by Ann Gimpel
“He said as much.” Brice smiled encouragement, wanting to hear more.
“You never fleshed out why he’s coming to see me.” Her tone was tentative, as if his answer meant a lot to her.
“He and I pioneered the use of immune modulators in cystic fibrosis. As you know, the treatment you received is still highly experimental as is following it up with gene remodeling, which is the next step. Dr. MacDuff is delighted you’ve responded so well, and he wants to be here when we—”
“So it’s about the CF. Not about me.” Her voice took on a dull, dead note.
Brice watched her, making an effort to read between the lines. “I’ve treated other patients, and he’s never made a point of being present. He told me he knew you personally, and it sounded as if he respected—”
“I’m tired,” she spoke over him.
The words hung between them, as clear a dismissal as if she’d told him to get lost. He murmured, “Try to get a decent night’s sleep, Sarah. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He left her room, nodded to the charge nurse who told him to have a pleasant evening, and divested himself of mask, gloves, and gown before leaving the ICU. He checked out with the hospital operator and was halfway to the garage when her comment about Julie sank in. It never occurred to him Sarah hadn’t cleared the decks with her twin.
When she’d admitted she wanted him too, he’d figured she was squaring things with him, not that she’d never admitted her deception to Juliana.
Hope flickered, flared, and then crashed. This had all the underpinnings of a Shakespearean tragedy, complete with miscommunications, misunderstandings, and a dying heroine. Except Sarah wouldn’t die. Not this time, anyway. If his intervention worked, it might buy her another decade of a decent quality of life. One where she wasn’t tied to machines and drugs.
He reached garage level and walked to his shiny black BMW roadster. One of his few splurges, he’d brought it back from his last jaunt to Europe. Well, he’d had it transported by ship, but he’d taken time off to fly to Halifax and drive his baby back across the country.
Pretty pathetic, when you cut to the chase. He had a fancy house and a fancy car and a pile of fancy degrees lining an ego wall. What a sterile haul for a guy closer to forty than thirty. He glanced at the time and nosed the car into Bellevue’s ever-present traffic. Lupe would cluck over him as she pulled supper out of the oven, where she’d kept it warm. She didn’t believe in microwaves, said they ruined the food.
From a nutritional perspective, she was absolutely correct.
He wiped his mind clear of everything but the route home. He’d driven it so often, he could do it in his sleep. A wry chuckle bubbled out. He’d done it damn near half-asleep more times than he was willing to admit. One of the aspects of medicine no one talked about was zombieville. The ability to project the appearance of alertness when most of your cerebral cortex had checked out.
Because it was easier than thinking about Juliana, he considered Angus—and Sarah. There’d been something between them. He was nearly certain of it, judging from Sarah’s reaction. Had she chased Angus away because of her illness? Or had he been the one to call it quits? Not many people were willing to sign on, knowing their partner would experience progressively more severe bouts of debilitating illness. As a pulmonologist, Angus would understand more than most about the trajectory of Sarah’s disease.
Brice trolled through his memory. Angus had been married, but it was years ago, and it hadn’t lasted long. He’d never mentioned anyone since, and Brice had wondered from time to time if he weren’t gay and coming to terms with it. He wrapped his fingers more tightly around the leather steering wheel, curious what would happen. He had a feeling he’d find out soon enough. Regardless, it would be a plus to have Angus working side by side with him as they moved Sarah’s treatment to the next level.
As if on cue, his phone bleeped, telling him a text had come through. He didn’t bother pulling over to read it. He’d be home in less than five minutes. If the hospital needed him, they’d page, not text. So whatever was waiting on his screen wasn’t urgent.
He turned onto his street and then up his driveway, stopping to punch in the gate code. The lights of his oversized house came into view, and he jammed on the brake.
Lights, but not only the normal ones. Someone—probably Lupe and her son-in-law, had strung Christmas lights. It looked like thousands of them, but it was probably only a few hundred. They twinkled white, red, green, and blue, lending the house a fairyland appearance.
For the first time since he’d let a slick-talking real estate agent prod him into what had turned out to be an excellent investment, the place felt like home, not simply a dwelling where he hung his hat. He switched his right foot back to the accelerator and pulled into the circular driveway.
Lupe stood framed in light spilling through the double front doors, but she didn’t hurry to his car like she usually did. Brice killed the engine, pushed the door open, and jumped out, for once leaving his phone, computer and briefcase in the passenger seat.
“It’s beautiful,” he yelled across the space separating him from Lupe.
She did walk toward him then, her seamed face spread in a broad smile. “You like it?”
“I love it.”
Her smile expanded another notch. “Wait until you see the tree.”
“Tree? There’s a tree?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Si. Fifteen feet tall.”
He pictured his double story living room, and figured it must be epic. “How’d you do all this between morning and now?”
She looked away. “My family came over. They say house looks not much like Christmas. I tell them, it looks same as last year, but they say it no good and leave. When they come back, truck is full.” Lupe spread her arms wide. “We finish around three.”
“It’s wonderful, but you must let me pay you back. Decorations are expensive.”
“No.” She shook her head until gray hair danced around her face. “My family’s gift to you. You bring us to United States.” Her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears. “We can never repay you for your kindness. Your heart.”
His own eyes stung. Before his emotions got the better of him, he said, “I want to see the tree. I haven’t had one since I left home.”
Lupe turned and trotted toward the still-open door. “Tu madre,” she said over one shoulder. “She will love it too?”
“Oh my, yes. My mom is nothing if not a sucker for Christmas.”
Text message long forgotten, Brice ran through the doorway after his housekeeper. He’d meant to get a tree last year. And the year before that, but something always intervened, and then Christmas was over. Pine scent filled his nostrils before he reached the great room. Along with the rich, piquant smell came memories of him and his mom and dad sitting next to their tree on Christmas Eve.
Happy. Laughing. Opening gifts. Loving each other as only families can.
He reached Lupe. She stood facing the tree, gazing at it, and he hugged her. “Gracias. Muchas gracias.”
She trained wise, old eyes on him but didn’t say a word.
Chapter Nine
Juliana thought long and hard before texting Brice. She owed him an obscenely overdue apology. Even if it was yesterday’s news, she didn’t see how she could move her life forward until she said what she should have fifteen years ago. She constructed—and erased—at least ten texts before she settled on:
I am very sorry for not believing you about Sarah. I should have. No excuses. I’m not offering any. I was wrong. I’m hoping you can forgive me, so I have a prayer of forgiving myself. Julie
She looked at her screen for moments that stretched into a quarter hour, figured she couldn’t do any better, and punched send. Her first efforts had mentioned Sarah, almost blaming her, but she’d deep-sixed those texts. Sarah had been wrong, but not as culpable as herself for not believing in the man she loved.
How could she have been so stupid? So shallow? S
o self-absorbed she’d discounted their years together, chucking them all out? Good with the bad in one fell swoop. Not that there’d been much bad. Only that lone incident. Julie winced. She’d sacrificed their love on the barren shores of her hurt feelings because the only other option was hating her twin forever.
Bull crap. I could have forgiven them both and moved on.
If I hadn’t been so young and righteous.
And stupid. Yeah. That too.
She was edging into melodrama, so she stopped staring at her blank screen. A scant few minutes had elapsed since she’d sent the text. What had she expected? Instant results? Not after this long.
Putting the phone aside, she hooked her seat belt and prepared to leave Overlake’s sprawling parking lot. Her phone dinged, and her heart jumped into her throat, making it hard to breathe. She snatched up the phone and saw a text from her mother.
Disappointment it wasn’t from Brice threatened to annihilate her as she read her mother’s message.
Where are you? Feel like dinner?
Julie most assuredly did not feel like dinner. Not with her parents. Not at all. Her stomach was jittery, and she was worried introducing anything into it would make her puke. She texted back.
Can I beg off for tonight? Still getting over jet lag, and feel like I might be coming down with something.
She winced. Lying wasn’t part of her makeup, but nor could she put on her game face for even as long as it would take to sit through dinner. Her parents would figure out something was wrong quickly enough, and like hunting dogs who’d scented prey, they wouldn’t quit digging until she told them.
Her text tone beeped again.
Sure, honey. Let us know if you need anything. See you at Overlake around ten tomorrow.
This time the message was from her father. Juliana rolled her mental eyes. Her parents even tag-teamed texting.
Thanks. Sorry to miss visiting with you.
NP. We love you, sweetie. Signing off for now. Dad.
She switched the phone to airplane mode, done with communicating with the outside world for now. Brice had had plenty of time to get back to her. Surely, he’d seen her message, and he wasn’t going to respond.
I don’t know that.
Maybe he’s in emergency surgery or something.
Tapping the ignition, she started for home. It wasn’t as if he owed her anything, but she’d hoped for at least an acknowledgement.
“Why?” she muttered. “What’s in it for him? Besides, what the hell is he going to say? Thanks for coming to your senses. Finally.”
She closed her teeth over her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The world was so damned instant these days. She’d been stupid to send that text at all. Back in the days of snail mail, or even email, she’d have put more thought into a communication this important.
What the hell was wrong with her? She hadn’t thought about Brice in years, well not much, anyway. She’d done a most excellent job of burying herself in her work. Archaeology was like that. It had so many nooks and crannies, she’d been able to fill twenty-hour days, pass out, and do it all over again. Her single-minded dedication was how she’d risen through the ranks of academe so quickly.
“Yeah. Youngest full professor in the history of U.W.’s archaeology department.” Back to talking out loud to fill the hollow places in her heart, her voice echoed through the empty car.
She edged through solid lanes of traffic, intent on the 45th street exit. Finally, at the last possible moment, before her only other choice was running up onto a center divider, some humanitarian made room for her. She slid the 4Runner neatly into the few feet of real estate and focused on positioning herself to make a right turn at the traffic light.
The nonstop flow of vehicles didn’t bother her most of the time. For one thing, she rarely left the University District unless she was out of the country. For another, she rode her bike or set out on foot for local destinations—like campus, for example.
Her mother had left the Marines five or six years ago. Since Ariel needed projects, she’d thrown herself into locating a home for them. A spot they could relocate once her husband retired. The elder Wrays had been determined to settle in the Pacific Northwest. Both daughters were there, and they wanted to be close. No one had come out and mentioned Sarah’s precarious health, but it was definitely a driving factor.
Julie executed a series of turns and stopped at a grocery store near her home. Her cupboards were bare, as was her refrigerator. Just because she wasn’t hungry now didn’t mean she wouldn’t be later—or tomorrow morning. She cast a glance at her phone. The airplane mode indicator mocked her, but she resisted an urge to bring the device back online. She lived for months with limited Internet at dig sites. No reason she couldn’t mimic that pattern here.
In truth, she got a hell of a lot more accomplished without the constant dings, tweets, and squawks signaling emails, texts, news, and other incoming garbage, most of it meaningless. Exiting the car, she trotted across the parking lot and grabbed a cart. The little market that used to be a quiet spot had been discovered, and it took her almost an hour between selecting items and making it through one of three overloaded checkout lines.
Back at her car, she offloaded her bags and started for home. It was only a few blocks away, and she reached the cottage quickly. Another half hour, and everything was inside and put away. Because she had time, and an abundance of nervous energy, she pulled the trap door to the crawl space open and climbed down a short ladder to where she could take a closer look at her malfunctioning furnace.
The project sucked her in. It was one of the sideline benefits of her training. She enjoyed problems and liked winning. After several trips back up the ladder to locate a lantern, her tools, and the furnace manual, she had enough to interpret the error code. Luckily, she didn’t require parts. The oil burner was old and cantankerous. The few times she’d hired workmen, they’d always shaken their heads and told her what she really needed was a more modern unit.
After clearing a valve and two lines, she hit the igniter, Triumph swelled through her when the burner burst into life, and she fist pumped the air. Gathering everything she’d used, she carted her tools and the manual up the ladder, taking care to put everything away. She hated wasted time, and hunting for something because she’d been too lazy to return it to its proper place would have annoyed the crap out of her. She’d read the riot act to many graduate students for not taking care of their implements.
Her hands were coated with oily film; one nail had broken. She shrugged at the collateral damage. She had heat. It mattered more than her fingernails. Julie stood over the utility sink in her small laundry room and scrubbed her hands with mechanic’s soap enjoying its citrusy smell. Her stomach growled, and she smiled. Diverting her attention had worked. She was hungry. She’d have one of the salad kits she’d purchased, take a bath, and go to bed.
And she wouldn’t look at her phone until tomorrow. Her parents could call her on the landline if they needed to reach her. Sitting over toast and an Asian chopped salad, she took in her homey kitchen with its knotty alder cabinets. Nothing like squatting over a cookfire in a third world country to pound home how lucky she was.
Her phone blatted, the sound intrusive and shocking. How long had it been since anyone actually called her on the landline? Long enough, she’d considered disconnecting it. Only reason it was still active was sloth on her part—that and not being around enough to think about it.
Julie lunged for the phone, fully expecting one of her parents. “Hello?”
“Dr. Wray.” The connection was scratchy and the other person’s voice so garbled she couldn’t place it. One thing was certain, though, it wasn’t one of her parents.
“Yes,” she replied. “Who is this?”
“Katie. Sorry about how bad this connection is. I didn’t want to go all the way into Cairo.”
Juliana pictured Katie Johnson, a fourth-year graduate student nearly done with her dissertation. Ta
ll and muscular with long blonde hair and blue eyes, she looked like the Swedes who’d been her ancestors. Julie would miss Katie, but the young woman was a rising star in the archaeology world.
“What’s up?” Julie dragged the phone back to her spot at the table where she’d left her meal.
“When are you coming back?”
“Maybe a couple of weeks. Looks like my sister will pull through, but I want to spend more time with her in case I’m wrong.”
“Not soon enough. You’ll—” The rest of Katie’s words dissolved in a fizz of static.
“Hold up. I didn’t catch that.”
“Didn’t figure you did. Let me make a few adjustments. Is this better?”
“A little. How about if you email me?”
“Can’t. Don’t want a paper trail. Kicked it around with Tom and Eve. We decided I had to call you.”
Julie’s eyes widened. Whatever this was, it wasn’t sounding good. “Go on.”
“Orestes. Dr. Conom. He claims to have uncovered another layer, but it’s the same one we found. He’s claiming credit. Called NG. They’re sending a photog.”
Julie tightened her grip on the phone until her hand cramped. National Geographic and photographers, huh? Academic theft was common. It was why people like her hunkered over their finds like feral cats.
More static crackled against her ear. “Have to come back. Now. First plane,” Katie insisted.
“I— I’m not sure I can.”
“You said your sister was out of the woods. Can’t you fly back here, fix things, and then return to Seattle?” Katie pleaded.
Juliana got it. Katie’s dissertation research was tied up in this dig. If Dr. Conom, an unscrupulous Greek, claimed it for his own, she’d be cut out of the action—probably in favor of one of his students.
“I’ll talk with the department head tomorrow.” Julie tried to sound reassuring, but she didn’t hold much hope. The odds of him even being in town this time of year were slim.
“Do something. Please. I’ve got to go before Conom catches me.” The ever-present hiss morphed into silence. Katie had disconnected.