by Susan Gable
Rachel coughed and shook her head.
“You don’t have any?”
Someday, maybe she’d figure out the right way to answer this question, a way that acknowledged Daniel but didn’t reveal the depth of her pain. For now, she took the easy way. “No.”
“Don’t you like kids?”
“I’m a teacher.” As if that guaranteed liking kids.
The corners of the child’s mouth spread further. “Cool. Are you married?”
“No, I’m not.” She had to get this conversation back into safer territory. “Are you?”
The little girl giggled. “Not yet.” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Probably never if my dad has his way. Speaking of Dad—” she whipped her head around, pigtails flying “—I gotta go. Later.” She scampered off into the crowd surrounding the bonfire.
Cute kid. I wonder which of her siblings had a transplant? Rachel worked a cinder loose from a molar with her tongue and discreetly got rid of it. Why kids thought marshmallows had to go up in flames to be toasted was beyond her. But still, it had been a sweet gesture.
It reminded her of the time Daniel decided to make breakfast for her. Captain Crunch cereal, orange juice and toast. That toast had launched her into laughter for weeks—outside of Daniel’s hearing, of course. Burned to the point of being something she could have used as a roof tile, the toast had peanut butter, jelly, honey and cream cheese piled on top of it—her son’s effort to “cover up the black part.” And she’d eaten every bite with a smile and done her best to keep it down. Kids…
The familiar ache began to build inside her chest, and she did her best to keep that down, too.
A blast of feedback from a sound system shrieked, then someone blew into a microphone, intoning the standard “Testing, one, two,” followed by the mandatory taps on the head of the mike. “Is this thing working?”
“Yes!” Several voices answered at once.
“Good, good,” the man continued. “Just in case I didn’t get to greet you today, I’m Donald Luciano. I run this camp with my wife, Trudy.” The crowd broke into applause, and he held up a hand. “Now, now, you might want to wait until the end of camp to see if you still feel like applauding me.”
“We love ya, Don!” someone yelled.
“Camp Firefly Wishes is the best!” added another youthful voice.
Don chuckled and ran a hand over his scraggly beard. “We like to think so. I want to welcome you all to camp, and officially open the session with the traditional lighting of the memory torch.”
A low hum passed through the crowd. People shuffled their feet in the sand. The hair on the back of Rachel’s neck rose. Memory torch?
Trudy joined her husband on the sand near the small sound system. Painted stripes in the spectrum of the rainbow swirled down the handle of the white torch she carried.
Don cleared his throat. “Those of you who’ve been here before know this is our way of remembering those we’ve lost. Most of us know people who never made it off the transplant lists, people who died waiting.”
Trudy moved closer and laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder. The pair exchanged a glance so filled with support and a special bond that Rachel felt a sharp pang of envy. Loving support from a spouse would be most welcome at this moment.
Don reached up and patted his wife’s hand before continuing. “Our adult son was one of them. That’s why we opened this camp. But this torch will burn brightly all while camp is in session, to remind us. We also want to dedicate it to the memory of those whose death gave others a second chance at life. This is for the donors and their families.”
Rachel stumbled backward until she bumped into the tree. She reached out and gripped the bark tightly between her fingers. As Trudy passed the torch to her husband and he lowered it to the flames of the bonfire, Rachel closed her eyes.
She inhaled the cool night air deeply, then exhaled slowly. Without thinking, she pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger to make the tingles go away—a habit she’d developed since Daniel’s death.
“Whatever you’re keeping locked inside you will eat you alive if you don’t let it out.” The deep, yet soft voice came from her side.
Rachel opened her eyes and lowered her hand. “James.” She crammed all thoughts of Daniel into the small compartment of her heart where she tried to keep him. “Not only do you get under my hood, but you want to get inside my head, too, hmm?”
He lifted one shoulder, cocking his head to the side. “Can’t help it.”
“And why is that?”
“I’m a psychologist. Comes naturally to me.”
Oh, great. Just what she needed, a hunky psychologist with a miracle kid who wanted to crawl inside her mind and psyche. Granted, the rest of her didn’t seem to appeal to men. Her ex-husband, the snake, the charmer, had always said he’d been attracted to her intelligence. But then he’d left her for a woman whose boobs were larger than her IQ.
Of course, the marriage had been built on very shaky ground to start with.
You are not interested in another man. Men are nothing but trouble. And this one has a child, a sick little girl who had a heart transplant. Think how much potential for pain there is in that. Haven’t you had enough?
“Rachel? Are you all right?”
Her fingernails sank into the tree trunk again. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” He stood so close she could smell his after-shave, a rugged, masculine musk that went well with his chiseled facial features, blue jeans and shirt patterned in a Native American motif. “You don’t look like a psychologist.”
He smiled. “And just what is a psychologist supposed to look like?”
“Well, there are two schools of thought on that. One is the stuffy, suit-wearing, tie-and-glasses psychologist who ran rats through mazes in college and now sits behind his desk with a clipboard, murmuring ‘Ah-ha’ and ‘I see.’ They like to run IQ tests and personality profiles.”
“And the other?”
“The New Age, bearded, potbellied psychologist who burns incense. Kinda looks like Don over there. In college, instead of running rats through a maze, he set them free. He says things like ‘And how does that make you feel?’ and ‘What do you think about it?”’
“And you base these stereotypes on…?”
“I work with a few of the first type at school.”
“What about the second ones?”
“I’ve run into a few of them, here and there.” And none of the therapists she’d seen—at other people’s urging—had helped. None of them understood that she just wasn’t ready.
“Marriage counseling?” He stared intently at her mouth. “You mentioned your ex earlier.”
“Sort of.”
Music swelled in the background. Peering around his shoulder, Rachel could see Don and several other campers with guitars, gearing up for a sing-along. Camp songs about poison ivy and missing meatballs and green speckled frogs, she could handle, but if they got sappy, she would simply leave.
She turned back to James and caught him still staring at her. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’ve got something stuck on the corner of your mouth.” He cupped her chin with one hand and ran the pad of his other thumb over the crease in her lips. “Whatever it is, it’s sticky.”
His hands were warm, touching her lightly yet confidently, conveying quiet strength. Her muscles softened like the inside of that marshmallow…. She chuckled, more from nerves at his touch than humor. “That’s my burnt offering.”
“Burnt offering?” He made another pass with his finger over her lips. “I can’t get it. It’s going to need something more. Sorry.” The hand cupping her chin vanished.
She ran her tongue along the juncture of her lips several times, then used a fingernail to scrape at it. “Did I get it?”
“Uh, yeah, you got it.”
“Thanks. Wouldn’t want to walk around with marshmallow on my face all night.”
“D
addy?”
James stiffened at Molly’s voice behind him. He backed away from Rachel and whirled to face his daughter. “Yeah, tiger?”
“I just wondered where you were, that’s all.”
His cheeks grew warm, and guilt spread over him like refrigerated honey. “I’m sorry, Molly. I thought you were with Cherish and her family?”
“I was, but they’re going back to their cabin. The baby’s getting fussy, and her mom says she’s not feeding him in a crowd of people.” Molly craned her neck to peek around him. “Who are you talking to?”
“Just…our neighbor.” James stepped aside. “Molly, this is Rachel. Rachel, this is my daughter, Molly.”
Rachel gaped. “This…this is your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve kinda met, Dad. I bumped into her at dinner.”
James looked from Rachel to his daughter. “Bumped into her? Literally?”
“Um, yes.” Molly batted her lashes at him and grinned. “No biggie, though. Right?”
James swung his gaze back from child to woman. “No biggie?”
Rachel shook her head. “No biggie. She apologized.” She edged away from the tree and around them. “I have to get back to my cabin. Busy day tomorrow.”
He reached out and brushed his hand against her elbow. “What’s the rush? We’ll walk back with you.”
Rachel leaned in closer to him, pitched her voice low. “I thought you said your daughter had a heart transplant?”
“I did,” Molly piped up, obviously picking up the words not intended for her. “Wanna see my scar?”
“No!” Rachel’s eyes widened; the moonlight illuminated a wildness in them. “No, I don’t—” She stumbled sideways, and when James reached to steady her, she extended her palm to ward him off. “I…really have to go now.”
With that, she took off.
“Oops. Sorry, Dad.” His daughter’s small hand slipped into his own, and she gave it a squeeze.
He leaned over and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “It’s all right, Unsinkable. Some people just don’t do well with things like that.” Like your mother. And obviously his new neighbor. He tempered an unexpected surge of disappointment at the thought. “I’ve warned you before about flashing that scar. I’m glad it doesn’t bother you, but you have to be considerate about other people’s feelings. Besides, a little modesty would be a good thing.”
“You take your shirt off outside.”
“I’m not a girl,” he whispered into her ear. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not, for now? It’s not like I have b—”
“Molly!” He glared at his daughter. “This discussion is over. Let’s go. It’s time for bed, anyway.”
JAMES TUCKED THE FLORAL bedspread around Molly’s sides, then sat down, causing the wicker frame to creak. “Only ten minutes for reading tonight. It’s late already, and tomorrow you have a lot of stuff going on.”
“Okay, Dad.” Molly picked at a piece of lint on the covers. “Do you think that lady hates me now?”
“No, of course not. I think you caught her by surprise, is all.” Rachel’s reaction, however, had been a surprise to him. That made twice she’d bolted when confronted with his daughter’s condition.
“Good.” Molly sighed. “Do you think she’s pretty? I think she is. I wish I had hair like that instead of this stupid red crud.”
“Your hair isn’t really red, it’s auburn. With a few flaming highlights.” He ran his hand over her soft waves. “I wouldn’t want it any other way. Someday, Unsinkable, you’re going to be a real heartbreaker, and I’m going to have to keep the boys at bay with a very large bat.”
“Sure. With all these freckles. And I don’t want to be a heartbreaker. Mommy broke your heart, and it hasn’t been fixed. I hate her. Too bad Dr. Nelinski couldn’t give you a new heart, too.”
James shifted back at the animosity in her voice. “Hey now, where is all this coming from?”
Molly’s mouth curved downward and she avoided his eyes. “Nowhere.”
“It’s coming from somewhere. It’s okay to talk about it. You’re entitled to your feelings.”
“It’s…never mind. How come you don’t go out on dates like other divorced parents?”
“Whoa. How old are you now? Seventeen? I don’t think my dating is really your business, tiger.”
“But why don’t you? Cherish’s mom found Nolan, and now they’re a real family.”
“Aah, I see.” James leaned over and tapped gently on her nose. “I don’t date, sweetheart, because you are a very special girl, and I would have to find a very, very special lady to be good enough for us. Second chances aren’t easy to come by.”
“But I got a second-chance heart.”
James let his palm rest at the base of her throat. Overwhelming love rushed through him with every steady thump beneath his hand. “Yes,” he whispered. “Thank God, you did. And that’s the only second chance I need.” He brushed his lips over her forehead, ever vigilant of the temperature of her skin. “I love you, Unsinkable.”
She groaned. “I love you, too, but I hate that name.”
“I know. It’s a father’s privilege to give his daughter a nickname she can’t stand. Lights out in ten.” The bed creaked again. He headed for his own room.
The half-drawn shade slapped against the window, thanks to the cool night breeze. When he flipped the wall switch, the lightbulb flashed and popped. With a mumbled curse, James cautiously headed for the bedside table, hoping for better luck with the lamp there. He stopped short as he passed the window.
A soft yellow glow illuminated the neighboring cabin. “Rachel Thompson,” he murmured. “What’s your story?” His thoughts wandered to the flicker of pain he’d seen in her eyes at their first meeting. There was obviously more to Rachel than she was prepared to reveal. Then the image of her walking away from him flashed into his consciousness. “Stop that,” he muttered as the light next door flicked off. He didn’t need a flesh-and-blood woman tempting him. This trip was for Molly. Her needs came first, as always. His needs…well, his needs could wait. They’d waited this long.
CHAPTER THREE
“I’M STUCK!”
The panicked cry from the far side of the arts-and-crafts room reached Rachel, and she jerked her head up, dropping the pipe-cleaner antenna she was helping Sean glue to his bell bug project.
“Miss Rachel!” Molly waved at her from a table near the windows. “Help! My friend is stuck!”
“Stuck?” She crossed the room in several quick strides. Great. First full day on the job and something had already gone wrong. Well, that was a Monday for you. “What do you mean, she’s stuck?” The only glue they were using was white glue, and that wasn’t likely to get children stuck. At least, not in her experience.
“Ow! Molly, don’t!”
Rachel glanced down. The child’s arm, trapped just above her elbow, protruded between the slats in the back of the old wooden school chair. “How did you manage that?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t get it out!” The girl sniffed and tugged on her arm to demonstrate. “Ow!”
“Let’s see what we can do here.” Rachel grasped the child’s shoulder. “What’s your name again, sweetie?” She pushed backward.
“Cherish! Ouch, stop!”
“Well, Cherish, you certainly do good work.”
The rest of the eight-to-ten-year-old group gathered around, chattering to one another. “Hey, maybe they’ll have to cut your arm off,” one of the boys suggested.
Cherish’s face lightened two shades.
“No one is going to cut your arm off.” Rachel glared at the boy. “Cut the chair, maybe, but not you.”
“Please, get me out! It really hurts!” The girl started to inhale and exhale quickly.
“I once heard this story about this guy who caught his leg in a bear trap, and to get out, he cut his leg off, only he cut off the wrong one and—”
Cherish moaned and Rachel w
hirled on the other children. “That is quite enough! All of you get back to your seats, now!”
The kids scrambled to obey.
Rachel tried once more to pull the little girl free.
Cherish gasped and grabbed her chest. “Oh, I hate this!”
The blood rushed from Rachel’s skull, and she went light-headed. She turned to Molly, who’d remained at her friend’s side, stroking Cherish’s shoulder. “Is she like you? A transplant kid?”
Molly nodded. “Cherish got her heart a few months before me.”
Panic clouded Rachel’s brain and she struggled to process the fact that she had a trapped child, a child with a heart condition, clutching at her chest. “Molly, get me the container of soap from the sink.” She looked over her shoulder without waiting to see if Molly complied. “Sean, you run, and I mean run, to the medical office and get the doctor. Move!” The boy dashed for the doorway.
Rachel knelt and stroked Cherish’s trapped arm. “You need to calm down. I’m going to get you out of here. Everything’s going to be fine.” Please, let it be fine!
“Here’s the soap.” Molly thrust the container at her. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get your friend out of this chair.” Rachel pumped the thick liquid on Cherish’s arm, both above the chair slats and below, then carefully spread it. “How are you doing, sweetie?”
The child opened her eyes to stare down at her. “Okay. You think that will really work?”
“Of course it will. No problem.” Rachel added a few more squirts for good measure.
“What is the trouble, ladies?” Dr. Santebe asked in a singsong accent as he crossed the room. A reassuring smile flashed gleaming white teeth against his olive complexion. He shoved aside the art projects on the table and perched his hip on the edge, leaning down to brush a finger over Cherish’s cheek.
“I think I can get her arm out, but she seems to have a pain in her chest,” Rachel said.
“This is so?” he asked the girl.
Cherish shrugged her shoulders, then winced. “Ow. Yeah, but my heart was just catching up, that’s all. I panicked.”
