The Trouble with Joe

by Emilie Richards

  He held open the door for her. Slipping past him, Lucy was more aware of him than she’d let herself be to this point. She’d known he was handsome, of course, and physically imposing. That his thick, dark hair was expensively cut, his charcoal suit probably cost more than she spent on clothes in a year and that his eyes were a chilly shade of gray. She refused to be intimidated by him. But just for a second, looking at his big, capable hand gripping the door and feeling the heat of his body as she brushed him, she felt her heart skip a beat.

  He’d definitely be sexy if only he were more likeable. If he didn’t look at her as if she were the janitor who’d quit scrubbing the floor long enough to try to tell him his business.

  She grimaced. Okay, that might be her own self-esteem issues talking. He probably looked down on everyone. It was probably an advantage in corporate law, turning every potential litigant into a stuttering idiot.

  Following her into the restaurant, he glanced around, apparently unimpressed by the casual interior and the half dozen remaining diners.

  “Your mother ate here a couple of times a week,” she told him.

  His eyebrows rose. “She had money...?”

  Lucy shook her head. “She was my guest.”

  A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Oh.”

  For a moment Lucy thought he would feel compelled to thank her. A surprisingly fierce sense of repugnance filled her. Who was he to speak for the mother he didn’t even know?

  She hastily grabbed a menu and led him to the same table where his mother always sat, right in front of the window. “I’ll be back to take your order as soon as I check in the kitchen.”

  It was easy to pretend she was immersed in some crisis and send Melody out to take his order instead. Once his food was delivered, Lucy stole surreptitious looks as he ate. She was pleased to see that he actually looked startled after the first spoonful of curried lentil soup, one of her specialties and personal favorites. He’d probably expected something out of a can.

  Melody was prepared to close up for her, so once she saw him decline dessert, Lucy went back out to reclaim him. Without comment she took his money, then said, “I’m ready to go if you’d like to follow me again.”

  A hint of acerbity crept into his tone. “Do you think I’d get lost?”

  “I pass Sam’s place on my way home. I won’t stop.”

  He nodded. “Then thank you.”

  It was getting harder for him to squeeze those thank-yous out, Lucy judged. Clearly, he wasn’t in the habit of being in anyone’s debt.

  Once again he held open the door for her, the courtesy automatic. At least he was polite.

  Outside, she said, “It’s called Doveport Bed and Breakfast. You’ll see it on the right, about half a mile from here. There’s a sign out front.”

  He nodded, pausing on the sidewalk while she opened her car door and got in. More good manners, Lucy realized; in Seattle, a woman might be in danger if she were alone even momentarily on a dark street. Maybe his mother had instilled some good qualities in him, before she disappeared from his life.

  However that happened.

  Her forehead crinkled. How old had he been when his parents divorced, or his mother went away? Twenty-three years ago, he’d said. Surely he wasn’t more than in his mid-thirties now. So he probably wasn’t even a teenager when he lost her.

  Was he bitter at what he saw as abandonment? Lucy hadn’t been able to tell. Since she’d handed him the driver’s license and photo in his office, he’d seemed more stunned than anything. She’d almost had the sense he was sleepwalking, that he hadn’t yet figured out how to react. At least, she hoped that’s what he was doing, and that he wasn’t always so unemotional. Because if he was, she hated to think of the hat lady consigned to his care.

  Lucy made sure the lights of his car were right behind her until she reached Sam’s B and B. His headlights swept the sign, and his turn signal went on. She accelerated and left him behind, wondering if she’d arrive at the hospital tomorrow and find he had already made plans to have his mother moved to Seattle.

  She shuddered to think of the gentle, confused hat lady waking to the stern face of this son she didn’t remember, her bewildered gaze searching for other, familiar faces.

  Unhappily she wondered if finding him had been the right thing to do after all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  STRANGELY, WHEN Adrian lay in bed that night, he kept thinking about Lucy Peterson instead of his mother. Maybe he was practicing avoidance. He didn’t know, but he was bothered by the fact that he didn’t understand her. He prided himself on being able to read people. The ability to anticipate reactions made him good at his job.

  He’d long since learned that self-interest was paramount in most people. But if a single thing Lucy had done for his mother—and now for him—helped her in any way, he couldn’t see it. So what motivated her? Why had she noticed his mother in the first place? Downtown Seattle was rife with homeless people, sleeping in doorways, curled on park benches, begging on corners, huddling from the rain in bus shelters. To most people, they fell somewhere between annoying and invisible. When had Lucy first stopped to talk to his mother? Offered her a meal?

  Why had she cared so much that she’d been determined to find the confused old lady’s family?

  He kept puzzling it out and not arriving at any answers. That bugged him. Yeah, she might just be the nurturing kind. But even people like that didn’t usually nurture a homeless person. Anyway, she wasn’t a completely soft touch, ready to expect the best of everyone. She’d certainly made a judgment about him before she even met him. She was doing her best for him because of his mother, but she didn’t like having to do it.

  That stung, which bothered him, too. Why in hell would he care what a small-town café owner thought of him?

  He shifted restlessly in bed, picturing the way she looked at him, her eyes seeming to dissect him.

  Adrian fell asleep eventually, but his dreams were uneasy and he jerked awake several times. The damn bed was too soft. The down pillows kept wadding into lumps beneath his head. Even the scent of potpourri in the room was unfamiliar and too sweet, slipping into his dreams.

  He got up in the morning feeling jittery yet exhausted. The room was nice enough if you liked such things, he’d noted last night, and was decorated with obligatory old-fashioned floral wallpaper and antiques. He didn’t much care, but was relieved to have his own bathroom. This morning, though, he walked into it and stopped dead, staring at the enormous, claw-footed tub.

  “What the hell...?” His incredulous gaze searched the wall above, and returned to the faucet that didn’t even have a handheld showerhead. He hated taking baths. All he wanted was a hard spray of hot water to bring him to his senses.

  Given no choice, however, he took a hasty bath, got dressed and went downstairs to sample the breakfast.

  If he had to sit at a common table, he’d head to town instead. Chatting over breakfast with complete strangers held no appeal. He’d find a diner if he had to drive to Sequim. Fortunately, the dining room held several tables. A family sat at one, a couple at another. He took a place as far from the others as he could get.

  He hadn’t paid much attention to his hostess last night, but this morning he studied her in search of a resemblance to her sister. They did both have blue eyes. Samantha Peterson was less striking but prettier. She wore her curly blond hair cut short and had a curvy figure. She didn’t look at him as if he’d crawled out from a sewer drain. Instead, she chatted in a sunny way as she served thick slabs of French toast covered with huckleberries and powdered sugar, oatmeal and bacon that made his mouth water. It was the best breakfast he’d had in years; creativity in the kitchen obviously ran in the family.

  Funny thing was, he knew he wouldn’t remember her face two days from now. Her sister’s would stick in his mind.r />
  When Samantha paused to refill his coffee after everyone else had left the dining room, he asked, “Did you know my mother?”

  “The hat lady? Sure, but not as well as Lucy. I’m not on her route, you know.”

  Puzzled, he asked, “Her route?”

  “Um.” As casually as if he’d invited her, she filled a second cup with coffee for herself and sat across from him. “Your mom had a routine. On a given day, you knew she’d have certain stops. The library on Mondays—they let her check out books even though she didn’t have an address—the thrift shop Tuesdays, because they’re closed Sunday and Monday and they always had new stuff then—”

  “But she didn’t have money.”

  She shrugged, the gesture both careless and generous. “It’s run by the Faith Lutheran Church. They let her take whatever she wanted.”

  “Like hats,” he reflected.

  “Right. Another of her stops was Yvonne’s Needle and Thread. Yvonne let her pick out trims, silk flowers, whatever, that she used to decorate the hats. The senior center has a pancake breakfast on Wednesday and a spaghetti dinner on Friday, and she was always at those. Lucy’s twice a week, the Pancake Haus once a week, and so on.”

  What was with this town? Was every single citizen willing to give away whatever she’d wanted? Would any needy soul qualify, or just his mother? As a child he’d loved his mother, but he couldn’t imagine that one vague old lady was that special.

  “She loved garage sales,” Samantha continued. “Oh, and rummage sales, like at one of the churches. During the season, she’d deviate from her usual route to take in any sales. She was always the first one there.”

  “She must have picked up the newspaper then, to read the classifieds.”

  “Probably,” she said cheerfully.

  Had his mother read the front page news? What did a woman who believed she was a nineteenth-century poet make of the presidential election or Mideast politics? Or did she skip anything that perplexed her?

  Frowning, he asked, “Where did she sleep?”

  “We’re not quite sure. I offered her a room over the winter, but she wouldn’t accept. I’m a little too far out from the center of town for her, I think. Father Joseph at Saint Mary’s left a basement door unlocked for her when the weather was cold, and he says she did sleep there on a cot sometimes. And Marie at Olympic Motel says she’d occasionally stay there, too.”

  Adrian continued to grapple with the concept of an entire town full of do-gooders. “In other words, everybody knew her.”

  “Oh, sure.” She smiled at him. “We did our best.”

  “I’m...grateful.” The words were hard to say for a man who’d never in his life taken charity. Depending entirely on the kindness of strangers...he couldn’t imagine.

  No—maybe not strangers. She’d stayed here in Middleton long enough that she’d been theirs, in a sense. Lucy Peterson clearly felt proprietary.

  Adrian discovered he didn’t like the idea that every shopkeeper in this miserable town knew his mother, and he didn’t.

  Samantha waved off his gratitude. “Oh, heavens! We loved her.”

  There it was again, that past tense. Nobody expected her to survive. Or perhaps they assumed he’d take care of her now, as, of course, he intended to do.

  He drained his coffee and made his excuses. Back in his room, he sat at the small desk and took out his cell phone. It was early enough he got through to an old friend.

  Tom Groendyk and he had shared an old house in the U district through grad school. Tom was an orthopedic surgeon now at Swedish Medical Center, having left the area for his internship and residency but coming home two years ago.

  “Hey. I have a favor to ask of you,” Adrian said, after brief greetings. “You heard of a neurosurgeon named Ben Slater?”

  “Are you kidding?” Tom laughed. “The guy looks like Santa Claus and grades like Scrooge.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Only the best. Hell of a teacher, and hell of a surgeon from what I hear.” His voice sharpened. “Why? Is there something you haven’t told me?”

  Adrian and Tom played racquetball once a week, had dinner or met for drinks every couple of weeks. Tom hadn’t married, either, although he was seeing a woman pretty seriously right now.

  Adrian wouldn’t have told many other people, but Tom did know some of his history. “I’m over on the peninsula,” he said. “My mother has showed up.”

  There was a momentary silence. “Showed up?”

  “She’s apparently mentally ill. She’s been homeless. Nobody knew who she was until she got hit by a car. When they searched her stuff, they found an old driver’s license and tracked me down.”

  He didn’t mention the photograph of his father, mother and him, or that Mother’s Day card. He still wasn’t ready to face the memories they had conjured up.

  “If you’re looking for the best to treat her, Slater’s it,” Tom said, adding, “But the guy’s retired. I guess I could ask around and find out where he is, but I can give you some other names instead.”

  “He’s here, believe it or not. Evidently his wife grew up here in Middleton, and they came back when he retired. He must have gotten bored. He’s consulting now.”

  Tom let out a low whistle. “You got lucky then.”

  “He says there’s nothing he can do for her. Either she comes out of the coma or she doesn’t.”

  “So what are you asking me? Whether a different guy would tell you something else?”

  Adrian squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. I guess that is what I’m asking. Should I get a second opinion?”

  “If it were my mother,” his friend said, “I wouldn’t bother.” However blunt the answer, his voice had softened. “Man, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Adrian admitted. “Go on over to the hospital, I guess. See how it goes over the next day or two. Then I suppose I’d better find someplace to move her to. I had Carol cancel my appointments through Tuesday. Fortunately, I didn’t have anything earthshaking in the works.”

  “Yeah, listen, if there’s anything I can do...”

  “Thanks.” He had to clear his throat. “I’ll call.” He hit End and sat there for a minute, his chest tight. What a bizarre conclusion to his childhood fantasies of finding his mom.

  He felt no great eagerness to go sit at her bedside, but finally stood. He looked at his laptop and decided not to take it. Maybe this afternoon, if he went back to the hospital. He locked his room and left without seeing his hostess.

  The hospital appeared even smaller and less prepossessing in daylight. He doubted it had sixty beds. It probably existed primarily as an emergency facility, given the recreational opportunities nearby in the Olympic National Park and on the water. Mountain climbers, hikers and boaters had plenty of accidents, and Highway 101, crowded with tourists, undoubtedly produced its share. Once stabilized, patients could be moved to a larger facility in Port Angeles or Bremerton if not across the sound to Seattle.

  He knew his way today, and didn’t pause at the information desk. This time a nurse intercepted him upstairs and said firmly, “May I help you?”

  “I’m Elizabeth Rutledge’s son.”

  “Oh! The hat lady.” She flushed. “That is...”

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Dr. Slater stopped in briefly this morning. He said to tell you he’d be back this afternoon.”

  He nodded. “I thought I’d just sit with her for a while.”

  “We’re so glad you’re here. We’re all very fond of her, you know.”

  Adrian studied the woman, graying and sturdy. “You knew her, too?”

  “Not well, but my sister owns the
Hair Do. Cindy washed and styled her hair regularly. Gave her perms every few months, too.”

  “Why?” Adrian asked bluntly.

  She blinked. “Why?”

  “Your sister is a businesswoman. Why would she give away her services to a homeless woman?”

  She raised her eyebrows, her friendliness evaporating. “Lucy didn’t say what you do for a living.”

  “I’m an attorney.”

  “Don’t you do pro bono work?”

  Everyone in the firm was required to handle the occasional pro bono case on a rotating schedule. “Yes,” he admitted.

  “What’s the difference? Cindy likes your mom. Whenever I walked in, they’d be laughing like they were having the best time ever.”

  That was the payback? Laughter? And what the hell did a woman who couldn’t remember who she was and who lived on the streets have to laugh about?

  He went on to his mother’s room, feeling the nurse’s stare following him.

  Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to hear Lucy’s voice when he walked in the open door.

  She wasn’t reading this morning, just talking.

  “Yesterday, I saw some early daffodils opening. I know you’d have been as excited as I was. Well, they might have been narcissus or some species daffodil. Is there such a thing? These had orange centers and were small. But they were beautiful and bright.” She paused, as if listening to an answer. When she went on, Lucy sounded regretful. “I wish I had time to garden. Every time I lug out the mower and tackle the lawn, I think about where I’d put flower beds. You know how much I’d like to grow old roses. I love to get out my books and think, too bad the China roses couldn’t stand the cold here, but I’ll definitely grow some of the really old ones. Rosamunde and Cardinal de Richelieu and Autumn Damask. Oh, and Celestial. And a moss rose. Have you ever seen one, with the fuzz all over the bud? I think they look fascinating. Even the names of the roses are beautiful. Fantin-Latour.” She made every syllable sensuous. “Comte Chambord. Ispahan.” She laughed. “Of course, I’m undoubtedly butchering them, since I don’t speak French.”