The Older Woman

by Cheryl Reavis

  “You okay, buddy?” a medic finally asked.

  “I’m waiting for—Kate Meehan,” he said around the pain. He tried shifting his weight, but it didn’t help. It never helped.

  The medic was watching him closely.

  “And I’m a little…rough around the edges,” Doyle confessed in the hope of getting the guy to get his ass in gear and go find her.

  “She’s here someplace,” the medic said.

  The medic walked away, intercepting Meehan when she came out of a room at the other end of the hall. Doyle saw her listen to whatever it was he told her, watched her look in his direction when the medic pointed him out. She said something to the medic and went back into the room. His unexpected appearance didn’t rattle her, he’d say that for her. And either the medic was coming to help or to give him hell.

  “She said wait,” the medic said in passing.

  “No problem,” Doyle said, because he didn’t think he could manage anything else. He wasn’t absolutely sure he could keep standing.

  He looked down at the floor and tried to think of something besides the pain.

  “Well, this looks familiar,” Meehan said, catching him unaware. “You’ve done it again, haven’t you?”

  He knew what “it” meant. Yes, he’d walked too much. Yes, he’d gone without eating. Yes, he’d “let” his leg muscles go into spasm. He made no attempt to deny her very astute medical assessment. He just ignored it.

  “I’m looking for a ride home,” he said. “If I can’t get one with you, I’ll go to Plan B.”

  “Which

  is?”

  “I can call Sergeant Beltran. He said he’d scare up somebody.”

  “You just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

  “Downstairs.

  I’ve

  been…here all…day.”

  “Why?”

  “Surgical

  consultation,

  I

  guess you’d call it—the guy who did the first operations

  in Texas wanted to see me. I got an early wake-up call for it.”

  “So what did the surgeon say?”

  He sighed instead of answering. “So can I get a ride?” he asked, for once avoiding her eyes.

  “It’ll be about twenty-five or thirty minutes before I’m done here.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  “Oh, I can see that,” she assured him. “Hampton, roll that wheelchair down here.”

  “I don’t need—”

  He stopped because he was getting the nurse look—the one he knew better than to tangle with. Besides that, he just wasn’t up to having any kind of altercation about it.

  Hampton, the medic, rolled the wheelchair front and center, and Doyle sat down in it. He hated wheelchairs. He’d logged more time in a wheelchair than he cared to remember. Long, empty, pain-filled days, and even longer nights.

  But he sat down. He managed to get the footrests unfolded and to roll himself out of the traffic pattern and down to the windows at the end of the hall—where he could see out if he happened to get tired of watching Meehan working.

  Unfortunately, he hurt too bad to do either. Hampton came by again, this time bearing a cold soft drink in a can and a pack of salted peanuts.

  “Courtesy of herself,” he said, handing them over.

  Doyle took them. His hands shook so when he opened the peanuts, he spilled a number of them in his lap and on the floor. He was so hungry, he hardly tasted them. By the time Meehan appeared in the hall again, he was feeling better. Less starved, anyway. For food, that is.

  He tossed the empty can and the peanut pack into the trash—and watched Meehan approaching. She looked great. If she’d been upset about last night, he didn’t think it was enough to cause her to lose sleep.

  “Okay,” she said. “Do you want to go for ‘tough’ and walk to the parking lot or do you want to ride to the front door?”

  “Tough,” he said, using everything he had to get out of the chair. This was one of the things he liked about her. She’d give him the option of biting the bullet or making a fool of himself—up to a point.

  She stood close to him when he was ready to start out, but she didn’t say anything. He took a chance and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Thanks for the refreshments,” he said.

  “No

  problem.”

  They walked to the elevators, right by where people could see them. He didn’t know how it looked—his holding on to her like that. He didn’t care, but he thought she might. If she did, it didn’t show.

  “So what did the surgeon say?” she asked again as they got into the elevator.

  “He wants to fix some things that don’t suit him.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t think I can stand it again.”

  She glanced at him. “Might help.”

  “Might not,” he answered.

  “How many times have you had surgery?” she asked.

  “Eleven,” he said, and she nodded.

  He had let go of her in the elevator, but he rested his hand on her shoulder again when they were walking toward the main entrance.

  “That way,” she said when they stepped outside.

  The sun went behind a random cloud, but it was still hot. He struggled along, determined not to mention last night unless she did.

  “You can wait here and I’ll bring the car around.”

  “No,” he said. The last thing he wanted was to give up touching her. He didn’t care how much walking hurt.

  She started to say something more, but three Black Hawks came over, the loud noise they made discouraging the attempt. He looked up, his heart beginning to pound—

  not with the pain of remembering but with pride. He followed their progress for a long time.

  He glanced at Kate. She was watching him closely.

  “I love that sound,” he said. “Even after—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, and she didn’t ask him to.

  He made it to the car, and they rode home in silence. He glanced at her from time to time, but if she ever looked at him, he didn’t catch her at it. She stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the road and the traffic—while he kept thinking about the kiss, the way her mouth had felt against his, the way she had tasted. All he could think about was putting his hands on her again.

  When she pulled the car into her driveway and parked, he didn’t hang around. He thanked her for the ride and got out.

  “Doyle,” she called when he’d gone a few steps.

  He looked at her.

  “What do you want?”

  He knew exactly what she meant, and he wasn’t going to pretend that he didn’t. “I want everything, Kate,” he said. “But I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  She didn’t say anything. He waited as long as he dared, then started for Mrs. Bee’s again.

  “You want to go someplace?” she called after him, when he’d all but given up hope.

  “What…now?”

  “Later. After I change. If you feel up to it.”

  “I feel up to it,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I could use a little R and R after today.”

  Is this it? he thought. Is this the green light?

  She suddenly smiled. “Don’t you want to know where?”

  “Not particularly,” he said.

  “Uncle Patrick’s place,” she said anyway.

  “Ah, yes. Uncle Patrick. You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  “Well that’s good to know.”

  “You’ll like Uncle Patrick’s place.”

  “Yeah?

  Why?”

  “He’s got a great menu and the waitresses wear really short skirts,” she said. “The only thing is they’re all Mrs. Bee’s age,” she added with a straight face.

  “Probably can’t run too fast, huh?”

  “Probably

  not.”

  The smile
he was holding on to got away from him. “I’d better rest up, anyway. See you later,” he said, walking away, his heart lighter than it had been…

  Ever.

  He had no idea where this was going—or if it was going—but the door was open, and for now that was all he wanted.

  Heat and eat, he decided as he made it up the steps into Mrs. Bee’s house. It worked as well as anything to get past the pain. He didn’t see Mrs. Bee anywhere, but he went into her refrigerator after his steak dinner, anyway. He took it upstairs and immediately ate half of it. Then he took a shower and shaved and fired up the heated throw and dozed until Kate came to get him.

  He still wasn’t to the point where he actually expected her to show up, and it occurred to him that he might never be. He knew she was beyond his reach by anyone’s standards—which only meant that the situation was more in keeping with his military training. It had “hunt the hill, get the hill” written all over it.

  He smiled to himself, wondering what Rita would say about all this.

  No, he knew what she’d say.

  No guts, no glory, Bugs, honey.

  Kate arrived wearing a dress. Not the dress, but one just as interesting. This one was pale yellow and equally summery looking. A peasant dress, he thought it was called. She was wearing it off the shoulder. It had one wide ruffle so you couldn’t see into the arm holes—with elastic in the top to make it stay where she put it. It made him think of beaches and girls going back and forth on the boardwalk, all fresh and clean after they’d spent the day lying in the sun and playing in the surf.

  And the Kate Meehan version of this concept took his breath away.

  “Is the pain any better?” she asked without prelude.

  “Is there such a thing?” he asked, putting considerable effort into not leering.

  “Better pain?”

  “You tell me.”

  “It’s

  better.”

  “Let’s

  go,

  then.”

  “Can we stop at the grocery store? Mrs. Bee wants some cat litter.”

  “She doesn’t have a cat.”

  “I know that. You may not believe it, but with sergeants, certain nurses and Mrs. Bee, it’s a whole lot easier to just get with the program. So how far are we going to have to travel to jack up Uncle Patrick?”

  “Chapel Hill. Takes a little over two hours—for most people.”

  “I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

  “Sure you do. All you professional bullet stoppers live for danger.”

  “The key word here being live. ”

  She did make it in under two hours—even with the stop for Mrs. Bee’s nonexistent cat—not because she drove fast so much as she drove smart. She knew all kinds of back roads and she took every one of them. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d cut through somebody’s barn on the way to cutting through their corn field.

  It made for an interesting trip, though. They kept the conversation light, well away from the five-hundred-pound gorilla that was last night’s kiss sitting in the front seat every mile of the way. He had to work hard not to be distracted. He could see too much of her bare legs, for one thing. And her shoulders.

  Neck.

  “What?” she asked once when he sighed too loudly.

  Uncle Patrick’s place had a bright-blue door—and no parking lot. It was located on a side street, apparently with the idea of being accessible to the pedestrian college crowd. Kate eventually found a place to park, but the walk to the pub was long. Very

  long.

  He could feel her looking at him as they made their way down the brick sidewalk.

  “Don’t say it,” he warned her, because she’d wanted to put him out in front while she circled the block. He might have let her if he’d known it was going to be this much of a trip. At the time, the choice had been walking or standing and waiting—both painful.

  “I’m not going to say anything—except don’t pick any fights with the college boys.”

  “Who

  me?”

  “It’s been known to happen,” she said.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly up to fisticuffs with anybody. Except you, maybe.”

  “Very funny. I’m just telling you. The haircut may stand out in here, so don’t get all testy.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, and she gave him a look.

  “I will,” he insisted.

  She didn’t look particularly reassured.

  The place was much more crowded than he expected. It was still early by pub standards, and it was July. Somehow he’d thought the college crowd mostly left town in the summer. The establishment certainly looked like a pub—all dark wood, high-backed booths, assorted tables for two and a long bar. It smelled like a pub, too. He could immediately identify at least one item on the chalkboard menu—leek soup. His grandmother had made leek soup.

  There was a small raised stage in the corner. A band of scruffy-looking musicians were crowded onto it and playing raucous Celtic music that spilled out onto the sidewalk every time someone opened the door.

  And, even knowing that Kate had been pulling his chain, he still looked for the Mrs. Bee-like waitresses in miniskirts. He didn’t see any waitresses at all—but he saw Uncle Patrick.

  “Katie, darlin’!” the man bellowed from behind the bar. “Come here, come here! I need you!”

  “Uncle Patrick, I want you to meet somebody,” she yelled over the din. “This is Doyle. His friends call him—”

  “Cal,” Doyle said to Uncle Patrick over the heads of the guys lined up at the bar. If Kate wanted him to behave, there was no point in throwing a nickname like Bugs out for Joe College to jump all over.

  “Welcome to Paddy’s, Cal,” Uncle Patrick said. “Katie, darlin’, will you help me now?”

  “What can I do, Uncle Pat?”

  Uncle Patrick was already motioning her to come around to his side of the bar. He immediately pinned a towel around her waist and dubbed her a bartender. To Doyle’s surprise, Kate fell right in, taking orders and filling frosted mugs with draft beer. She brought him the first one.

  “Goldie’s late,” she said, apparently to explain her new job. “Can you grab a seat someplace?” She carefully offered him the mug.

  He had to part a few of the bar crowd so he could sit down on the only empty stool. As predicted, the haircut was an object of interest—he could feel eyes on his head—and his legs and walking cane. This particular bunch had the good sense not to comment, but one of them kept staring.

  “Sometimes you hit the ground,” Doyle said to him. “Sometimes the ground hits you.”

  The comment was completely lost on him, and he turned back to his friends.

  The music stopped and immediately started up again, this time with a fiddle solo. Uncle Patrick bustled around, laughing and waiting tables, clearly a man in his element. Doyle used the opportunity to watch Kate.

  Damn, he thought. She is so fine.

  And he wasn’t the only one who recognized it. She also knew her way around a beer tap.

  “Two beers!” a young punk standing next to Doyle yelled at her as she moved down the bar with her hands full of mugs. She gave a short nod to show him that he’d heard him.

  “I bet she gives great head,” he said to his buddy as Kate went past again.

  Don’t do it, Doyle thought. He’s just being cute for his buddies.

  The punk made another remark, one which Doyle didn’t hear but which his friends all appreciated. The kid was getting all pumped up here. Unfortunately, the Rules of Engagement were crystal clear. No picking fights with the college crowd.

  Doyle took a swallow of beer. It was cold and icy just like he liked it—but his whole arm ached with wanting to jerk the kid off his feet and sling him over the bar.

  He only heard part of the next remark. “—knee pads.”

  Let it go. Let it go….

  Kate brought the punk his beers, and instead
of handing her the money, he made a grab for the elastic in the top of the yellow ruffle, clearly intending to pull it out and stuff the money down the front of her dress. Doyle’s hand shot out before he even thought about it, knocking over the beers and grabbing the punk’s forearm, twisting hard and bringing him around so that they were face-to-face.

  “I am going to tell you this one time and one time only, son. Keep your hands where they belong. You understand me?”