“Does she still hide Reese’s in her room and undercook her brownies, or does she make them right now?” he asked Jerry.
“I don’t ... know.” Jerry eyed her questioningly. “Why don’t you ... make brownies?”
Jenna clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth together. She stopped making them because they held too much sentiment. They were her and Tristan’s thing. It was how they celebrated every milestone in life. High school graduation, new job, promotion, finding a good sale, a good day, their favorite television shows series finales. Pregnancy.
And all too often the sundae condiments found themselves in places other than the sundae. Tristan was especially fond of squirting her with whipped cream. It would always start off so innocent then lead to a squirt in the mouth, on the nose, an accidental squirt to her chest.
Which would then lead to taking clothes off.
Feeling her cheeks warm, Jenna picked up the dome on the tray to see what else was on the menu for dinner.
“I’m sure it’s not as good as yours.” Tristan picked up a fork and poked at the brownie. “The middle isn’t moving. Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“Enough.” She swatted his hand away, the fork clanging loudly on the tray. “Would you like a bite?” Jenna cut off a small piece and held the fork to Jerry.
His eyes were doing that twinkling thing again. “You come to the house.” He licked his dry lips. “And cook for us.”
Jenna forced the brownie into Jerry’s mouth just enough to stop him from talking but not so much that he’d choke.
“I’d love to.”
“I’ve been cooking for Jerry for five years now, and he’s never complained once about any of my meals.”
“I’m sure you’re a fabulous cook.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I wouldn’t know any better to not believe you.”
“Come ... over for ... dinner.” Jerry breathed more heavily this time. “Tomorrow.” Sensing he was done, not only with the meal but that the little energy he had was fading fast, she wiped his mouth and adjusted his blanket again.
“I’d love to.”
“No,” Jenna whispered over Jerry’s head.
Tristan got up from the chair and nudged Jenna aside, taking the handles of the wheelchair and pushing Jerry toward the exit.
“Tomorrow,” Jerry repeated when they got to Jenna’s car.
Tristan helped her lift him into the front seat and buckle him in. “It would be rude of me not to show up. I’ll bring the wine.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The following morning Jenna was awoken by the sun and not Jerry’s coughing. She rolled over and looked at the baby monitor. Jerry’s eyes were still closed and the oxygen tubes still in place.
She completed her morning routine in the bathroom in less than five minutes, tugged on a sports bra and a sweatshirt over her ratty sleeping shirt. She made a quick stop in the kitchen to start the coffee then padded across the living room to Jerry’s room.
Knocking softly out of courtesy, she peered around the half-open door and watched for signs of life. The covers were tucked up to his neck, just as she left them last night, so all that was showing was his aged and wrinkled face.
She’d checked on him at midnight and again at three this morning. It had been her morning routine for too long. He never moved when he slept, and it was hard to tell if he was actually breathing.
It had been nearly a year since he woke up healthy. Normally it was a coughing fit or a full bladder bag that needed to be emptied that had him waking Jenna.
This morning he hadn’t made a sound. Her stomach tightened, and her throat closed up in fear. It was the way he wanted to go. In his sleep. Peacefully. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she pushed the door all the way open as she inched closer to his bed.
She wasn’t ready. She wanted to hear all his stories again. One more time. She needed to hear him laugh, to see the love shine in his eyes when he spoke of his wife.
Jenna sat on the edge of the bed and slid her hand under the covers to hold his warm hand.
Warm. He was alive. She let out a breath she didn’t know she held and rested her head on the pillow next to his.
“What a nice way ... to wake up,” he said in a whisper-soft voice that had slowly become the norm.
“You look awfully comfy cozy. I hated to wake you.”
“Making sure ... I’m not ... dead.”
“Jerry.”
“I know.”
She held onto the moment a little longer, soaking in all that she could of him before she sat up and turned into nurse mode.
Taking care of his toilet, bathing, and dressing needs helped steady her emotions. She took care of him with clinical care as a nurse would a baby, and when he was dressed and propped up in his chair, Jenna returned to sympathetic and emotional.
She wheeled him into the big, open kitchen while she prepared his oatmeal and her coffee.
“You’re like a ... daughter.” Jerry coughed three times, recovering quickly this morning. “A granddaughter to me.”
“What happened to fiancée`?”
“Seems you have ... two gentlemen ... fighting for that ... title.” Talking was getting harder and harder for him, but she didn’t want him to stop. When he stopped talking, he stopped living.
“Don’t be silly.” She wheeled him to the tiny table in the nook and sat next to him, stirring the oatmeal. “Now open.”
He obliged, taking his time to chew and swallow. When he finished his breakfast, he asked to be wheeled in front of the television to watch the recorded episodes of his soap. He was four episodes behind now since he kept falling asleep and she had to replay the same one over and over.
“I have one ... final ... request,” he said when she turned on the television.
“Fast forward through the commercials? I’ve got your back.”
Jerry shook his head and inched his hand out from under his blankets, his movement slow as if it took all his strength to do so. He turned his hand over and curled his fingers, asking her to hold his hand.
Sensing a new seriousness in his movements, she dropped to her knees next to his chair. “Anything.” She gripped his hands as tight as she could without hurting him.
“Before I ... die...”
“Jerry.” Tears pooled in her eyes. She didn’t want to hear his last rites. She already knew his wishes. To die peacefully in his home. She couldn’t handle anymore. Her throat once again closed up as she fought back the tears.
“Tell me ...your love ... story.”
“My love story?” She picked up their joined hands and wiped away her tears with her wrist. “I’m afraid I don’t have one.” She sniffed. “I can tell you yours if you want. I have it pretty well memorized.”
“No.” He blinked slowly and slipped his hand from hers to reach up and wipe away a lone tear that had fallen. “Yours and ... Tristan’s.”
Her throat constricted, and she had to gasp to get air into her lungs. Her heart drummed loudly in her ears as her cheeks burned with shock.
“How did you know?”
“When someone has ... experienced true love ... they know.”
“Oh, Jerry.” She released his other hand and lurched herself toward him, swallowing him up in a hug while she let her tears run freely.
She cried on his shoulder and welcomed his bony, frail arms as they worked their way around her back in a gentle hug.
“Turn it ... off.”
“You want me to turn off your soap opera? You still have four episodes. Plus this afternoon’s.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sit.”
He gave her no choice. She complied, turning off the television and sitting on the couch opposite him.
“I listen now.”
For five years, she sat patiently and eagerly listening to his stories of Brigette. From their courtship to their engagement. Espe
cially loving the story of when she threw back his ring and said she’d never marry him.
Jerry hadn’t glossed over the bad times either. They’d experienced many struggles with their sons, with finances, with the loss of family members. Each struggle made them stronger. They worked their way through their problems and made a love story worthy of a romance novel.
“We’re not you and Brigette. It’s been too long. The hurt and pain too deep to recover from. If we can end up as friends, I’ll take it.”
“Tell me.”
“Where do I start?”
“The beginning.”
Curling her feet under her, she pulled a blanket over her lap. “How much time do you have?” It was a loaded question.
“As much as you need.”
TRISTAN FROWNED AT the lack of the bright yellow car in the driveway. Maybe Jenna had it parked in the barn? Grabbing the bottle of wine from the passenger seat, he unbuckled and hopped out of his car, lighter in the step than he should have been.
It wasn’t like Jenna had invited him to dinner. She’d been forced to cook for him. Still, the evening promised to be fun. Practically skipping up the steps, he tapped on the porch door and waited.
And waited. He pressed an ear to the door to listen for movement.
Nothing.
Taking out his cell, he cradled the bottle under his arm and sent Jenna a text. He sat on the top step and set the wine down while he leaned against the post. A minute later, she responded.
At the hospital. It’s not good.
Instead of responding, he bolted from the step and raced to his car. He made it to the hospital in record time and checked in with the front desk.
“Jerry, uh, Jerry. I was here two weeks ago with Jenna Ket—Snyder. She’s Jerry’s caretaker.”
“We’re a small hospital, and Jerry’s become somewhat of a regular.”
The woman’s badge had flipped backward, so he couldn’t read her name. “Is he on the same floor as last time?” Tristan didn’t know where the eagerness came from. It wasn’t like he knew the man very well.
Still, he wanted to be there for Jenna.
“Yes. Room 342.”
He took off in a hurry, stabbing at the elevator button. When he reached the third floor he jogged down the hall to the room and knocked lightly on the door. It was ajar, so he could hear voices speaking softly from inside.
No one responded to his knock. He waited for a lull in conversation and when it came, he tapped on the door again.
Jenna opened it, her face streaked with tears.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He took her in his arms and hugged her, giving her all the strength and support he had.
She sobbed into his shirt and gripped his sides, leaning all her weight into him. “I’m so sorry, baby.” He rested his chin on her head and stroked her long braid.
“They said”—she sniffed and shuddered, lifting her head—“they said it’s only a matter of time. Tonight or tomorrow.”
“I’m so sorry.” There was nothing else he could say. Holding her was the only way he knew how to help.
“I promised him he wouldn’t die in a hospital. He was so angry when I called the ambulance.” She hiccupped her tears and leaned into him again. “I thought I’d be strong enough to follow his wishes.”
“Listen to me.” He cupped her face in his palms and tilted her head to his. “You are strong, but you don’t have to carry all of this by yourself. Let me help you. We’ll bring Jerry home and watch a marathon of that ridiculous show he watches.”
“How did you know?”
“Local gossip around The Cove. The ladies think it’s adorable, and the men use it to shrink his manhood.”
“Nice.” Jenna almost smiled.
Another round of coughing had her pulling away from him and rushing back into the room. Tristan followed her to Jerry’s bed. The old man opened one eye, and Tristan swore a devilish smirk formed on his lips.
“Hey, Jerry. Good to see you again. I take it Jenna’s cooking didn’t fare well tonight.”
He closed his eyes while an air of contentment spread across his face.
“I’m right here, Jerry. Everything is going to be alright.” Jenna sat next to him and rubbed her hand up and down his leg.
Tristan rested a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s do the paperwork or whatever is needed to break the man free.”
The paperwork took less time to fill out than when he cut the tip of his finger at his restaurant and needed stitches. Granted, time was not on Jerry’s side, and the staff knew of his final wishes.
Since Tristan’s SUV was bigger, he and an orderly helped Jerry into the front seat, buckling him in tight.
Jenna slid in the backseat instead of going in her own car. “I’m not leaving him for another second.”
“Absolutely.” Turning down the music, he backed out of the parking space and drove carefully back to Jerry’s house.
Once there, Jenna hopped out and set up the wheelchair. “There’s a ramp at the end of the porch.” She pointed toward the back of the house, and he could see the entrance around a hydrangea bush.
“It’ll be easier if I carry him in.”
“Are you sure? I’ll wheel in the oxygen tank.”
“Can you open the door for us?” He slid one arm under his bony legs and the other under his arms and around his back, being careful of the tubing.
Jerry couldn’t weigh more than eighty pounds soaking wet. His legs were long and lanky. The man was probably over six feet tall. Holding on to him like a delicate soufflé, he trod carefully up the path.
Jenna lifted the tank and stayed a close distance in front of them as she walked up the steps. She held the door open for him, and he squeezed by conscientious of the tank.
The living area was dark and furnished simply with an aging couch, recliner, and television. Behind the couch was a grand fireplace. To the right, he could see through the shadows a wide hall.
“Which way?”
“His bedroom is this way.”
Tristan followed to his left and into Jerry’s bedroom. She turned on a lamp by the bed which cast a ray of light across a twin bed and a nightstand littered with pill bottles. Jenna pushed a button, and the mattress lowered while the head of it lifted like a hospital bed.
She drew back the covers and placed a pad on the mattress.
Carefully, he set Jerry down while she fixed the oxygen and adjusted the covers up around his neck.
“Thank you,” she said to him as she sat at the edge of the mattress and stroked the few flyaway white hairs left on Jerry’s head.
“What can I get for you?” He kept his voice soft so he wouldn’t disturb Jerry.
“Nothing, you’ve already done so much.” She didn’t take her eyes off the old man who’d obviously come to mean so much to her.
Five years, she’d told him. Five years of living with him and tending to his every need as nursemaid, friend, family. Of course they’d grown close.
Her caring, tender heart had been one of the first things he’d noticed about her in school. Maybe he didn’t think of it that way as a horny teenager, but she’d filled a void he hadn’t realized he had either.
Yes, his mother loved him and supported him, but their relationship had never been perfect. She was too needy, too clingy, and too often the roles were reversed, and he had to be the voice of reason while she acted like, well, a whiny teenager.
It had been refreshing to meet a mature, selfless girl. And the fact that she was hot, well, that increased her already priceless value.
Jerry’s breathing became scratchy, and Jenna stayed glued to him.
“I’ll give you some privacy.” He wasn’t sure if she’d heard him, but he slipped away quietly anyway.
If Jerry passed during the night, Tristan didn’t want Jenna to be alone. He paced the living room, picking up a blanket from the floor and folding it. It smelled like her. That familiar cucumber melon scent that she’d worn so many years ago.
Some things never changed. He picked up a book from the end table and read the back cover. A murder mystery. Nothing dark and suspenseful. A cozy mystery, he thought they called it.
Making himself at home, he ventured down the room to the right. A lot of empty space. A wall of bookshelves to the right which led to the unused front door. At the end, a room to the left.
Because he was curious in all matters involving Jenna, he opened the door and switched on the light. A lamp turned on by the bed.
Her bedroom. It was simply decorated with only a plain salmon colored comforter and their pink bear propped between two pillows. Their. No, it was hers. As soon as the nurses took their daughter away and replaced her with the pink bear, she never let the stuffed animal out of her sight. She held onto it instead of him for weeks. Months. Years.
His chest tightened, and his heart ached at the loss, not only of their daughter but of their marriage. Of Jenna.
Closing his eyes to keep away the painfulness of the memories, he took a few deep breaths before opening them again.
The only other items in the bare room were an oak dresser, a stack of totes under a window, and a few canvases leaning against a wall. As tempted as he was to look at her artwork, he respected her privacy. A little.
Backing out of her room, he shut off the light and went back into the empty foyer space. Another door. This one locked. Moving on, he made his way back to the living room and to the room off it, behind the fireplace.
Feeling around on the wall for the switch, he turned it on and shielded his eyes from the bright overhead light.
“Damn.” It had to be the ugliest kitchen he’d ever seen. A stove around the same age as him stood on its own to his right, only inches from the doorway. A tall trash can filled the empty space between it and a counter big enough to hold a coffee pot and a couple of mugs.
The wall above the stove and coffee pot were empty. Why no cabinets? Very odd. The space had to be at least twenty feet by fifteen feet wide. A wall of windows was on the other side, a small kitchen table placed in front.
Tristan walked to the right and unlatched a hideaway door. A pantry. Kind of eclectic. Next to it was another archway. Stairs. He’d go up there after he found the rest of the kitchen.
Finding Our Way Back (A Well Paired Novel) Page 16
