the bruises under your eyes. They’re from working on your nose.”

  “My nose—”