by Irene Hannon
“No. I’m sorry for disturbing you. Go back to bed.”
Glancing at her watch, Cara noted the time. Three o’clock. A long way until morning, she realized with a sigh. And she had a feeling she wasn’t going to fall back to sleep with anywhere near the same ease she’d drifted off earlier in the evening.
On the other side of the door, Sam struggled to regain control. Forcing himself to take deep, even breaths, he managed to slow his pulse and respiration. But he couldn’t stop the tremors that racked his body.
What in the world was going on? It had been weeks since he’d had the nightmare that had plagued him for months after the attack. A dream so terrifying, so real, that he’d fought off sleep each night as long as he could. Yet time hadn’t diminished its horror.
Tonight, once again, he’d relived that late return to the parking garage below the condo. Felt the prickle of unease race along his spine as he’d left his car, sensing some ominous presence. Tasted fear as the dark-clothed figure emerged from the shadows, just out of sight of the security cameras, a gun pointed in his direction.
As his temples began to throb—another familiar consequence of the dream—Sam pulled himself upright in the bed. Drawing his legs up, he rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his pounding head in his hands. He tried to stem the tide of memories, tried to bury them, but it was impossible after the nightmare. They were too fresh, too vivid. The attack was as real as if it had happened yesterday. As were the incidents leading up to it.
In retrospect, Sam knew he hadn’t been in top form going into surgery on the fateful day that had set the tragic events in motion. But he’d attributed his slight nausea to a simple upset stomach. Though he could have asked a colleague to take over for him, he’d been convinced that no one could do the operation better than him—even if he wasn’t a hundred percent. Another example of his arrogance in those days.
But then things had started to go wrong. As the surgery progressed, and the simple upset stomach evolved into an acute pain, he’d begun to fumble. Make mistakes. When he’d finally acknowledged that he was too ill to continue, a colleague had to be rushed in to complete the job.
Sam had recovered from the surgery prompted by his appendicitis attack. But his patient—Claire West—had died. Consumed by anger and grief, the woman’s husband had demanded an investigation.
After Sam was cleared of any wrongdoing, everyone had thought that was the end of it. Until the night Bill West, his reasoning clouded by grief and anger, had confronted Sam in the condo’s basement parking garage. After forcing Sam into the shadows at gunpoint, then motioning for him to turn around, he’d spoken. Barely more than a dozen words. But they were forever etched in Sam’s brain.
“I can’t bring Claire back. But I’m going to make sure you never kill anyone again.”
Sam had assumed the man meant to shoot him. An assumption that seemed borne out when a sharp pain had ricocheted through his head, and the world had gone black.
As it turned out, though, Bill West had had another kind of punishment in store for his wife’s surgeon.
When Sam awakened, lying on the floor of the garage, he’d been aware of two things. A relentless throbbing in his head—and an excruciating pain in his right hand. He’d tried to move his fingers, but they hadn’t responded. When his vision cleared and he could finally shift his head enough to look toward his hand, the reason had become clear. Swollen and misshapen, his hand had been smashed almost beyond recognition. Through the haze of pain, he knew that multiple bones had been broken, and he suspected the man had inflicted extensive nerve damage as well.
Somehow he’d extracted his cell phone and called 911. And he’d managed to remain conscious long enough to identify the perpetrator for the police. Later he’d learned that they’d discovered the man at his home, a short note beside his body: “I did what I had to do. May Claire rest in peace.”
Through all of the pain and bitterness and despair that had followed, Sam had tried to hate the man who’d destroyed his life. Yet part of him feared the man’s accusation had merit. Sam had made mistakes in the operating room that day. He knew that, as did his team. However, he hadn’t considered any of them serious enough to contribute to the woman’s death. Neither had the review board. But he couldn’t help wondering if he was at fault. If Claire West—and her husband—were dead because of him. That burden continued to weigh him down, and he was still trying to find a way to deal with the guilt.
For the most part, he’d managed to confine the battle to daylight hours.
Until tonight.
Cara’s arrival couldn’t be coincidental, he realized. She’d stood by him through the whole ordeal, despite the fact that he’d given her nothing but abuse. Angry at the world, he’d lashed out at the closest available target. Meeting her encouragement with sarcasm, her suggestions of prayer with ridicule, her gestures of love with indifference, he’d driven her away bit by bit. And even when the nightmares began to recede, when his hand had begun to heal and they could once more have safely shared a bed, they remained in separate rooms by unspoken mutual consent.
It was then that Sam realized how much he missed her. How much he needed her. But just as his awkward hand no longer seemed to know how to touch an object without breaking it, neither did his heart know how to reach out and touch the woman he loved without hurting her more.
In time, his desperate loneliness had driven him to a local bar. Alcohol hadn’t helped much, but Amber’s interest had. The blond waitress had given the bar’s newest customer more than his fair share of attention. And that had led to the night he’d driven the final wedge in his marriage, splitting it in two.
Lifting his head, Sam stared into the darkness of his bedroom, his expression bleak. How could he ever hope to win Cara back after the way he’d treated her? Yet how could he go on if he didn’t? All these months, as he’d tried to build a new life for himself, the one thing that had kept him going was the hope that he would find a way to convince Cara to give their marriage another try. But now, despite her presence in his home, the obstacles seemed insurmountable.
And he wasn’t in any condition to deal with them tonight, he realized, as the throbbing in his head intensified. He needed aspirin. Several. Quickly.
Swinging his feet to the floor, he stood, bracing himself with one hand against the wall. When his legs steadied, he covered the short distance to the door, pulled it open—and stopped short.
Cara was still standing in the hall, dressed in one of those sleep shirts she’d always favored, a can of mace clutched in one hand, reminding him yet again that he wasn’t the only who lived with trauma. She gasped and took a step back at his sudden appearance.
“Cara…I’m sorry.” He reached out a hand, imploring, then let it drop to his side. “I thought you’d gone back to bed.” A shiver rippled through him, and he realized that his T-shirt was drenched with sweat.
“Headache?” Cara’s question came out in an unsteady whisper and her features softened in compassion.
“Yeah. Aspirin will take care of it. Look, I’m sorry about this. It hasn’t happened in weeks. This won’t be a habit.” Even as he made the promise, he hoped it was one he could keep.
As if sensing his thoughts, she spoke, her tone subdued. “Nightmares aren’t easy to control.”
Sam knew from Liz that Cara was speaking from personal experience. And he’d been prepared to comfort her if necessary, as she had once comforted him. Instead, he’d been the one plagued by bad dreams while she slept soundly.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
“I’ll do my best,” he responded.
Half-turning, she hesitated and looked over her shoulder. “Do you want me to get the aspirin for you?”
The trepidation in her eyes, the uncertainty, reminded him of the countless occasions when he’d snarled out an ungrateful response to such an offer. And filled him with gratitude that she’d been willing to risk reaching out once again.
Gentling his
voice, he did his best to summon up a smile. “Thank you, but I can manage. You need your sleep. I’ll be okay by morning. Good night.”
Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the bathroom. Once there, he steadied himself on the edge of the sink, filled a glass with water and downed several aspirin in one gulp. Sitting on the edge of the tub, he drew steadying breaths until he felt able to make the trip back to his room.
When he stepped into the hall, the corridor was deserted. Yet glancing toward Cara’s room, he noted that the door was cracked a fraction of an inch. Had she forgotten to close it? Or had she left it that way on purpose, so she could hear if Sam had any further problems?
Sam assumed it was the former. She was tired, and it was the middle of the night, after all. No one thought clearly at this hour.
But for tonight, anyway, he was going to pretend it was the latter. Because if he allowed himself to believe she cared, he suspected that fantasy would do more than anything else to keep further nightmares at bay.
Chapter Five
“Hi. You must be Cara. I’m Marge Sullivan. Welcome to Oak Hill. Glad to see you arrived safe and sound yesterday.”
Juggling a mug of coffee in one hand, Cara stared at the vision standing on the other side of Sam’s front door. Well past middle-age, her gray hair cut in a trendy, spiky style, the woman wore lime-green capri pants and a gauzy, green-and-orange print tunic top nipped in at her stout waist with a gold chain-link belt.
When the unexpected visitor thrust out her hand, Cara was left with no choice but to take it. “Yes, I’m Cara. Thank you for the welcome.”
“Oh, we’re real neighborly around here.” The woman gave Cara’s hand a vigorous pump before releasing it. “I was in to see Dr. Martin last week. Hurt my knee a few years back, and every now and then it decides to cause a little trouble. Guess I’m just getting old.” She paused long enough to let loose with a hearty chuckle. “Anyway, he mentioned you were coming and I thought it might be nice to bring a little welcome gift.” She held out a plastic-wrapped package of what appeared to be homemade cinnamon rolls. “I know I probably shouldn’t be giving food to a chef. But these are our specialty at the Oak Hill Inn. Seemed like the best thing to bring.”
“Thank you. This is very kind.” Cara accepted the rolls, feeling at a loss. During dinner last night, Sam had given her a rundown on the town, as well as some of the residents, and she had a vague recollection of someone named Marge. But she’d been so busy trying to come to grips with the bizarre scenario of dining with her estranged husband in his home that she hadn’t paid much attention. A lapse she now regretted.
“The Oak Hill Inn is…the B and B?”
“Yes. A giant Victorian monstrosity I inherited from an aunt. Nice, if you like that sort of thing. I don’t. But the guests seem to. They think it’s romantic. I’ve had more than a few couples tell me a weekend in the Rose Room has put a spark back into their marriage.”
Uncomfortable with that remark, Cara decided to change the subject. “I must say, your timing was perfect. I was getting ready to have breakfast when you rang the bell. These will be a real treat, Ms. Sullivan.”
“Call me Marge. I hope the room Dr. Martin was fixing up for you turned out okay. I offered to help, but he said he had it under control.”
Casting another discreet glance over Marge’s attire, Cara tried not to shudder. Thank you, Lord. “It’s lovely. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable.”
“Well, if I can help in any way during your visit, you be sure and let me know. I’m at the inn most of the time. It’s a couple blocks off Main Street, the other direction. Can’t miss the place. Or I might be at church. And that reminds me. If you’re looking for a place for Sunday worship, you’d be welcome to join us. It’s the church with the big white steeple. You would have passed it on your way here yesterday. I’m sure you’d like our minister, Craig Andrews. He’s a nice young man. Gives a good sermon, too.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m off, then. I’ve got a chamber of commerce board meeting downtown and I don’t want to be late. Not that I have very far to travel.” The woman chuckled again. “That’s one of the nice things about living in a small town. Nothing’s very far away. It will be quite a change for you after Philadelphia.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will.”
“Dr. Martin said you needed some time off and were looking for a nice, quiet place to rest. Take my word for it, you found the right spot. The most excitement we have around here is bingo at the American Legion Hall on Friday nights. And the annual ice-cream social in the fall. But I don’t expect you’ll be here for that.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I wasn’t real sure how long you planned to stay. Dr. Martin was a little vague about that.”
When the woman paused, Cara realized she was expecting a response. Sam’s comment that the townspeople were genuine and caring—but also curious—came back to her. As did his warning to expect a few discreet but leading questions. She figured Marge’s last comment fit into that category, even if it wasn’t technically a question.
“My plans are still up in the air.” Cara smiled as she deflected the query, hoping the woman wouldn’t take offense.
If Marge was put out by Cara’s evasiveness, she didn’t let on. “It’s good to be flexible. We miss a lot of opportunities when we make up our minds about something and then put blinders on. Sometimes the forks in the road are the most interesting part of the journey. I know that was true for me when I left Boston and came here to take over the Oak Hill Inn.” Checking her watch, she smiled at Cara. “Now I really will be late if I don’t hustle. I baked those rolls first thing this morning, but they’re cool by now. You might want to nuke ’em for a minute or two. They’re a whole lot better warm. Take care now, and think about joining us at church.”
With a wave, Marge turned and strode down the stone path, her gauzy top flapping in the morning breeze.
Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Cara closed the door and headed back to the kitchen. As she set the rolls on the counter, she reread the note Sam had propped against the toaster.
Cara: I’m sorry again about last night. I hope you were able to get back to sleep. You’ll find eggs and English muffins in the fridge. Plus some deli things for lunch. Make yourself at home. See you tonight.
Picking up the slip of paper, Cara studied the scrawled words. Once, Sam had written in bold, precise strokes. She’d teased him about his penmanship on occasion, quipping that she was surprised he’d been admitted to medical school with such legible handwriting. But the attack had taken care of that. While he’d regained some flexibility, and had learned to compensate for his disability, it was clear he still had trouble wielding a pen. Another constant reminder of his trauma, one he would carry with him for the rest of his life.
As for going back to sleep last night…after the episode in the hall, it had taken her almost an hour to drift off. And when she’d finally awakened, Sam had been gone. But he’d left a set of house keys on the counter, along with a pot of coffee.
Pouring herself another cup of the strong brew, Cara peeled back the plastic wrap from Marge’s offering, put one of the gooey rolls on a plate and slid it into the microwave. Within seconds the comforting aroma of cinnamon enveloped her. Marge’s gesture had been kind, she acknowledged. And the woman had seemed friendly and sincere. Her attire might be a bit…flamboyant, but her candor and down-to-earth manner had been refreshing.
While Cara nibbled on the rich cinnamon roll, she poked around Sam’s kitchen. The breakfast and lunch items he’d mentioned were front and center in his refrigerator, which was otherwise bare except for a quart of milk, butter, some single-serving packets of condiments and a few sodas.
What on earth did the man eat?
The freezer provided some answers. Microwave dinners were stacked in neat piles on the shelves. Farther down, she found a loaf of bread and a box of frozen waffles. A scan of the pantry revealed s
oup, cereal, crackers and tuna.
The cabinets yielded no additional food and only a meager supply of pots, pans and lids.
Dismayed, Cara topped off her mug. She supposed she should have expected an ill-equipped kitchen. Sam never had shown much interest in the culinary arts, preferring to spend his time on “important” things—an attitude that had manifested itself more and more as the years went on, causing additional strain on their marriage. Maybe she wasn’t saving lives every day, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t adding enjoyment to life, enhancing special occasions, creating lasting memories. But he’d never seen it that way. And Cara had never been able to convince him that her career made a difference in people’s lives, too.
Once more she surveyed the cabinets. Grateful as she was for the spectacular bedroom Sam had created for her, Cara knew she could never function in this kitchen. Nor could she exist on frozen commercial dinners. In the same way that surgery had given Sam a sense of self, cooking helped define Cara. Even after the shooting, when she’d been holed up in her apartment, she’d found refuge in her cooking, supplied with a steady stream of fresh ingredients by Liz. That had been the one normal thing in her life these past weeks. And she couldn’t give it up.
Rummaging around in a drawer by the telephone, Cara found some scratch paper and a pen. Indulging herself with a second delectable cinnamon roll, she started compiling a list.
After retrieving his mail from the roadside box, Sam unlocked the front door, stepped inside—and stopped in his tracks.
Savory scents filled a house more accustomed to the unappetizing odor of burnt pizza than the mouthwatering smell of beef burgundy. And the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen were far more appealing than the ones emanating from the bag in his hands, which contained whatever fried special Gus had featured tonight.
But Cara had been clear about the eating arrangements yesterday, he reminded himself. They were each to do their own thing. He’d agreed, and it was too late to renege. Besides, this visit was about giving her a place to stay where she felt safe and could rest. He shouldn’t expect her to do anything for him—including cook.
