“Yes.” Sunny wasn’t about to get all editorial and suggest for instead of with. “I’m Sunny Coolidge, and this is my father, Mike. We just heard about what happened to Ollie—Mr. Barnstable. Is he all right?”
“Physically, he’s doing about the best we could hope for. We’ve given him something for the pain, and if he lies quietly, he shouldn’t suffer.” The doctor took a deep breath. “Otherwise . . . well, he’s threatened three times to buy the place and have us all fired.”
“Only three times?” Sunny managed a smile. “For him, that’s being fairly mellow.”
“Well, a lot of the other patients—and staff—would appreciate it if he were a little less loud.” The doctor pulled back a wisp of hair that had gotten loose from her bun and fallen onto her forehead. “Does he have a wife? Any family?”
Sunny shook her head. “He was an only child, and his folks died years ago. He never married”—for obvious reasons, that snarky voice in her head chimed in—“and the only relations I know of are a couple of cousins who live several hours away.”
From the look on the doctor’s face, several hours was longer than they could put up with. She came to a sudden decision. “I’m going to let you in,” she said. “Maybe you can calm him down.”
Sunny and Mike followed the doctor into the emergency room proper—a good-sized area with flooring, tiles, and walls in various shades of muted green. Maybe the color was supposed to be calming, or maybe the doctors hoped their surgical scrubs would blend with the walls and make them invisible. But if the colors were quiet, the ambiance wasn’t. Machines gave off all sorts of blips, blurps, and beeps; doctors, nurses, and aides all seemed to be talking together; and of course, visitors and patients had questions and requests for help. And then the public-address system came on, announcing some mysterious code.
Gee, I can’t imagine why Ollie couldn’t calm down in the middle of all this serenity, Sunny’s sarcastic side commented.
The ER patients all lay on gurneys separated by curtains with suitably soothing patterns (in green, of course). The curtains didn’t do much to block out sound—like the moaning that got louder as the doctor led them to a completely curtained-in space.
Pulling the curtain open, the doctor announced, “Some visitors for you, Mr. Barnstable.”
Ollie responded with a “Hanh?” He tried to see over his big belly, which mounded up the hospital sheet like a minor hill, then winced and let out a loud groan, reaching his hand down to his right thigh. “Why don’t they do something? This leg is killing me.”
At least, that’s what Sunny thought he was saying. The words came out awfully mushy—like when he actually recognized her. “Shunny! Wa’ry’doonere?”
Sunny correctly interpreted that into, “Sunny! What are you doing here?” But then, she had the advantage of having dealt with plenty of peremptory phone calls from Ollie the Barnacle after one of his multiple-martini lunches.
“We heard you got hurt and came to see how you were doing,” she said. “You remember my dad.”
“Hiya,” Ollie said to Mike. “S’awful here! Tryna kill me!” He attempted to shift on the skinny mattress and let out a howl. “My leg!”
“You have to keep still,” Mike advised. “Otherwise, you aggravate the broken bone.”
“From the looks of things, I’d say they gave you something for the pain,” Sunny said.
“Yeah.” Ollie’s big, round face had paled to a light pink from its regular red. “Shtuff makes m’soun’ thrunk!”
Ollie assured them, however, that he’d been sober as a judge during his accident. “I shaw th’deer lyin’ there, an’ I wash tryna help ’im off th’ road.” His look of civic responsibility might have been more convincing if he hadn’t been peering blearily up at them.
He blinked and suddenly sounded a little less drunk . . . and a lot more scared. “They want to cut into my leg.” Again, he pointed to his thigh.
“They probably want to put in a plate to hold everything together,” Mike said, his voice calm and soothing. “You know, the femur is one of the strongest bones in your body. It has to bear a lot of weight.”
Sunny couldn’t help glancing at Ollie’s bulk on the gurney. Then she turned to her dad. “How do you know about all of that?”
Mike shrugged. “When you take friends to appointments with orthopedic surgeons, you hear a lot.”
“They said if I go along with this surgery thing, I could be out of here in a couple of days.” Ollie looked hopefully at Mike. “Is that true?”
“Yes, but you won’t be going home,” Mike warned. “You’ll probably have to put in some time at a rehab facility—not to mention a lot of work.”
Ollie’s face stopped looking loopy and became honestly confused. “Rehab? Where?”
“If you want my advice, I’d say you should go with Bridgewater Hall,” Mike promptly replied. “They’ve got a good reputation, do a lot more therapy work with the patients. Also, I hear the food is decent.”
“Bridgewater Hall,” Ollie repeated, sagging back against the folded blanket that was serving as his pillow. Maybe the painkiller was finally kicking in. “Couldja tell ’em that for me?” He closed his eyes and was out like a light.
“Well, you managed to calm him down,” Sunny told her dad. “That was pretty impressive. How did you know about Bridgewater Hall?”
“It was my first choice after I had the heart attack and didn’t know if you were coming up to help out,” he replied a little grimly. “Sounded great to me, except for one little thing.”
“What was that?” Sunny asked.
“They told me I couldn’t afford it,” Mike replied. “But I figure Ollie is loaded. He should be able to swing their fees.”
2
After Ollie finally settled down, Sunny got a chance to talk with some of the doctors. Surgery to implant a brace on the broken bone was tentatively scheduled for the next afternoon, and shortly afterward a social worker would be turning up to get the ball rolling on some place for rehab. Mike made sure to mention Ollie’s preference for Bridgewater Hall. The discussion took a while, and by the time Sunny and her dad got out of the hospital, true dark had already established itself.
As they drove home, Mike discussed the pluses and minuses of other nursing homes in the area. “I think physical and occupational therapy, they’re the big considerations,” he explained. “Otherwise, you’re just being warehoused, lying in bed, watching daytime television. Bridgewater Hall has two hours a day, one in the morning and then one in the afternoon. Everywhere else I looked into only had an hour. The place isn’t all that big—only seventy-five beds both for the old folks who are permanent residents and the short-timers in for recuperation. But the rehab patients have a separate wing of the building with exercise space and equipment. And the therapy staff has a reputation all over the state. They get good results.”
“The physical therapist who came to the house and worked with you was pretty good,” Sunny pointed out. “Getting results when he could only come once a week—well, that depended a lot on my nagging.”
Mike sighed. “I know I gave you a hard time about my exercises. It’s easier taking orders from a stranger than from your own kid.”
“Having a hard time taking me seriously because you once changed my diapers?” Sunny inquired, grinning.
“That’s probably part of it,” Mike said with a laugh. “Also, in a facility, it’s harder to escape when they want you to do stuff. You can’t get away with giving them guff about wanting a nap or not feeling up to exercising.”
“Looks as though it turned out pretty well for you despite convalescing at home,” Sunny told him. “Nowadays you can walk your kid right into the ground.” She glanced over at her dad. “Do you really feel you missed out on the fancy-schmancy rest home?”
“I was really glad when you came home to help out.” Mike’s voice gr
ew rueful. “But maybe if you’d stayed in New York, you’d still have your job.”
Sunny briefly turned to give Mike a pat on the arm. “I wouldn’t blame yourself for that, Dad. The Sentinel was bleeding jobs well before I took my leave of absence. Sooner or later, my number would have been up.”
Although it kind of stings when the editor who cans you is also your ex, Sunny’s uncompromising back-of-the-head voice felt compelled to add.
They continued on in silence until Sunny made the turn home onto Wild Goose Drive. “What was that?” Her voice grew sharp. For just a second, the Jeep’s headlights had ignited an answering glow in a pair of animal eyes.
Mike rolled down the window and peered out into the gloom. “It’s the damn cat.”
“Shadow? What is he doing out?” Sunny exited the SUV and stepped forward. With his striped gray fur, Shadow was almost invisible against the dark grass.
“I think he figured out how to gimmick the screen door in the kitchen,” Mike said. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see him all afternoon.”
Shadow came toward Sunny, but stayed just out of reach, then turned away, his legs and back stiff, his tail a flag of offended pride.
“Shadow!” Sunny called after him.
“You missed his supper,” Mike said. “I guess he’s peeved.” Despite having turned his back on Sunny and stalking off, Shadow somehow still managed to zip between her legs and into the house as she unlocked the front door. He elaborately ignored her as Sunny headed to the kitchen and got out a can of the good cat food, and even stayed aloof as she scraped the can into his dish and added fresh water to his bowl. He waited until she was well away before he came up and began taking small, determined bites.
He’s got to be starving, but he won’t let himself be hurried, Sunny thought, watching him from the kitchen doorway “Hey, how come the furball gets fed first?” Mike demanded, reminding her that there were other hungry people in the house.
Sighing, Sunny went to the refrigerator and got out the deli salads she’d picked up at Judson’s Market the day before. They might be leftovers, but with some bread and cold cuts, they’d make a decent cold supper.
Mike came into the kitchen to get plates and scowl at Shadow. But when he saw Mike, the cat abandoned his bowl and advanced on Sunny’s father, reaching out a paw to pat at his shin.
Mike’s grim expression melted to a wry grin. “Crazy cat.”
Yeah, the sarcastic voice in Sunny’s head commented, but he’s still getting fed first.
*
Four days later, Sunny had fallen into a routine with the hospitalized Ollie. At the end of the day, she’d bring any business that needed his approval up to County General. Thankfully, with the weekend there hadn’t been much for Ollie to deal with when he was really out of things, just a real estate deal with somebody in Portland who kept making phone calls to the MAX office.
Although Ollie had a boatload of businesses, the tour office served as headquarters and nerve center of his miniature financial empire. That’s where all the files were kept, all the mail was delivered, and all the calls kept coming in from Mr. Orton in Portland.
Today was the big day when Ollie transferred out of the hospital and into the nursing home. Sunny left the office early, carrying a fat envelope full of papers that Mr. Orton had express-mailed over for Ollie’s signature ASAP. Placing the bulky package on the passenger seat of her trusty maroon Wrangler, Sunny set off for Bridgewater Hall.
The orthopedic surgeon had worked quickly to pull Ollie’s broken bone together—and the hospital had worked just as quickly to get him out of there. An ambulance arrived to take Sunny’s boss to Bridgewater Hall around noontime. Mike Coolidge had volunteered to help with the move and get Ollie established in his new digs.
Heading north from Kittery Harbor, Sunny stayed on the interstate until she reached the exit that would take her to Levett. Then she followed a series of country roads until she came to the stone bridge that gave Bridgewater its name. The village had a downtown about a block long—a food store, Laundromat, barbershop, gas station, and dry cleaner’s. Following the instructions she’d downloaded, Sunny passed the business district, took the next left, and five minutes later pulled up in the driveway of Bridgewater Hall.
“Yikes!” she muttered, taking in the view. Except for the cyclone fence and the parking lot taking up a good piece of the front lawn, the place had a distinctly baronial feel. A three-story stone structure rose up on the left, complete with a two-story bay with battlements on top. And just to the right of those rose a heavy arch framing a pair of bronze and timber doors that would probably require a major battering ram to bust through if the local peasants ever decided to revolt.
Extending off to the right was a two-story wing set farther back, rising at the far right end to another three-story structure, sort of a miniature of the first hall.
Must have started out as someone’s stately home, or maybe a hotel, Sunny thought as she got out of her Jeep and headed up the walk. The doors, for all their imposing size, swung open easily, and Sunny immediately left medieval times for the world of twenty-first-century medicine—or at least twentieth century. The floor was institutional green terrazzo, and a guard’s desk flanked the doorway. The buildup had left Sunny expecting maybe a Beefeater with a halberd; instead, she saw a guy maybe a few years younger than she was behind a chest-high wooden counter. He was burly, with sandy hair in a military buzz cut and a wide, open face that was maybe softening a little along the jawline. But he wore his short-sleeved blue shirt and dark striped tie like a uniform, and there was plenty of heavy muscle on his arms as he took up a pen and pushed a sign-in book toward her. Still, his smile was cheerful and friendly as he said, “Welcome to Bridgewater Hall. How can I help you?”
“Yes, a . . . friend of mine just arrived today.” Maybe she was having a flashback to the Kittery Harbor Way, but Sunny didn’t want to call Ollie just a boss or employer. “Mr. Barnstable.”
“Oh, yes, he’s settled in by now.” As the guard ran down a list, Sunny got close enough to read the name tag over his breast pocket: R. WARNER. “Ah,” Warner said, “they put him in 114 with Mr. Scatterwell. Well, you should get some entertainment. Mr. Scatterwell’s the mayor of the rehab unit.”
“Thanks.” Sunny tried to figure out which way to go. Beyond the guard’s desk was a large open area done up as a sort of parlor, with armchairs, couches, paintings, and even a huge, ancient grandfather clock. Large fish tanks took up one wall. Opposite that stood what appeared to be a pair of elevators. Beyond those was a long hallway.
One of the elevator doors opened, and a calico cat sauntered out.
Sunny blinked to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. The cat padded across the corridor, then broke into a sudden run to jump onto one of the parlor chairs.
Warner followed her eyes. “Therapy animal,” he explained. “We’ve got several cats and dogs here.” He called out, “Portia, what are you doing over there?”
The cat’s head briefly appeared over the arm of the chair, responding to her name. Then Portia disappeared again, no doubt arranging herself on the upholstery for a nap.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all do that?” Sunny asked with a smile.
“Wouldn’t get much done if we followed Portia’s schedule.” But Warner’s smile was fond as he looked over at the chair. Then he glanced back at Sunny. “Sorry, ma’am, You’re probably wondering how to get to your friend’s room. Just follow the corridor—it’ll take you to the nurses’ station. They can direct you from there.”
I’m not so much older than you that you’ve got to call me ma’am, Sunny thought. She signed in, then extended her hand. “Sunny Coolidge.”
Warner replied with a firm handshake. “Rafe Warner.”
“I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you.” Sunny hefted the bulging envelope she’d brought. “I work for Mr. Barnstabl
e, and I’ll be bringing papers and stuff for him.”
Rafe smiled. “Well, welcome again. I hope Mr. Barnstable enjoys his stay.”
Sunny thanked him and set off for the corridor. Along the way, she stopped by the armchair that Portia had claimed. “Hello, there,” she said, extending the back of her hand. Portia was up before the hand got close, but she didn’t skitter away. Instead, she raised her head and gave Sunny a delicate sniff, staring up at Sunny’s face with greenish-gold eyes, their color heightened by the markings on her face. Black fur surrounded her right eye, ginger fur encircled her left. Against the white fur on the rest of her face, it made Portia look as if she were wearing a multicolored mask.
Barely had Portia checked out the hand than she lowered her head in a gesture Sunny had learned early in her relationship with Shadow. It was a silent command to be petted.
Maybe she’s catching a whiff of Shadow on me, Sunny thought as she ran gentle fingers over velvet fur. Portia thrust her head more determinedly against Sunny’s caress, wanting the space between her ears scratched.
Hearing a laugh, Sunny glanced over to the guard’s station and Rafe Warner’s smiling face. “Should have warned you, the critters around here are very touchy-feely. Spending time with the residents means a lot of petting.”
“So I see.” Portia wordlessly directed Sunny to take care of her neck and then arched her back to get a nice scratch there, too.
Rafe Warner came over. “Poor Portia isn’t getting as much attention as she likes.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Hope you’re not superstitious. She’s gotten a sort of—reputation—lately.”
“Reputation for what?” Sunny asked.
Rafe shrugged uncomfortably. “As a jinx. A lot of the people she’s picked to hang around with—they pass away.”
“Is that so?” Sunny asked the cat. “What’s your weapon of choice? Is it fish breath? Or maybe a gas attack under the covers?” She’d learned from harsh experience that whenever Shadow closed his eyes and looked blissfully content, it was time to abandon the nearby premises until the noxious cloud dissipated.
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