Shirley, Goodness and Mercy

by Debbie Macomber

  “Bone marrow,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth, then turned to eye him. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”

  If ever a question needed answering, this was it.

  “No,” he said more to himself than to her. He wasn’t sure of anything. Curiosity had brought him to the hospital. A curiosity so deep it had consumed him for days. After thirty-five years of not knowing, not caring, he now felt an overwhelming desire to see his son.

  “Who’d like to go first?”

  Before Greg could stop himself, he shot his hand into the air.

  “Great. Follow me.” Greg stepped out of the line and followed his son down the corridor to a cubicle.

  “The nurse will be right in to draw blood.”

  “Aren’t you going to take it yourself?” Greg asked. Already he could feel his panic level rise.

  Edward shrugged lightly. “Well…the nurse usually does this.”

  “I’d prefer if you did it yourself. In fact, I insist on it.”

  Surprise showing in his eyes, Edward turned to face him. It seemed he was about to refuse, but for reasons Greg wouldn’t question, silently led him to a chair and instructed him to sit down.

  Greg sat, unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and rolled it up.

  “Do I know you?” Edward asked, studying him carefully.

  “No,” Greg responded. “Do I remind you of anyone?” He was well aware that this was an unfair question.

  “No, but I thought you might be a friend of my father’s, Dr. Larry Thorpe.”

  “No, I’ve never met him.”

  Edward took a short piece of what looked like rubber tubing and tied it around Greg’s upper arm. Next he gingerly tested the skin. “Nice blood vessels. We shouldn’t have any problem.”

  “Good.” Greg’s mouth went dry at the sight of the needle, and closing his eyes, he looked away. This was even worse than the last time he’d had blood tests. He felt the needle against his skin and braced himself for the small prick of pain. As a kid he’d fainted in the doctor’s office every time he received a shot or had blood drawn; he wasn’t keen to relive the experience. That was years ago, but even now, as an adult, he generally avoided annual checkups if he could and—The needle was the last thing he noticed until he heard Edward’s voice, which seemed to boom at him like a foghorn.

  “Are you awake?”

  Greg blinked and realized he was lying on the floor. Edward knelt beside him.

  Their eyes met, and embarrassed, Greg glanced away. “What happened?” he asked, still in a daze.

  “You passed out.”

  “I did?” Abruptly Greg sat upright. He would have fled, but the room had started to swim in the most disturbing fashion.

  “Take it slowly,” Edward advised, then helped him stand up. “I’ve asked one of the nurses to take your blood pressure. Tell me, when was the last time you had anything to eat?”

  “I’m fine. I had breakfast this morning.” It was a lie. He wasn’t fine and he hadn’t eaten breakfast. “I just don’t happen to like needles.”

  “Then it’s a brave thing you did, coming in here like this.”

  “Brave?” Greg repeated with a short laugh. “I’m the biggest coward who ever lived.”

  Seven

  On Monday morning Greg recognized that he had no other options left to him. It wouldn’t be easy to apply for a loan at Pacific Union Bank, but he had nowhere else to go. He’d never been a person to beg. Never needed to beg until now, but if begging would help him hold on to Bennett Wines, he’d do that and more.

  The worst of it was that he’d have to go begging to his own brother. Phil, who’d like nothing better than to call him a failure. He wouldn’t be far from wrong; Greg felt like a failure.

  Despite his mood, Greg prepared carefully for the interview, wearing his best suit. He was about to head out the door when his phone rang. Caller ID told him it wasn’t a creditor.

  “Hello,” he snapped.

  “Hello, Greg.”

  It was Tess, his almost ex-wife. Ex-wife number three. “What’s the matter? Are you after another pound of flesh?” he sneered. The last thing he needed right now was to deal with spoiled selfish Tess.

  “I heard about your money problems.”

  “I’ll bet you’re gloating, too.”

  He heard her intake of breath. “I don’t wish you ill, Greg.”

  He didn’t believe her for a moment. “What do you want?” He was facing an unpleasant task that demanded all his attention, and he didn’t want to be waylaid by an even more unpleasant one.

  “I called because I didn’t realize the extent of your money problems until now and, well…I’m sorry.”

  He said nothing.

  “I wish you’d told me earlier. If I’d known, perhaps—”

  “Would it have made any difference?” Their troubles had started long before the fan leaf virus had destroyed his vines. Long before he’d been confronted with one financial crisis after another. He knew when he and Tess got married that they were probably making a mistake. Still, that hadn’t stopped him. He’d wanted her, and she’d wanted the prestige of being married to him. True, they looked good together, but at the moment it seemed that was all they’d had going for them.

  He didn’t like living alone, but he figured he’d get used to it eventually.

  She didn’t answer his probing question right away. “If I’d known about your troubles, I like to think it would have changed things.”

  All women preferred to believe the best about themselves, he thought cynically. “Think what you like,” he muttered.

  “Oh, Greg, do you hate me that much?”

  Her words caught him up short. “I don’t hate you at all,” he said, and realized it was true. He was sorry to see the marriage end, but he hadn’t been surprised and, in fact, had anticipated their divorce long before Tess moved out.

  “You don’t?” She sounded surprised, but recovered quickly. “Good, because I was thinking we should both do away with these attorneys and settle matters on our own. I can’t afford three-hundred dollars an hour, and neither can you.”

  Greg wasn’t sure he should put too much faith in this sudden change of heart. “Do you mean it?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “All right, name a date and a time, and I’ll be there.” Greg hated the eagerness that crept into his voice, but he wanted the attorneys out of these divorce proceedings as much as Tess did. Without them—stirring up animosities, asking for unreasonable concessions—he and Tess had a chance of making this separation amicable.

  “How about next Tuesday night?” she suggested.

  Greg noted the time and place and, with a farewell that verged on friendly, they ended the call.

  Well, well. Life was full of surprises, and not all of them unpleasant.

  The drive into the city, however, could only be called unpleasant. Traffic was heavy and Greg soon lost his patience, particularly when it took him nearly an hour to find parking, and that wasn’t even close to the financial district. The cost of parking in San Francisco should be illegal, he grumbled to himself. This was his third trip into the city within ten days; he hadn’t been to San Francisco three times in the entire previous year. Greg preferred his role as lord of the manor—a role that was about to be permanently canceled if he couldn’t secure a loan.

  The sidewalks were crowded, since it was almost lunchtime. A brisk wind blew off the bay and he hunched his shoulders against it, ignoring the expensive-looking decorations on the bank buildings and the tasteful Christmas music floating out from well-appointed lobbies as doors were opened.

  He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t be forced to see Phil this early in the process, if at all. Knowing Phil as he did, Greg was keenly aware that his brother would take real pleasure in personally rejecting his application. Then again, he might exercise some modicum of mercy and leave it to someone else, a junior officer. But that wasn’t something Greg needed to worry about just yet. Today wa
s only the first step—meeting with a loan officer and completing the lengthy application. Once he’d finished the paperwork, he could leave. Walk out the doors of yet another bank, wait for yet another rejection.

  He hated his own pessimistic attitude, but nothing had happened in the past week to give him any hope. His brother hated him—it was that simple—and Phil wasn’t the kind of man to put their argument behind him. If he hadn’t forgiven Greg in ten years, he wasn’t likely to do it now.

  Phil had always been somewhat jealous of him, Greg knew, something he’d never really understood. Greg supposed his greatest sin was the fact that he’d been born last. That, and sharing a passion for wine making with his father. Despite what Phil believed, Greg had loved their mother. Her death, although expected, had hit him hard.

  He’d had no way of knowing how critical her condition was. They’d spoken briefly the night before, and while she’d sounded weak, she’d encouraged him to take care of his own business, to keep his appointment at court. So he’d felt there was still plenty of time. She hadn’t seemed that close to death.

  His fight with Phil after the funeral had been the lowest point in his life. The truth was, Phil hadn’t called him any name he hadn’t called himself in the years since.

  When Greg had finished with the loan application at Pacific Union, he walked back to the parking lot and paid the attendant what amounted to a ransom. But instead of heading for the St. Francis for a good stiff drink as was his custom, Greg drove to Viewcrest, the cemetery where his mother was buried.

  He spent more than an hour wandering down long grassy rows in the biting wind before he located his mother’s grave. He stood there, gazing down at the marker. Lydia Smith Bennett, 1930-1989 Beloved Mother. Phil had arranged for that stone. Phil had made all the arrangements.

  This was Greg’s first visit since they’d buried her. He shook his head, brushing away tears, overwhelmed by all the things he’d left unsaid. I loved you, Mom. I did. I do. I’m sorry…

  Eventually he squatted down, touched his fingers to his lips and pressed them to the marble gravestone. A long moment passed before he stood up again, shoulders bent, head bowed, and silently walked away.

  “Has anyone got a tissue?” Mercy wailed, and when no one responded, she threw herself against Goodness, wiping her face on her friend’s soft sleeve.

  “Would you kindly stop?”

  But Goodness sounded suspiciously tearful. Shirley, too, was having a hard time holding back her emotions. Seeing Greg like this, broken and defeated, was painful. She barely recognized him anymore. She didn’t know when it had happened or how, but she’d started to care about this man. Obviously Goodness and Mercy had also revised their feelings toward him.

  “We’ve got to do something to help Greg!”

  “We’re trying,” Shirley said.

  “But he’s in bad shape.”

  “I have a feeling it’s going to get worse,” Shirley whispered, fearing the future.

  “Say it isn’t so.” Mercy wailed all the louder.

  “His brother’s going to reject the loan, isn’t he?”

  Shirley couldn’t imagine Phil making any other decision and said as much.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” Goodness cried. “I think it’s time I got ready for choir practice again, don’t you?”

  “Goodness, no!”

  “I don’t care if Gabriel sends me back to singing with the heavenly host or even gate-keeping. Phil Bennett is about to get a piece of my mind.”

  “Goodness,” Mercy gasped.

  “What?”

  “Goodness,” Shirley began. “You—”

  “I’m going, too.” Mercy glanced at Shirley.

  Shirley could see she had no choice. “Oh, all right, but we can’t all three join the choir.”

  “Why not?” Mercy asked, rushing to catch up with Goodness.

  Shirley shook her head in wonder, sure they’d be facing the wrath of Gabriel once again. She just hoped the sacrifice they were prepared to make on Greg Bennett’s behalf would turn out to be worth it.

  “Phil, I swear you haven’t heard a word I’ve said all evening.”

  Phil lowered the evening newspaper and looked at his wife. “What gives you that impression?”

  Sandy threw back her head with a frustrated groan and returned to the kitchen.

  Reluctantly Phil followed her. He should have known better than to try bluffing his way out of this. After all these years of marriage, there wasn’t much he could hide from Sandy. He was preoccupied, true. It had to do with his brother. His shiftless irresponsible no-good brother who’d once been everyone’s golden boy. Well, not anymore.

  “Greg was in the bank this afternoon,” Phil told Sandy in a nonchalant voice, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  He had Sandy’s full attention now. “Did you talk to him?” She knew as well as he did that they hadn’t spoken since their mother’s funeral.

  “No-o-o.” He shrugged and tried to look regretful. “Dave Hilaire was the one who dealt with him.”

  “Greg’s applying for a loan?”

  Phil replied with a somber nod, but he felt like jumping up and clicking his heels.

  “I’ve been reading for weeks about the problems the wineries have been experiencing,” Sandy said thoughtfully. “It must be terrible to have some virus wipe out generations of work. From what I read, some vineyards were more badly hurt than others.”

  “Greg’s vineyard is one of the worst hit,” Phil explained in the same grave voice.

  “I wondered about Bennett Wines….”

  “Me, too.” He did his best to sound sympathetic.

  Sandy studied him, her eyes narrowed, and Phil struggled to hide his true sentiments. This virus, or something like it, was exactly what he’d been waiting for. Justice. Retribution. Revenge. Call it what you will. Phil had suspected that sometime or other, Greg would come crawling to him, asking for help. He’d anticipated that day, longed for it.

  “Are you going to be able to get him the loan?”

  “I…I don’t know,” Phil hedged. He could hardly admit that he’d wear thong underwear in public before he’d sign off on the money Greg needed.

  “But you’ll do what you can?” Sandy gave him a hard look, and it was all he could do to meet her eyes.

  “Of course,” he said, sounding as sincere as he could.

  She sighed, then walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Good. I’ve always hoped you two would put aside your differences.”

  Phil hugged her rather than look her in the face. “I know.”

  “You’re all Greg has in the way of close family.”

  True, but that hadn’t made any difference to his brother, and Phil didn’t see why it should to him. Greg would come to him when he needed help and only because he needed help. So, any apology, any effort toward reconciliation, was tainted as far as Phil was concerned. Not that he intended to forgive his brother or had any interest in reconciling with him. It was too late for that. A just God would surely understand that some things were unforgivable. Wouldn’t He?

  “Poor Greg,” Sandy whispered.

  Oh, yes, and Greg wouldn’t know how truly poor he was until Phil had finished with him.

  “No wonder you weren’t listening earlier,” Sandy said, freeing herself from his embrace. “You had other things on your mind.”

  “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “You are going to help him, right?” Sandy was obviously seeking reassurance.

  He nodded, still without looking at her.

  “Fine. You’ll be busy with that, so let’s skip the practice. I’ll tell Evelyn we can’t do it.”

  Evelyn was the choir director. “Can’t do what?”

  “Go caroling Christmas Eve.”

  “Just a minute,” Phil said. “Why not? We don’t have anything on the schedule, do we? None of the girls can come until Christmas morning.”

  “You’re sure you still want to?” San
dy asked, sounding pleased.

  “Very sure.”

  “You’re just hoping to see that blonde again, aren’t you?” she teased.

  The blonde he’d spoken with earlier in the week hadn’t shown up for practice the last two times, and Phil was growing discouraged. She hadn’t been a figment of his imagination, despite what Sandy claimed.

  “Maybe I did just imagine her,” he said to appease Sandy. “I have to keep you on your toes, don’t I?”

  “We’re going to be singing at the hospital Christmas Eve. San Francisco General.” Sandy eyed him as though expecting Phil to change his mind.

  “That’s all right.” Not exactly his favorite place, but he could live with it.

  Besides, singing carols for the sick was what Christmas was all about. This was the season of love and goodwill, and he had an abundant supply. Not for his brother, but that was Greg’s own fault. “As a man sows, so shall he reap.” That was somewhere in the Bible, and if anyone questioned his actions, Phil would happily quote it.

  Oh, yes, his brother was getting exactly what he deserved.

  Eight

  Matthias stepped off the plane and walked through the long jetway to the terminal at San Francisco International Airport. He’d come to spend Christmas with his grandson, fearing it would be the boy’s last.

  He spotted his daughter in the crowd and rushed toward her. “Gloria,” he whispered, hugging her close. She’d lost weight and looked pale and fragile. This was destroying her—to watch her son dying, one day at a time. Matthias remembered how emotionally drained he’d become when Mary had been so terribly ill. Gloria had suffered then, too—and now she had to go through all this grief and pain again…. How could she bear it?

  “Oh, Daddy, I have wonderful news!” his daughter exclaimed. “A donor’s been found.”

  The unexpected relief, the gratitude Matthias suddenly felt made him go weak. “Where?” he asked hoarsely. “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know his name. He’s a stranger, someone who responded to the article in last week’s newspaper about the need for volunteers. Dr. Thorpe says he’s making the phone call this afternoon and the whole process should start before Christmas. Isn’t that wonderful? Oh, Daddy, I can’t tell you how happy I am!”