by Gun Brooke
“You never know.”
Fiona rubbed her chin again. “Hmm. Then let me think about it. I should be able to come up with something. Are you going to chat with her again tonight?”
“I really shouldn’t. If she’s online, I can always change the chat settings to ‘invisible.’”
“A coward’s method. Chat with her tonight, and try to keep off the topic of identities and so on.”
“What are you plotting?” Lark knew plenty about her sister and was justifiably suspicious.
“It’s called stalling. We need time to figure this out.”
“Oh, God.” Lark covered her eyes, but Fiona’s shrewd tone of voice was impossible to shut out. “You scare me sometimes.”
Fiona merely laughed. “Ah, ye of little faith…I’m at your service, dear sister. Never fear, Fiona is here, when troubles appear.”
Lark groaned. “You still use that supergirl saying? God almighty.”
“It’s never failed me before.”
“Really.”
“Doubter.”
Lark huffed. “I call myself a realist.”
“Same shit, different name,” Fiona said with aplomb. “There. I win.”
*
Sheridan wheeled into her living room and noticed that Mrs. D had lit tea lights on the side tables and put a tray of fresh fruit and orange juice on the coffee table. All furniture that used to be fashionably low now had extended legs to fit her needs. The clumsy extenders were meant to be temporary, and Sheridan intended to make sure they were.
“Sheridan? Want me to take your coat?” Mrs. D showed up as if she had materialized simply because Sheridan thought of her.
“Yes, please.”
Mrs. D skillfully pulled Sheridan’s trench coat off with no effort. “You see the tray?”
“Yes. Thank you. That’ll be all. Oh, wait. Who’s on duty tonight?”
“Karen. She’s relieving Sandra right now.”
Sheridan clenched her teeth around a “who is Sandra?” and only nodded.
“Anything you want me to pass on to her?”
“No. Nothing yet. She can report to me as usual in an hour or so. I’ll be in here, reading.”
“Good. There’s a stack of new books from your book club. I put them on the shelf next to the couch.”
“Thank you.”
“Good night, Sheridan.”
After Mrs. D left, Sheridan pivoted her chair to head over to the small table on the other side of the room. The books could wait. She took her laptop out of her bag and flipped it open. A couple of minutes later, she logged onto the chat, scanning her list of contacts for Grey_bird.
She wasn’t online. The disappointment shot through Sheridan with a surprising force. It was silly, she thought, to feel so intensely about a complete stranger. She had anticipated coming home and spending some time with Grey_bird, eagerly reading her messages before bedtime. I thought it would see me through tomorrow, with work and doing PT on my own.
Fighting for self-control, Sheridan instead opened her e-mail program and started a new document. She was going to use her Hotmail account, which was more difficult to trace back to her. Grey_bird’s personal introduction on the chat program’s Web site showed her e-mail, which helped. Chewing on her lower lip, an old habit that had resurfaced since her illness, Sheridan began to type.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Being the boss sucks!
Hi Bird,
I suppose this e-mail strikes you as surprising, since so far we’ve only used chat to communicate. I like chatting and prefer it to e-mail, because I’m by nature quite impatient. But some things are better said in an e-mail where you have time to gather your thoughts and phrase what you mean to say.
You can exhale. I don’t have anything world-altering to confess, and I don’t expect you to. I suppose I was just less than thrilled to find you absent from the chat window. I had hoped to talk to you before tomorrow, and this is the second-best thing. Well, not counting the phone. But I think it’s far too soon for that. I’m guessing that you’re deep down a shy girl, and even I can be that, especially these days.
To tell the truth, I struggle with some health issues that demand my full attention. I hope this piece of information doesn’t completely turn you off. Not everyone is equipped to deal with disease, and I used to be one of them. Still am, in a way. I have a hard time dealing with my own situation. I think that pain was what lay behind me firing my PT the other day.
There you have it. I fired my PT because she wouldn’t conform to my needs, my decisions, and the way things work around here. She disliked me personally. I’m sure of that because I felt the evasiveness in her touch several times. One time when she massaged my head when I had a migraine is memorable. I’ve never had anyone do that to me, with such immediate results. She’s an amazing person, and I let my haughty nature get the better of me. Wish I could turn back time and be more open-minded.
I interviewed two people for the position today. I had one over yesterday, on recommendation from an agency, and I’ll never hire anyone “unseen” again. The woman who worked with me in the gym damn near killed me. She was perkier than a group of girls going after the Ms. Universe title. The guy I interviewed this morning demanded to be reimbursed for wasting his time, and the third PT wannabe was so indifferent that she could have sat through her time chewing gum and watching Bonanza reruns.
I never thought I’d say it, but I let the best one go. Damn it, it hurts to be honest. Guess it’s easier in an e-mail like this, but I’m also worried what you might think of me now. For some reason it matters, Bird. I’m usually known as a maverick of sorts, and I’m not always well liked, even if I’m usually respected and on occasion even admired.
This egocentric e-mail has been all about me, and I haven’t even asked how you’re doing. See what I mean? To make up for that, how are you, dear Bird? Did your boss at least have the decency to make amends? If not, let me know and I’ll chew them out for you. I suck at some social skills, but not that.
I’ll check the chat later this evening to see if you’re around. Would be nice to able to say good night to you.
Sheri
*
Lark stood by her window in the attic. She’d helped tuck Fiona in, which was normally her mother’s job. Fiona insisted on paying her mother, which Doris had found appalling at first, but accepted when she realized that it did wonders for Fiona’s self-esteem. The money went into a joint college fund for Doris’s grandchildren, a plan Fiona and everyone else thoroughly approved of.
Placing a hand on the cool glass, Lark sighed. She had stood by the closed laptop for a few moments, but chickened out for the third time that evening. She knew Fiona would ask her tomorrow how everything went, but it seemed impossible to talk to Sheridan right now.
Lark opened the window and let in some of the humid evening air. Her mother traditionally made their teeth clatter by lowering the air-conditioning to “arctic.” However, on hot summer evenings, when the velvet sky offered bright, shimmering stars, Lark loved to let the scent of this part of Texas fill her room. When she worked in Dubai, she thought it might smell like home, but it was so much dryer, it reminded her more of Arizona.
Eventually, Lark became disgusted with her own hesitation and closed the window. She pulled the laptop onto her thighs and started it, her blood racing through her veins. Stalling, she checked her regular e-mail program and noticed a lit icon in the bottom right corner of her screen that showed she had new mail in her “junk account,” as she referred to her Web mail. She clicked on the icon and opened the mail site. Ten spam mails hit the bin without hesitation, and only one was left that looked genuine. She checked the sender. [email protected]. Oh, my God.
Lark read the e-mail so fast that she had to reread it, twice, to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood. Sheridan regretted firing her? Surely that was what it said? Lark guided her eyes with her index finger, occas
ionally stopping at words like “Bird…shy girl…wouldn’t conform… disliked me…felt it in her touch…memorable massage…amazing person…nice to say good night” and they hit home, every single one of them.
“This changes things,” Lark whispered to herself. She couldn’t possibly pull the rug out from under Sheridan now. She regretted firing Lark, and she was reaching out to the stranger she knew as Bird, another sign that she was opening up. If nothing else, Lark would, as Bird, be able to guide Sheridan when it was time to hire another physical therapist, keep her on track and help her not to fire the next one. She thinks I disliked her. Lark realized that Sheridan had misinterpreted her attempt to keep her professional decorum when she was close to her.
Lark ached inside at the thought of someone else literally handling Sheridan. Now tomorrow morning she had to face the next problem—explaining this turn of events to Fiona.
Chapter Thirteen
“What do you suggest I do?” Sheridan muttered. “I’ve been working out alone and it’s going pretty well.”
“That’s a lie,” Mrs. D said. “I know you’ve tried, but if I hadn’t poked my head in yesterday, you could have injured yourself badly trying to do the bars exercise by yourself.”
“I was handling it.” Sheridan knew Mrs. D was right but wasn’t ready to admit it. In fact, her entire body hurt, and the headache that had plagued her through the night hadn’t let up.
“And as for what I suggest, I think you know the answer.”
“Nope.”
“Sheridan.” Mrs. D shook her head. “You need to find Lark and bring her back. She was the right person for the job, and you let your pride and your ability to be such a know-it-all get in the way. You made a mistake by firing her, and you know it.”
Sheridan was used to Mrs. D’s frankness, but this time she was almost too blunt. Blinking at a burning sensation under her eyelids, Sheridan tried to muster enough strength to stand her ground. “I hire and fire whom I damn well please.”
“Yes, you do, but you have to live with the consequences.” Mrs. D’s voice was soft, but her words cut like a knife. “Now, consider what matters most to you—becoming better in time for the meeting or being determined not to lose face.”
“I’m not worried about losing face. I could care less what people think of me.”
“Normally I’d agree with you, but in this case, I’d say you’re full of it. It does matter to you what Lark thinks. And it matters to you that you fired her.”
It was painful to breathe, and Sheridan felt deflated since she knew Mrs. D was right. “All right. Give Roy Vogel a call—”
“No. You give Lark a call. Or better yet, go visit her in person.”
“What?” Cornered by Mrs. D’s stern blue eyes, Sheridan pressed against the backrest of her wheelchair. “I wouldn’t have a clue where to find her. She could’ve gotten a new job instantly. With her qualifications, it should be easy.”
“Something tells me that she needed a break after your rather brusque dismissal. Her parents live in Boerne and that’s her billing address. Do the math, Sheridan. It’s not hard.”
“Don’t patronize me, Glenda Drew,” Sheridan snapped, delib-erately using Mrs. D’s hated first name. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“I’m not pushing anything. You need to climb down from that high horse of yours. You’re not doing yourself any favors, you know.”
It was impossible to resist Mrs. D when she sounded so sure and tender. “All right. You win.” The fire went out of her, and she slumped sideways. “I’ll go see her. Happy now?”
“Very.” Mrs. D rose and kissed Sheridan gently on the forehead. “Don’t worry. If you’re honest and speak from your heart, Lark will understand. I don’t think that girl has a vengeful or spiteful bone in her body.”
“I know she doesn’t. I did slam her pretty good, though.”
“I didn’t mean she was meek, just forgiving. Do your best, honey.”
Though Mrs. D was close to Sheridan, she didn’t commonly use terms of endearment. To hear one, right now, was amazingly soothing.
“Okay. Will do,” Sheridan said with a sigh. Why shouldn’t I expect the worst? It’s been life’s MO for quite some time now.
*
Sheridan wheeled out of the minivan using the automatically extending ramps and looked at the house where Lark’s parents lived. Located at the far end of North Main Street, it was a big stone house with a store in the front.
“Catch!” a young boy shouted, drawing Sheridan’s attention to the lawn to the right of the house. He grinned at a smaller boy standing next to him before he smacked the baseball twice into his glove, then assumed the classic pitcher’s position.
“Just don’t break my arm, kid!” Lark, just coming into view, shouted back. “You and your brother, y’all will be the death of me.”
The child threw a curve ball that threatened to sail right by Lark, who ran backward, her gloved hand raised above her head, but the ball continued on its trajectory toward Sheridan. Just as Sheridan caught the ball, Lark’s foot slipped off the limestone garden path, and she stumbled while trying to regain her balance. She toppled over and landed on her butt with a resounding thud. “Ow!”
Sheridan wheeled forward again and stopped next to Lark on the garden pathway. “Hello, Lark. Are you all right?”
Lark’s head snapped back as she stared up at Sheridan. “Sheridan,” Lark squeaked. “What are you doing here?” Lark’s racing pulse was clearly visible on her exposed neck, and Sheridan wondered if her unexpected presence or playing ball with the boy had caused its activity. Lark remained on the ground, staring up at Sheridan. “I mean, hello.”
Sheridan reached out. “Here. Let me help you. That looked painful.” She gazed over at the boy. “Good arm there, kid.”
“Thanks. My name’s Sean. This is Michael. Are you a friend of my aunt?”
“Aunt? Oh, I see. Yes, I am. My name is Sheridan.”
Sean shook Sheridan’s hand. “I can help her up.” He tugged at a flustered Lark. “Six-one, Aunt Lark.”
“Embarrassing.” Lark brushed some grass off her jeans. “Run along now. Grandma’s making ice cream.”
“Cool!” the boys said in chorus. Sean waved his fingers at Sheridan in a funny little gesture before they disappeared through the front door.
“Sean seems like a really nice boy,” Sheridan said, feeling a bit awkward, so she fiddled with her fingers, lacing and unlacing them over and over.
“He is. Sean’s one of District 19’s best pitchers, and as you just saw, he has a mean arm. His three siblings are great too, but a handful, as you can imagine.”
“Goodness, I’d think so. Four kids.” Sheridan was impressed.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Lark reminded her.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Why?” Lark’s eyes were expressionless, but her frown showed she wasn’t going to just accommodate Sheridan.
“Please.” Sheridan felt her cheeks warm slightly. “In private. Anywhere we can go?”
“Sure. The living room is usually off-limits for the kids. Follow me.”
“I meant outdoors. This chair—” Sheridan gestured down to her wheels.
“Won’t be a problem. We’ve got ramps.”
Sheridan raised her eyebrows, but didn’t ask the question she wanted to. “All right.”
Lark guided Sheridan around the corner to the side entrance next to the garage where a ramp led up to a small deck by the door.
“Very clever,” Sheridan said. “But why?”
“You’ll see.”
As if on cue, Fiona wheeled toward them in her electric chair. “Lark, I—oh, we’ve got company. I didn’t know.” She regarded Sheridan with open curiosity. “I’m Fiona Mitchell, Lark’s sister.” A paper plane swooshed by. “And I might add that this brat pack doesn’t belong to me.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sheridan Ward.” Sheridan felt shell-shocked as she leaned forward to
shake Fiona’s hand. She quickly glanced at Fiona’s motionless left hand, positioned around what looked like rolled-up bandages. God. What’s happened to her?
“If y’all want to chat—I mean talk,” Fiona corrected herself, “the living room door is locked to keep the twins out. They were about to watercolor on Mom’s best linen tablecloth.”
“God,” Lark muttered. “The key in the usual place?”
“Yup.” Fiona did the same wave with her fingers as Sean had done. “See you around then, Sheridan.” She pivoted her chair and left the two of them alone.
“Fiona is two years younger than me.” Lark guided Sheridan to two glass doors and fished out a set of keys from behind a flower pot. “She’s the beauty of the family. The rest of us look more like our dad than our mom.”
“You look fine to me.” Sheridan spoke without thinking, absorbed by the house filled with children laughing, adults talking, and the scent of cooking food.
“Thank you. You look nice also,” Lark said politely. Unlocking the door, she motioned for Sheridan to enter. She sat down in an easy chair and pulled a leg up beneath her, seemingly calm and unaffected. “Why are you here, Sheridan?”
“To ask you to forgive me and to come back.” Sheridan spoke quickly. The words came out staccato and not as together and smooth as she would have liked.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Sheridan asked, confused.
“Even if I forgive you, which I already have by the way, why should I come back? What has changed?” Lark’s voice, on the other hand, was indeed as smooth and calm as Sheridan would’ve preferred her own to be.
“I won’t lie. I tried several other PTs after you left. One tried to kill me, and the other two only made it as far as the interview. Mrs. D talked some sense into me, and everything she said was something I already knew.” Sheridan felt sweat bead on her forehead. The room faced the street and sunlight streamed in through the windows. “Please, Lark.”
