My eyebrows raised. “I gather that nobody reads much in that hospital, least of all Dr. Butcher.”
Connor was so famous, I couldn’t imagine him pulling off such a ruse. His was a striking face, a memorable figure. He was a celebrity, after all. I couldn’t imagine anyone not recognizing him, conveniently forgetting that a scant month ago, I hadn’t known him from Adam. The original one.
“You must know how to play the game, dear Jane. Of course he knew it was a lie. The point is, it was a lie he could use as a plausible excuse to give me what I wanted. Actually, what Ben wanted. He was crazy with worry, but couldn’t spend every moment with you. He needed help. I was happy to oblige.”
Another sip of whiskey.
“Well, I'm glad you did.” I paused, gathered some courage, and continued. “I’ve behaved very badly to you. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine that you’d--that you’d be willing...that you’d...”
I stumbled over my thoughts. What I wanted to say was that I’d been a perfect ass, and in the same circumstance it would never have occurred to me to sit up at the sickbed of someone who had been so...well, mean. I tried again.
“I behaved badly,” I repeated. “I am so sorry. Please forgive me. Perhaps I can start again?” I looked up, straight into those arresting green eyes again, and they were both serious and smiling.
“You’ve a bit of the harridan in you, there’s no denying it,” he said. “But then, there’s not a dish worth having without its measure of salt.”
He paused just a breath more than a moment, making me anxious for what would come next. I wasn’t sure what it would be, and worse yet, I wasn’t sure what I wanted it to be. I was relieved to hear his voice take up the conversation again and pleased by what he said, inexplicably pleased.
“That’s enough of that—not another word. We’ll just get on again, shall we?”
He raised his glass and drained it in one draught, put it down carefully and regarded me seriously, no smile lingering in his eyes. The pleasure I had felt began to wither. Silence grew again until finally he broke it.
“I’m not above a white lie, Jane Wallace, when it suits me, and isn’t dangerous. But here’s the truth. You worry me. You’ve been to the brink and back, twice over now, and I can’t bear the thought of your going back again. Your husband is dead, God be good to him, but you’re not and I’m glad.”
His candor made me uncomfortable, and I looked away, unwilling to meet his gaze any longer and afraid of what he might see in my own eyes. Connor rose and stepped to the side of my chair. Leaning down, he took my chin in his hand, and turned my reluctant face towards his again.
“I don’t know you at all, Woman, and I’m going to.”
I cast my eyes down, unwilling to look at him. This felt somehow intimate and reassuring, and it disoriented me.
“Don’t shut me out. Don’t shut them out. It’s a hard life sometimes, that I know. But don’t shut us out.”
His thumb ran across my cheek, and he kissed the top of my head, just as Ben had done.
“I’ve taken a room in town for the time being. I’ll call tomorrow,” he said and was gone.
I sat looking out the window into the darkness for a long time, thinking before I called Caroline to help me to bed. It did not escape my notice that Connor had given me over his own room, and the bed I was going to was his. I wondered how I would sleep.
*********
Eoin Connor strolled up Pacific, slow and thoughtful. He stopped in the light of a street lamp in front of the tee-shirt store and pulled out his pipe and tobacco. He stuffed the bowl automatically, by habit and not by intent, tamping the tobacco with his thumb and lighting it with a match struck on the side of the lamppost. He ignored the frowning glances of those who passed, cursing mildly when the first match wasn’t enough, and lit another. So absorbed was he in the process that he failed to see Father Matt, engaged in similar activity, leaning against the building on the downhill side.
“Another sinner, I see.”
Father Matt’s voice almost startled him except for the fact that he’d trained that response out of himself years ago. Eoin took a couple of satisfactory puffs, then cradled the pipe in his hand. He tried, usually unsuccessfully, not to reply through clenched teeth, even to another smoker. It smacked of rudeness, and Father Matt had become a friend.
“Hopeless, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “I didn’t know you indulged. Not so common these days.”
Father Matt finally succeeded in lighting his own pipe and stepped up into the light to shake hands.
“I’m not sure when I got the habit. My uncle has a pipe and I admired him. It seemed natural. Nasty habit that it is, it’s a certain comfort. No one’s perfect.”
“True enough.” Eoin took a puff from his own pipe. “You’re out of uniform.”
Father Matt tamped the pipe and puffed again.
“Haven’t you heard? I’ve been relieved of my faculties. The bishop thinks it’s poor form to have a murder suspect in charge of a parish.”
“You’re in good company, lad. Patrick had the same thing happen to him. He was cleared. You will be, too.”
“Any progress on the murders?”
“No, not really. Tom Patterson is holding this close to his chest, and try as she might, Jane hasn’t figured it out. She’s like a terrier, that one. Every time she thinks about it, she grabs hold of the case and gnaws on it, but nothing yet. And before you ask, no, I’ve no ideas either. Remember, all I do is tie up the strings other people tease out into a pretty bow at the end. I’m no good at working these things out myself.”
“Is that so?” Father Matt was applying yet another match to the bowl of his pipe and had no compunctions about talking around the stem. “I’ve read your books. You’re good enough.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JUNE 22, MORNING
I woke early, as soon as the first bit of light began to come through the window and my pain medicine wore off. I sat up gingerly, sore and weak, but otherwise not much worse for the wear. Connor’s bedroom was decorated in an odd mixture of styles, unsuited to his very masculine presence. The king-sized bed had an ornate, old-fashioned iron frame with well-worn glass doorknobs as finials on the tall, pink posts. The side tables were overdone French provincial and the armoire a beautiful art deco piece with elegant, feminine curves setting off the design inherent in the birds-eye maple. A deep green flokati rug covered the hardwood floor. The green was picked up in the geometric design of the drapes, which were otherwise a riot of colors and a mess of ruffles. It was strikingly ugly. I gave thanks that Kiki Berton was a better designer than this. This, I would have been compelled to redo. I’m indifferent to my surroundings, not numb.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and allowed my swimming head to clear before I tried standing up. I was still tethered to an IV pole, and it rattled as I stood up and grabbed it, suddenly intent on reaching the turquoise and gold bathroom. I might as well have pressed a buzzer. Caroline materialized in the doorway with a chastising look on her face.
“Let me help you.”
I wondered how she got there so fast; was she sleeping in the hall?
She must have seen my confusion because she added, “I was on my way to check on you. Time for your medicine, if you want it. Sit down for a minute and let me get you some water, then I’ll help you to the loo.”
She was sharp and businesslike and was back with a gold-rimmed glass decorated with gilt grapevines before I had a chance to protest. I took my pill dutifully; the truth was that my side ached fiercely. Then she guided me to the toilet with a gentle hand under my elbow. I was grateful she gave me the dignity of taking care of myself after that, closing the door with an admonition to wait for her and she would help me back to bed.
When she did return, it was with a thermometer, a stethoscope and a glass of cold milk. Once she confirmed that I wasn’t febrile and that my lungs and guts sounded as they should, she handed me the glass.
“Ben
told me you like to start your day with a glass of milk. He made sure we had some for you; I gather Mr. Connor isn’t much of a milk drinker.”
She paused long enough to count the beats of my heart, her fingers firm on my wrist. Funny, taking a pulse is such a simple and routine thing, but it utterly defines how dependent a patient is. Just as it had in the hospital, the feel of fingers on my wrist brought me an unfamiliar sense of calm and protection. I hadn’t realized until I woke up in the hospital and Dr. Butcher took my hand how little I touched living people these days, how much my grief had isolated me physically. I hadn’t realized how much the laying on of hands can heal. What we touch touches us in the deepest ways and I hadn’t been touching live people much lately.
Caroline dropped my wrist. “You’re doing well, but I expected that. Dr. B is first rate. Would you like to come out into the living room? I think you can see the sunrise from there, and it doesn’t look like you’re in any mood to go back to bed.”
She helped me on with a robe, no small feat when there’s an IV line involved, and we rattled our way to the living room. I settled on the burgundy leather couch, propped my feet on the log coffee table, and watched the sun turn the sky purple and pink and gold in turns. There were dark clouds already; it would rain by the end of the day. Good. The sound of rain and the dreariness of a gray sky has always refreshed me. I can handle storms; it’s relentless sunshine that depresses me.
Caroline provided me a cup of coffee, made a few notes in my chart and disappeared.
“Holler if you need something.”
I would have welcomed the company, but I suppose the habits of the hospital die hard: don’t spend more time with any one patient than you need to, because there’s always someone else with a demand on your time. And don’t get attached. John always managed that last one well. His attachments were at home. Compassionate surgeon that he was, his patients were just that. The fact that I’d never managed to keep the two roles straight was only one of the reasons that I worked in the morgue and he had worked inside people’s heads.
The clouds scurried across the sky, and the gold faded to gray as the morning darkened again with the approaching weather. The first fork of lightning brightened the horizon as I heard the door open behind me. I craned my neck, but it didn’t take much of a detective to know who it was.
“Ah, the patient is up and taking nourishment.”
I smiled, genuinely happy to see him. “Up, but no nourishment yet. Unless you count coffee and milk. Caroline is my nurse, not my cook, and the boys aren’t up yet. I was just enjoying the rain, but I suppose I should get something to eat.”
I realized that I was hungry. Really hungry, my long-forgotten appetite returned with a vengeance. I started to stand, but Eoin’s hand on my shoulder restrained me.
“It’s my kitchen. I’ll thank you to stay out of it. I think I have the makings of an Ulster fry.”
“It seems I’m superfluous,” I replied as he poured himself coffee and refreshed mine, finishing the pot that had been on the stove.
“Let people take care of you for a while,” he said. “You’re worth it.”
He started to busy himself in the kitchen, but I called him back.
“Take either my coffee or the pole. Let me sit at the counter while you work. The rain can wait.”
Eoin took the coffee cup from my hand, and I dragged the pole behind me with my good hand. It followed like a sorrowful puppy. I noticed the bag was about empty; I hoped Caroline would not feel compelled to hang another. I sat on one of the upholstered bar stools that stood at attention along the granite bar and watched as Eoin Connor made breakfast.
I was surprised at the quality of the pans he pulled from the cabinets and the ease with which he handled them. I was utterly astonished by the contents of the refrigerator. It was full, and the contents had the look of being the result of everyday life, not just provisions laid in for my arrival.
“What’s an Ulster fry?” I asked.
He answered without even a glance in my direction, intent on cutting rounds from two tubes, one light, one dark. There were eggs in a bowl, and strips of meat that looked like Canadian bacon were already on the stove next to links of sausage. The aroma was almost unbearable.
“The world’s best breakfast. Designed to keep an Ulster farmer working in the fields all day long. Eggs, sausage, bacon, white and black puddings, toast, marmalade.”
“Pudding? I’m generally game for unconventional breakfasts, but pudding?”
Eoin waved his knife at the rounds on the cutting board, far more than were needed for the two of us.
“Not like dessert. A sort of porridge loaf. One made with blood, the other with pork, if you’re well-heeled enough to have it. When I was a cub, we just made it with oatmeal and spices.”
“I’ll pass on the blood one, thanks.”
“Nonsense. It’s good, and in your current state it’s good for you. Source of iron, don’t you know.”
He dropped the rounds into a second pan and finally looked over at me, flourishing the knife for emphasis and smiling.
My eyes welled with tears. It was just the same kind of gesture John would have made. He was the weekend breakfast cook. Always making something special for the children and me: French toast, beignets, even an elegant dish called eggs champagne, reserved for adult birthdays and childhood milestones. I was wiping my eyes when the sound of my boys yanked me from my nostalgia into the present. Leave it to the smell of food to rouse them.
They each hugged me in turn, calling out greetings to Eoin and pitching in. Ben rooted around in the refrigerator and came up with fruit. Luke started another pot of coffee. Adam got out plates, fussy things with a stylized castle in the center, surrounded by vines and curlicues. They matched the garish cup I was drinking from.
“Looks like that bag is about done,” Caroline said behind me. “How about I take out that IV? You’re doing fine.”
No more lines, no more pole, one more step towards normalcy, whatever that was.
“You bet.” I extended my hand eagerly and only winced a little when she slid the thin tubing out of the back of my hand. I don’t know why, but that particular discomfort has always been out of proportion for me, hurting much more than it was intended to, more than the injury deserves. More pain than necessary for such a simple procedure. I flexed my hand with satisfaction after Caroline was done, regarding the folded square of gauze she had taped over the site with great pleasure.
Caroline continued, “I talked to Dr. Butcher. He says if everything continues to check out for the rest of the day, there’s no need for me to stay. Just to make sure you’re back for a follow-up visit in his office next Monday. And be sure to take it a little easy. And call if there are any problems. Any problems.”
It seemed to be the day for repetition. Did everyone think me incapable of understanding on the first pass? She packed up the remains of my IV to discard in the red biohazard container that had accompanied me from the hospital.
“So you’re released from bondage.”
Even with all the chaos and his back to me, Eoin Connor didn’t miss a detail, a writer’s habit, I supposed, as much as a medical examiner’s. John had been alert to anything that related to neurosurgery or to his loved ones, but was blissfully oblivious to the rest of the world. He never understood my inability to shut out information, good or bad, never quite knew why everything I encountered affected me. It had been a rough place in our otherwise placid marriage, my moods and worries, something he never really grasped.
I realized with a start that I’d had a negative thought about my husband. An honest one, but a negative one. Was that another change? I wondered. John was stepping back down into reality from the pedestal I had put him on, by my leave or without it, and I found the thought comfortable. I had loved all of him, even the things that drove me slightly batty. Better to keep hold of them all.
For the second time that day, I felt a storm of emotion. Indignation and annoyance
, followed in close succession by a blush of shame, the warmth of gratitude and something very like affection. This time, I wasn’t quick enough to sort them out. Eoin turned to look at me, fork in hand, and found what must have been an expression of mixed bewilderment and apprehension. His brows furrowed as I struggled to find the right thing to say to make light of the moment.
Nothing sufficiently brilliant surfaced, so I just nodded, and took a sip of coffee, now stone cold, for cover.
“I’ve never known a bachelor with such a well-stocked kitchen,” I finally said.
It was unsatisfactory. I wanted to pour out my heart to him, if only because he was near my age, and he’d been through enough of life to understand, had probed and explored enough murders, analyzed enough victims, laid bare the lives of enough survivors to understand what was happening to me. I wanted him to listen and to explain, but there was no asking, not here and not now.
His brows relaxed. He smiled and handed the fork to Ben with instructions to finish up breakfast.
“That’s because you knew bachelors that wanted wives. If I hadn’t learned to cook, I would have starved long ago.” Then he added, “Just like you to bite the hand that’s trying to feed you. I’d hate to think that you had some sea-change just because of a missed appointment with a cold morgue slab. The world needs its share of cynics.”
The smile broadened and I knew he understood; he was just teasing. Not wanting to press any further, he changed the subject as he watched Ben fiddle with the sausages.
“I think we can grant that you are right about Father Matt. He was with the vicar general the day you were shot; he’s definitely in the clear, not that that will hold any weight with Pete Wilson. Or the bishop. There’s still the little matter of Marla Kincaid and Mitch Houston. Father Matt isn’t off the hook for that one yet.”
Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1) Page 32