“‘Things,’ Dr. Spencer?” she asked, and she lifted one eyebrow, questioning him and flirting at the same time. “What ‘things’ do you want to talk about? The ‘things’ that happened in the car? The ‘things’ that happened in the foyer? Or the ‘things’ that happened in my bed?”
The elevator stopped and a group of staff and visitors squeezed in with them, ending all conversation.
He knew where that conversation would have led if they hadn’t been interrupted. But right now he wasn’t sure which way he should go—though after last night he didn’t think his body would give him a choice.
No, that wasn’t true. He knew his feelings for Frannie were stronger than that. And Frannie deserved to have someone who could be honest with her. Someone who could share those feelings that the counselor had told him he held back. She didn’t need someone who was constantly trying to dig himself out of a dark hole full of guilt and inadequacy.
For better or for worse she was a psychiatrist, and there was no way for him to hide from her the pain that had damaged him.
They exited the elevator and each headed in opposite ways to their offices.
He could tell by the way Frannie looked back at him that she wanted to say something. Did she see right through him?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IAN LEFT THE OR feeling more energized than he had in a long time. He was meeting Frannie at the obstetrician’s office and he was looking forward to hearing their baby’s heartbeat for the first time. He had been looking forward to it all week.
He and Frannie had spent Thanksgiving together the week before, and had informed her father of the pregnancy. They’d both been surprised at how well he had taken the news, though he’d had a lot of questions about what their future plans were for raising the baby.
Frannie had managed to answer all her father’s questions, and Ian had made sure that he knew he would be involved.
He checked the screen on his phone and looked at his appointments for the day. He’d been so busy in the OR that he’d only had a chance to look at his surgery schedule. Now the date stared back at him and he fought the urge to drop his phone.
How could he have forgotten this date? This was the day that punched a hole in his heart every year. The anniversary of the day that had destroyed everything he had planned for his family.
He went through the motions, starting the car and driving out of the parking lot. He drove through the streets of New Orleans on autopilot, arriving at his house without even remembering the drive. His small house was dark when he let himself in.
His mind went back to another time, another place, when he’d walked into a darkened house. The house had been so quiet that night, the temperature in his home cool from the chill of that Atlanta fall night. He remembered turning up the thermostat, surprised that Lydia hadn’t done it when she’d come in with Brian after she’d gotten off her shift in the ER.
He’d gone straight to Brian’s room, as he did every night when he hadn’t been there to put him down for his night’s sleep. He’d spend hours watching his little man sleep, just sitting in the chair in his son’s room and listening to his soft breaths, the little squeaks he made in his sleep, the soft sounds of his movements and the scratches of his small fingers against the mattress.
But that night was different. There’d been no sounds from his bed, no soft breaths, no movements...no signs of life at all.
* * *
Frannie lay on the couch at the obstetrician’s office as the ultrasound tech rolled the wand over her abdomen. Strange swishing sounds that she now knew was blood being delivered to her placenta came from the machine. The tech moved the wand again, pressing into Frannie’s stomach and she heard a new sound, fast and strong, that told her that the baby was okay.
She’d hoped to share this with Ian today, but he hadn’t made the appointment. She was disappointed but she knew that he’d had surgery and might easily have gotten tied up.
After a quick visit to her doctor, she left the office with two ultrasound pictures. She placed a call to Ian’s cell but it went to his voicemail.
She stopped by the hospital, so she could give him his picture, and was surprised to find that his truck wasn’t in the parking lot.
If he wasn’t at the hospital why hadn’t he made it to the appointment?
Where was he?
* * *
“Ian?” said a voice from behind him.
He turned around quickly, surprised to see Frannie standing in his doorway. Had he not shut the door when he came in? He didn’t remember. How long had he been standing there, reliving the same old nightmare?
“The door was open,” she said, as if that explained why she was there at his home.
“What are you doing here, Frannie?” he asked, and then wondered at the hoarse voice that had come out.
He cleared his throat. He wanted to check his face, his eyes, to make sure there was no sign of the emotions that were eating him up inside, but he knew that Frannie’s astute eyes wouldn’t miss them.
Why did he do this to himself every year? When would the pain of losing Brian stop? He knew the answer to that was never—so how could he ever move on with his life while that pain held him too tightly in its grip?
He felt her hand as it grasped his without even having seen her come into the room.
“Let’s sit down,” she said, and she pulled him to the only chair in the room.
Why he was letting her stay, he didn’t know, but right then he didn’t want to be alone. He’d been basically alone for the last three years, and he didn’t think he could handle another day or another night alone.
He looked down to see Frannie now sitting on the floor, her legs crossed, her back against the wall that separated his kitchen from his living room. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t push him for information. She just waited.
From the first moment he’d met her, with those intelligent eyes of hers hidden behind those all-business glasses, he had feared she’d see through his walls and know that he was broken. But he’d found an honest and caring woman who just wanted to help people, instead of judging them like the marriage counselor he and Lydia had seen.
“I need to buy a couch... Here, take the chair,” he said as he stood.
“I’m good here. You can sit beside me if you want.” She patted the dusty floor beside her.
* * *
Frannie was surprised when he sat down beside her. She had thought he’d balk when she’d suggested it, but she should have known that Ian, being the gentleman that he was, would never choose to sit in a chair while a woman sat on the ground.
She moved a little closer to him, trying not to be obvious. She had known right away that something was wrong when she’d found Ian’s door wide open when she’d arrived, but she hadn’t expected him to be standing in the dark all alone. Whether he would talk to her about it she didn’t know, but she did know from the lost look in his eyes when she’d walked into his house that he needed to talk to someone.
Even if he wasn’t ready to talk her instincts told her he shouldn’t be alone. Remembering the defeated hunch of his shoulders and the haunted look in his eyes, she couldn’t help but reach for his hand. When his fingers tightened on hers, she let go of the breath she’d held. If this was the only way she could help him go through what was bothering him, she’d gladly sit there all night.
She and Ian had somehow forged a friendship over the last few weeks, which was very new and fragile. She would sit here beside him and if he wanted to talk she’d listen. If not, at least he wouldn’t be alone while he dealt with whatever it was he was going through.
“You know, the counselor I went to before never offered to hold my hand,” Ian said. He raised their hands and seemed to study the two of them twined together, each finger clutching the other, palms against each other.
She squeezed his hand before she s
poke. “I’m not here as your doctor. I’m here as your friend,” she said.
“It’s still kind of weird,” he said, though she felt him tighten his grip on hers when she started to pull her hand away. “No, I meant talking to you and knowing you’re a psychiatrist. That’s why I stayed away from you to begin with, you know. I didn’t want you to see this part of me. I was afraid that I’d say something and you’d know how messed up I am.”
“You don’t have to talk,” she said.
With her own feelings for the man so confusing, she understood what he was saying. She had her clinical instincts telling her to get him to talk things out with her, while as his friend she just wanted to let him know she was there for him.
And then there were her hormones, which had spiked up dangerously high with the feel of his rough hand on her soft one, the nearness of his body where they sat shoulder to shoulder. It was the same feeling she had anytime they were this close to each other. The feeling that had led to the creation of the baby she now carried.
She gave her head a slight shake. This wasn’t about her or their baby. At least she didn’t think so.
“Do you mind if I do? Talk, that is?” he asked.
She wasn’t used to this meek side of him. There was something deep-rooted inside him that caused him to be defenseless—almost like a dog that had been beaten, asking one more time for that pat on his head even while knowing inside that he was opening himself up to more pain.
Was this what counseling had done to him? Made him afraid to talk about his feelings? Was that why he held all his grief inside him?
“Of course. I’m your friend, Ian. I’m here for you. You can tell me as much or as little as you like. I’m not here to judge you, and I’m not here to counsel you. I’m strictly here as your friend.”
She wanted to ask questions but knew she couldn’t. Ian would tell her what he wanted to tell her when he wanted to tell her. She would have to be patient with him. She felt her clinical side wanting to come to the forefront, but she fought it back. She wasn’t here as a doctor. She was here as any friend would be—ready to listen and help in any way she could.
She felt his shoulders relax, as if he had been waiting for this opportunity for a long time.
“Today’s the three-year anniversary of Brian’s death,” he said, and his voice had turned flat, with none of the emotion she had heard in it earlier.
“I’m sorry, Ian,” she said, and she squeezed his hand again, letting him know that he wasn’t alone on this day that must be bringing back such terrible memories.
He looked down at her hands where they were joined. “I had forgotten what day it was until I looked at my calendar after I called you. How could I forget? What kind of parent does that make me?”
He turned his head back toward the wall they faced, away from her, as if he was afraid of what he might see in her eyes. Did he think she would judge him for going on with his life? The only person she saw judging him was himself.
“What kind of father does that make me for our child?” he said. “I wasn’t there for my son—why would you believe I’ll be there for this child?”
“Ian, you are a caring and generous man. You will make a wonderful father,” she said. “It’s normal to have these feelings of grief—especially on certain days such as this one. I used to dread my mother’s birthday. I can’t say I don’t still think about her, or feel hurt that she went away and left me, but now when I think of her my mind goes back to my good memories of her,” she said.
“I had him for such a short time,” Ian said. “We didn’t have time for making many memories.”
She would bet that he had more memories than he knew. Maybe she could help him ease into them a little.
“Every Mardi Gras my mother would get dressed up for the big ball after the parade and she’d let me help pick out her jewelry. She even let me help with her make-up, and I loved those times. Then, when she came home, she’d come to my room and tell me all about the things she’d seen. I couldn’t wait till I was old enough to go to a ball myself. Those are my memories now—the good ones that remind me that even though my mother left me, she still loved me.”
“I’ve often wondered what kind of parent I would have been to Brian as he grew up. My ex-wife was always saying I spoiled him by holding him so much, especially at night when it was his bedtime, but I never agreed with her. How can you spoil a baby by spending time with him?” he said.
“I think it’s been proved that bonding with a child is more important than worrying about them being a little spoiled—especially when they’re young,” she said. “If holding a child is spoiling them, then our child will be spoiled. The most important thing we can do for our child is make sure he knows he’s loved.”
“That’s what I said. That was our time together,” Ian said. “I accused her of being jealous, and that probably wasn’t the nicest thing to say when I think back now. But it was on one of those early nights, when I was sitting in his room holding him, talking to him about all the things I wanted to show him in the world, that he looked right at me and smiled the biggest toothless smile you’ve ever seen. It was beautiful... Of course Lydia said it was just gas, but it wasn’t. From that day on he smiled at me every night I was home to put him to bed. I know he didn’t understand anything I said to him, but he seemed to love to hear me talk.”
“He knew you loved him. That’s what he heard in your voice. Your love for him,” she said. She looked over and saw a small smile on his face.
“I don’t know if I can do it, Frannie,” he said. “I want to move on. I want to have a future with our child and with you. But I keep feeling the past pulling me back down.”
He stood up and moved away from her then, and walked over to where his son’s picture sat.
“Do you know where I was when my son died? I was taking care of someone else’s child in the ER. My shift had ended but I’d stayed on to help. My ex-wife said many things that weren’t true after our son died, but one thing she said was true. I should have been at home that night and I have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life. How does someone move on from that? How can I take a chance on another child depending on me?”
He turned back to her and she saw pain and regret in his eyes.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t know if I can be what you need—what you deserve,” he said.
How could she help him? He had to be the one to let his guilt go if there was to be any chance of a future for them. Pushing him now would only cause more pain for the two of them. He had to be able to see that they could work through things together, and until he was able to trust not only her but also himself there was nothing she could do. He wasn’t ready for more than friendship and she needed to accept that.
It would hurt to let him go, but she knew it would be better for him not to feel the pressure of knowing that she wanted more.
Frannie stood up and stepped close to him. “It’s okay, Ian.”
She placed a soft kiss on his lips and then left, closing the door behind her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IAN ARRIVED A little late at the warehouse and immediately saw Frannie, sitting with a group of women as they took the papier-mâché strips they had worked on the week before and pasted them onto the sides of the float.
Things had been strained between the two of them since the night she had shown up at his house. He told himself that it was for the best, but it didn’t make him feel any better about the way things had been left between them. They’d become too close and he had hurt her, just like he had known he would. He knew she deserved someone who could give all of themselves to her and that wasn’t him.
He watched as some of the volunteers he’d worked with before tried to lift a large square of polystyrene over the side of the outside wall of the float. He walked away from where Frannie sat and he headed over to give them a ha
nd.
He climbed up the float to help the three men at the top as they tried to get it over the side. Splitting up, they each took a corner and then carried it over to place it in the middle of the float.
“That was the easy one,” one of the older men said. “We have to get the metal box that holds the speakers and lighting up here too. That’s a lot heavier than this piece of foam.”
Ian walked back to them and saw the black box the man was talking about. Square, and no more than two feet wide, it didn’t look as if it weighed that much, but seeing the way the men on the ground were having problems with it, he knew that the size was deceptive.
After a couple of unsuccessful attempts from the men below to lift it and then carry it up the ladder to the float, they decided to rig a pipe off the side of the float and lift it with a rope.
Sure enough, the box slowly moved up, with the two men below pulling it. But suddenly the box began to slide out of the rope. The men below tried to lower it, but the rope had already slipped too far.
Ian heard a crash, and then a scream, and headed quickly for the ladder. He pushed people to the side so he could see if someone needed medical help.
The crowd opened up for him and he saw one of the local medics he knew bent over a small figure. He recognized the pants first, and then the figure’s top.
His heart pounded against his chest as he rushed over, only to find Frannie unconscious, with the black box resting over her left side and her arm. Two of the workers carefully moved the box off her, and he could see immediately by the way her arm was turned that it was broken.
“I’ve called for an ambulance,” said Dr. Guidry as he bent down over Frannie. “What are her injuries?”
Ian bent over her too, and started going over her body, working his way down. He talked to her, explaining everything he was doing, even though he was certain she couldn’t hear him.
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