Tina shook her head. “They asked me that already. We talked about it after my father died. He said I’d made the right choice for Dad.” She dabbed angrily at her eyes. “It’s not the kind of conversation you should have when your son is only twenty-three.”
“And we don’t need to have that conversation now.” I shrugged Kat’s arm off me and hugged Tina.
I saw Dog’s look before I led her to the vending machine for more coffee. He believed Sebastian was gone and that Tina would need to make a decision soon about letting his remains finish what the accident started.
***
The days crept by in a fog. Tina and I sat in the waiting room till a doctor stopped by with an update or a nurse allowed a fifteen-minute visit to Bed Six. Between classes and hospital duties, Dog translated whatever the doctor told us. Kat brought food and coffee. We slept in waiting room chairs. Kat took me home twice to shower and change, and sat with me so Tina could do the same.
Tina and I didn’t talk about it, but we dreaded when the doctors would officially decide what Dog already knew: Sebastian would never recover. When they disconnected him from life support, we could stay with Sebastian as long as we liked, till the monitors flat-lined, and then as long as we needed afterwards.
On the fourth day, Sebastian’s brother and his wife appeared. Tina reminded Duarte that I’d been his grandfather’s Abishag wife and dating Sebastian for the past year. Ignoring me, he drew his mother aside for an update.
I tried to talk to Duarte’s wife, but I couldn’t remember her name and she kept shooting looks at Kat and hugging her little boy close. With her blonde dreadlocks and tattoos, Kat was far from her world of shopping and charity luncheons. Duarte’s wife had grown up in the Cherry Creek community of Denver. A reluctant transplant to Southern California, she arranged all their vacations in the Rockies. When Tina called Duarte about Sebastian’s accident, they’d been at her family’s condo in Aspen.
In the following days, Tina stayed close to Duarte and her grandson. Her daughter-in-law took her out for lunch. I was never invited, but I understood. Duarte and his wife still saw me as his granddad’s Abishag wife and not Sebastian’s girlfriend. Abishags weren’t family, and the Handbook had a dozen rules about family privacy.
So I sat on the other side of the vending machine, quiet and nearly invisible. Since visits were limited to two family members, Tina and Duarte took the 15-minute sessions while I made stilted conversation with Sebastian’s sister-in-law Julie or listened to her read picture books to Noah. I didn’t try connecting with the child since his mother seemed to prefer that I didn’t and since he was more interested in gnawing on the legs of the chairs.
They spent the rest of their vacation in the waiting room from 9:00 to 5:00. Although it seemed a comfort for Tina, I was glad to see them leave each day. It meant that I could see the man in Bed Six when our visit time rolled around.
On the sixth day after the accident, Duarte and Julie returned to work and Noah to his nanny. Duarte promised to call his mother, which he did, every morning when he arrived at the office and every evening during his commute home.
Tina looked wistful as she talked about the cute things Noah did (which seemed fantastical to me as I’d found him dull) and the salmon Caesar salad she’d shared with Julie at a café in Hermosa Beach. She hadn’t noticed how they’d ignored me, and I was glad of it. Although I wished with all my heart that the real Sebastian would appear, I knew that he would have noticed. Above all things, he wouldn’t stand for anyone around him being excluded.
If Sebastian had considered marrying me, I realized now that his family would never accept me. My Abishag training taught me that family came first, and I believed that. If the real Sebastian ever appeared or the man in Bed Six woke, then I would have to explain to him that we could be friends. Nothing more.
Late at night on the eighth day, after consultations with the doctors and many calls, Tina told me to take a break and sent me home with Kat. While taking a long shower, snapshots of the man in Bed Six floated through my head. I wondered why I hadn’t cried. If that man wasn’t Sebastian, why hadn’t Sebastian contacted us? If that man wasn’t Sebastian, why had a stranger used Duarte’s motorcycle on the night of the accident?
Logically that was Sebastian in Bed Six, but logic had failed me in the past. On the third day, I asked Dog to do a DNA test, but he only shook his head and told me to face facts. On the fourth day, I asked Kat to get her Westwood Irregulars to find out where the real Sebastian was, but she only looked at me with pity.
After the shower, I lay on my bed for a minute, just to rest my eyes, and woke almost ten hours later to mid-morning sun full on my face. The squeaking door broke my sleep. Kat held a cup of coffee in one hand and a pop tart in the other.
“Donovan’s here,” she said. “I think you should talk to him.”
CHAPTER THREE
The last vestige of sleep disappeared with her words. Besides not liking him, Kat had never wanted him speaking to me.
I reached for the coffee. “Why?”
She shook her head. “Talk to him first, then us. Dog and I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Needing time to think, I ate the pop tart. The only reasons Donovan had for being here were one—he’d heard about Sebastian and thought I’d be free to date him again. Which seemed harsh even for Donovan, and if true, Kat would never have allowed him in the house.
The only other reason was that Florence Harcourt, the director of the Westwood Abishag Agency, had sent him. Which meant that she had a candidate husband for me to marry.
When I’d agreed to be Professor Telemann’s Abishag wife last summer, I had made it clear that he would be my last comatose husband. In the past year, she had contacted me twice for what she called “courtesy calls” about candidates she thought perfect for me if I’d changed my mind. Each time I assured her that I had not.
Sending Donovan Reid, one of her principal lawyers at the agency, was not how she operated. She’d never known that I had dated Donovan after Thomas Crowder died. That was against policy, even if an Abishag were between husbands.
Unless I saw him, I wouldn’t find out why he was here. Out of habit, I pulled my hair back the way he liked it, applied the mineral foundation, sparkling gold eye shadow, and red lip gloss that he and a Neiman Marcus makeup artist had chosen, and slipped into a red-flowered Donna Karan crepe de chine dress that he once favored. I paired it with black tights and Kori black, leather runway booties with tassels, not because he liked them, but because the boots added five inches. I thought I’d need those inches.
Because I wanted to see Donovan before he saw me, I tiptoed down the hallway’s worn carpet runner and peeked into the living room. More than a week ago, Kat and I sat there while she talked to me about marrying Sebastian.
I steeled myself to face Donovan.
Frowning, he squinted at the eggshell present Sebastian had given me for my 21st birthday. It’d been a cold, windy September day. We’d taken the Palm Springs tramway to the top of the mountain and had hot mochas with grilled tuna sandwiches for lunch. The eggshell had been dyed an icy blue, and decorated with a bright red scarf and cotton ball hair colored streaky blonde like mine. The eggshell me was secured in a crag of a plaster San Jacinto Peak.
“Donovan,” I said.
He jerked, recovered quickly, and moved swiftly across the room to envelop me in a cloud of silky Italian suit and musky scent. I detached as soon as I could without being rude, disliking the way his cologne clung to my skin. Funny, it had never bothered me before.
“Sit, please. Would you like some coffee?”
He declined, which I knew he would. He only drank cappuccinos prepared by his barista or his home espresso machine.
I sat in a garage sale recliner while he chose the sofa, looking ill at ease, and not just because shabby university housing made him uncomfortable.
“This is a surprise.” Of all the things I wanted to say, this was the least offensive.
<
br /> He smiled as if I hadn’t spoken and gestured to the bookshelves of eggshell presents. “Those are new since I saw you last.”
“Yes.” Kat says one should always respond to a conversational gambit in social situations. If this was a social situation, then I wasn’t playing. Anything I could say about the eggshells might break me.
He cast another curious look at the bookcases and then at me. “You’re wondering why I’m here?”
“Yes.” I sounded wooden, but I wished he would just say what he wanted so I could tell him no, and then talk to Dog and Kat. I thought I’d finished with Donovan a year ago. Until recently I’d felt a lingering regret, something sweet and sentimental. Now I just felt finished with him.
“Right.” He slipped a briefcase that I hadn’t seen onto the coffee table and snapped it open. He set a standard Abishag contract on the corner of the table closest to me.
I shifted in my chair. That answered my question. He was here representing the agency. Surprising that Florence Harcourt hadn’t come, too.
“I’m not interested in being an Abishag wife again.” I fought to keep my voice even.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I found this contract today and talked to the lawyer who drew it up. Although me being here is against agency policy and my own principles, although this contract reveals confidential information, I decided to talk to you. I felt I owed it to you, considering our past.”
I had forgotten that Donovan used a great many words to say very little. Once I’d admired it. Now it made me feel tired.
“Please put it away. No matter what, I won’t be an Abishag wife again.”
He waved his hand as if waving away my words. “The director will be talking to you this afternoon after Ms Crowder speaks with you. They’ll be offering you a marriage contract as distasteful and outside agency terms and conditions as I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness.” He seemed to be speaking to himself as he added, “Florence Harcourt is blinded by loyalty and the agency’s cut of the trust fund. She would never consider it otherwise.”
I’d stopped listening sentences ago. “Ms Crowder? Tina Crowder? How is she involved?”
“She has the power of attorney. She wants you to be Sebastian Crowder’s Abishag wife.”
I stopped breathing. It felt as if all color had been sucked from the room.
“But he’s not brain dead.”
“Only one of the many things wrong with this contract. He’s in a vegetative state, could be for years. I repeat: the director is blinded by …”
“He’s not brain dead, Donovan.”
Restively, he stood and paced the length of the bookshelves. He frowned at the eggshell presents. “He is certainly brain damaged. The doctors say he won’t recover.”
I don’t believe it was kindness that made him hesitate but the eggshell decorated like Mickey Mouse in a plaster Matterhorn. Sebastian had made it as a remembrance of our seventeenth date.
“The doctors believe that once the ventilator is removed, he will shortly pass. Ms Crowder is moving him home and wants you to be there with him.”
“I don’t need to be an Abishag wife to stay with him. I would …”
“This is the way she wants it. For the same reason families marry their old men to Abishag wives: so that their loved ones don’t die alone.” He faced me. “Don’t do this, Leslie. He’s young. It could take months, even years for him to pass.”
Nine days ago, my life hinged on whether Sebastian wanted to marry me or if I’d be moving to Missouri for graduate school. None of that mattered now. I felt my heart slow and heard something gentle creep into my voice. “It’s okay, Donovan. I’ve nothing else planned.”
“You can’t throw your life away on a vegetable.”
I stood, not angry, but he raised a hand.
“Sorry. That was out of line. I just meant …”
“Why are you really here, Donovan?” Reaching the bookshelves, I tweaked the San Jacinto Mountain back in line with the others. “Our relationship was never close enough for you to break agency rules for me.”
“I cared for you.” Donovan’s gaze dropped to his Bruno Magli shoes, and his voice dipped so low I scarcely heard the words. “But you chose him.”
“After you broke up with me.” His words confused me. Donovan never seemed to care for me, treated me more like clay that needed to be molded, and issued ultimatums if I crossed the lines he’d drawn.
His mouth thinned with irritation. “I planned to take you back.”
I needed Kat to understand Donovan’s about-face. She told me once to stop asking people to explain themselves, which hampered most of my social interactions, as people’s behavior seemed based on shifting rules and everyone but me had been given the manual.
I exhaled. “I did choose Sebastian. I still do.”
His jaw flexed. “I’m sorry I wasted my time then.”
“I’m not sorry. I’m glad to know what Tina’s planning. But don’t worry—I won’t let on that you told me.”
My boots tapping, I slipped past him to get the door and patted his arm gently on the way.
He stalled on the porch, his gaze sweeping me slowly from styled hair to the Donna Karan dress to the tasseled boots. “What a waste.”
I said good-bye, but he never looked back. I watched his Fiat 500 slide smoothly from the curb. Donovan would never let emotions affect his driving. I thought about all the times we’d said good-bye. This time I felt a weight lifting.
Closing the door quietly, I headed for the kitchen where Dog and Kat waited for me.
CHAPTER FOUR
“We heard,” Kat said.
“Sorry,” Dog said. “I mean, I’m sorry about Donovan.”
“No, you’re not.” I filled a mug with coffee. It looked stewed, but I didn’t care.
“Yeah, we’re not.” Kat studied me. “But we’re sorry if you are.”
I shook my head.
She grinned. “Good. My granny would have called him a stinker.”
I didn’t want to talk about Donovan. Later, I’d ask her to explain how Donovan could date someone whom he didn’t seem to like. But not now …
“You knew?” I asked.
They exchanged a quick look.
“Miss Crowder talked to us about the Abishag contract yesterday,” Dog said.
“Why?”
Dog passed me the milk carton. I must have made a face when the coffee’s acrid, sooty taste lingered in my mouth. I diluted it with the milk.
“She’s moving Seb to the Santa Monica townhouse,” he said. “She asked me to stay on as the night shift hospice aide.”
“But you can’t. You’ve got medical school …”
“She’s willing to work around my hours.”
Kat laid her hand over mine. “It’s fine, Les. It includes our housing too, and it means we can be there for you and for Sebastian. We want to do this.”
A lump formed in my throat—or maybe, the sooty milky coffee. “Thanks,” I said in a husky voice. “But I meant why …”
Kat seemed to understand my question. “Why does Tina want an Abishag wife for Sebastian? Yeah, big surprise that Donovan doesn’t get it.”
I grimaced. “I don’t either.”
Her eyes glittered sadly. “It’s for her, Les. She’ll never see Sebastian married, never see him with kids. She needs this.”
I digested what she said while watching Dog empty my mug in the sink and start another pot of coffee. “I meant why go to the Abishag agency. Why didn’t she talk to me first?”
“She’s protecting you,” Dog said. “Compensating you for the time lost till he passes. Donovan’s right—it could be years. She doesn’t want you hurt for losing a chunk of your life.”
My eyes burned. The chair scraped back loudly as I stood. “I’m not taking money for staying with Sebastian.”
As I stomped out the back door, my voice went crackly. “And nothing can stop it from hurting.”
I spent the rest of t
he morning in the backyard, not thinking about Sebastian or Tina or Donovan. Instead I thought about our landlord, Professor Stegner, fired from the university’s art department, active in criminal activities like fencing stolen goods, looting archeological sites, forging famous paintings, and helping us sort through my second husband’s art collection. I wondered who would be his tenants when we left.
***
Shortly before noon, Tina called and asked when I planned to return to the hospital. She talked to Kat who relayed the message with a mug of instant soup. The hammock swayed slightly as I nibbled the salty noodles.
“What did you tell her?” I asked.
“That I’d drive you after we had lunch. When you’re ready.”
I nodded. “I’m ready.”
“You know she’s going to talk to you about …”
“I’m ready.”
We found Tina pacing in the waiting room, her familiar face set with unfamiliar resolve. On the drive over, I decided not to tell Tina that I already knew about the Abishag contract. My closest friends say I’ve no acting ability, and anyone could read my face as easily as a child’s picture book. But they also agreed that my stony Abishag face of serenity was impregnable. I schooled myself with my mantra of tranquility when I entered the hospital and grimly repeated it when she caught sight of me.
Peace like a river. Serenity like a lake. Calm like me.
Kat hovered behind me and left when Tina nodded curtly.
“You wanted to talk to me?” I asked as we sat in the plushy waiting room chairs. No use beating around the bush. She shot me an apprehensive look but seemed reassured by my Abishag face.
“I’ve talked to the doctors.” Her eyes welled with tears. I was ready with a packet of tissues. “No hope.”
“There’s always hope,” I said.
She shook her head. “Duarte says it’s time to face reality, dear. It’s time to let Sebastian go.”
I tried not to hate the brother, not to blame his motorcycle for being the instrument of Sebastian’s accident, but I felt a sudden rage heat my face for his part in Sebastian’s death sentence.
An Eggshell Present: An Abishag’s Fourth Mystery (Abishag Mysteries Book 4) Page 2
