There was a tentative knock on the open door of the apartment, and Zachary pulled himself from his consideration of the merits and deficits of the apartment to turn around and see who it was. Another utility man, the landlord, the movers…
But it wasn’t any of those. It wasn’t another form or agreement he was going to have to sign. It was a petite blond woman. Her hair was still much shorter than she preferred it, but at least it was her own hair. It had come back in just the same as before chemo, no change in color or curl, as the doctors had warned it might. Bridget’s face was filling back out so that she no longer looked sick or waifish, but like herself.
“Bridget! Come in!”
She lifted the grocery bags by way of explanation. “I brought you some things.”
Zachary hurried over to relieve her of her load. He hesitated, always unsure how to greet her appropriately.
“You didn’t have to do this.” Zachary indicated the bags, settling on just taking them from her without any handshake or friendly kiss on the cheek.
“I figured you would be busy with all of the other arrangements and wouldn’t have the time to feed yourself properly.”
Zachary put the grocery bags on the counter in the kitchen, and started to go through them. The fridge was already plugged in, luckily, so nothing would spoil if he put it all away.
“That was really thoughtful. I hadn’t even thought about food,” Zachary admitted. He ran a hand over his hair. He kept his dark hair short, so it wasn’t messy even if he happened to forget to comb it when he got up, but he couldn’t remember if he had bothered to shave when he got up that morning. He hadn’t expected to have to be presentable for anyone. He scratched his jaw and found it was covered with stubble. Not just one day’s growth but probably a few. Another of the things he didn’t put a lot of thought into, especially if he was on surveillance. People didn’t pay much attention to a man who was a little unclean or rough-looking. They tended to avoid eye contact, in case he might ask for money or a job.
“No, I didn’t think you would,” Bridget agreed. She grabbed a carton of milk from one of the bags and put it into the fridge, then proceeded to unpack the other items. Zachary grabbed a few dry goods to put into the cupboard before she could do the whole job herself.
When they were done, Bridget turned and looked at the rest of the apartment. Most of it was visible from the kitchen.
“This is nice.”
Zachary was sure that, to Bridget’s critical eye, it didn’t qualify as ‘nice.’ He knew how exacting her standards were. She would never even have considered the place for herself. But Zachary wasn’t going to be doing a lot of entertaining. His needs were modest and, despite the little bit of recognition he had garnered on a couple of recent cases, his cash flow was thin and irregular and he needed to be sure not to get anything that would be too expensive for his usual income.
“Thanks. Um… I’d ask you to sit down, but I don’t actually have anywhere yet…”
“It will be nice for you to be back in a place of your own again. I’m sure Mario was a good host, but you both need your own space.”
“Mario’s been great.” Mario Bowman really had been a lifesaver, letting Zachary come to stay with him for a ‘few days’ when Zachary’s own apartment had burned down, and allowing him to continue to recover there until he was able to get back on his own feet again. Zachary hadn’t been comfortable intruding on Bowman all the time; he couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable it must have been for Bowman to have someone else in his territory, always underfoot, for what had ended up being weeks on end. “But no one will be happier than him that I’m out of there now.”
The movers arrived, with kitchen furniture this time, so in minutes, Zachary and Bridget were able to sit down to visit.
“You’ll have to take care of yourself,” Bridget said. “You won’t be able to rely on Mario to keep the fridge stocked or make supper.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He would have to make sure he was eating properly, something that was too easy for him to forget when he was distracted by a case or other things going on in his life. “I’ll be fine. I’ve done it before.”
“Yes… but not well.”
It was strange that Bridget was there. It was nice of her to bring him food and help him to get settled, but he wasn’t quite sure why she would. They weren’t together anymore. She didn’t have any responsibility to look after him, as she was always quick to point out. Yet, in spite of the rift between them, she kept showing up, acting like she still cared what happened to him. She had gone on and was together with Gordon Drake now. Zachary was seeing Kenzie occasionally, though they hadn’t really settled into a dating relationship yet. Bridget should have just moved on and not had anything to do with Zachary.
“I’ll be fine,” he assured Bridget. Maybe that was all she needed. Just some reassurance that he wasn’t going to end up starving or in hospital, somehow making her feel guilty for having broken up with him.
But Bridget didn’t make any move to get up and leave. She tapped a nail on the tabletop, a nervous gesture that was out of character for her. The ticking of her nail against the table ratcheted up his anxiety.
“Is… there something wrong?” Zachary ventured. “Is everything okay with you?” He had a sudden sick feeling. What if she had relapsed? What if the cancer had come back?
Bridget instantly read Zachary’s expression. “No, no. I’m fine,” she assured him. But her eyes filled with tears.
Zachary instantly went into full-blown panic. Her anger and criticism he was used to dealing with. Even her blame. But her tears were something he didn’t know how to handle. Bridget never cried. Even when she had told him about her diagnosis, it had been with dry eyes and a flat, stoic voice.
“What is it? What’s wrong? What can I do?” He reached out to her, and she actually took his hand, squeezing it for comfort. She blinked rapidly and looked up at the ceiling, trying to avoid shedding the tears that had gathered in her eyes. If it wasn’t the cancer, what was it?
Bridget breathed deeply to calm herself. When she spoke, her voice was even, but she talked more slowly than usual, and he knew it was a struggle for her to keep from crying.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned my friend, Robin Salter, to you.”
Zachary flipped through his mental catalog. He was good with names. As a private investigator, he needed to be able to make connections between people quickly, and it was amazing how often a previous name came into play on a new case. Seven degrees of separation became a lot less in a smaller community.
“Not that I remember,” he said, feeling bad he couldn’t make any connection to the name. Someone she worked with? Was in a club or other organization with? Bridget was very social; she and her family had a lot of friends.
Bridget waved away the apology in his voice. “I didn’t know her while we were together. We were in treatment together.”
“Oh. She had cancer too?” Was it appropriate for him to ask what kind? Or was that impolite? Invasive?
“Yes. Ovarian, like me. Only…” There was a slight waver in her voice. She was doing her best to hold it together, but she was right on the edge. She cleared her throat and took another deep breath. “Hers didn’t go into remission. It metastasized.”
Zachary’s stomach was a tight knot. That could have been Bridget. The doctor had warned them that treatment might not be successful. Only thirty percent went into remission. Zachary had dealt with the specter of death before, but not like that. Not looking at his beautiful, vibrant wife and knowing that she could die in a matter of months.
“And they… there was nothing they could do?”
“They tried. But she knew she was terminal.”
“I’m so sorry, Bridge.”
Bridget swallowed. “She died on Friday.”
He squeezed her hand, wishing there was more he could do to comfort her. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Bridget stared off into space. He wondered wheth
er she was imagining her own life if things had gone differently. Her own death. What if that had been her? What had she accomplished in her life? Who would be mourning for her?
“I need your help.”
Zachary blinked, surprised. Even when they were together, Bridget had not asked him for help. She had been happy to be in charge of everything. She took on extra responsibility like it was a new suit to add to her extensive collection. Even now, with the divorce well behind them, she was still bringing Zachary groceries and fussing over his health and his ability to take care of himself.
She never asked for help.
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She was Dying Anyway, book #3 of Zachary Goldman Mysteries is coming soon!
About the Author
For as long as P.D. Workman can remember, the blank page has held an incredible allure. After a number of false starts, she finally wrote her first complete novel at the age of twelve. It was full of fantastic ideas. It was the spring board for many stories over the next few years. Then, forty-some novels later, P.D. Workman finally decided to start publishing. Lots more are on the way!
P.D. Workman is a devout wife and a mother of one, born and raised in Alberta, Canada. She is a homeschooler and an Executive Assistant. She has a passion for art and nature, creative cooking for special diets, and running. She loves to read, to listen to audio books, and to share books out loud with her family. She is a technology geek with a love for all kinds of gadgets and tools to make her writing and work easier and more fun. In person, she is far less well-spoken than on the written page and tends to be shy and reserved with all but those closest to her.
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Please visit P.D. Workman at pdworkman.com to see what else she is working on, to join her mailing list, and to link to her social networks.
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