Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2)

by Tess Thompson

  Now Charlotte smiled wide. “They did when I told them Ralph put his hand up my skirt at last year’s company Christmas party.”

  “Is that true?” Ralph. Bloody Ralph.

  She nodded. “I never told you because I knew you’d make me do something about it. And since he’s never really in the office, it didn’t matter.”

  “Did Rachel believe you?”

  “I don’t know. But I could tell she didn’t want the hassle of an investigation and all that, so much so she offered me six months’ severance on top of the stock.”

  I shook my head, amazed. “Well, Charlotte, welcome to the big league.”

  “You told me last week I needed to put my big girl panties on. Well, I did.”

  “Holy crap, I was talking about dating, not taking on corporate America.”

  “Oh, it was much easier than dating,” she said.

  “So, why were you crying just now? This is a happy day for you.”

  “Change always makes me cry. And I was worried about you. And, well, just everything. Putting big girl panties on is harder than it looks.”

  We started to laugh as nurse Kelly came in holding a needle. I cringed, knowing it was meant for me.

  “Visitor hours are over.” Kelly tapped the needle with one of her long, efficient fingers.

  Charlotte gathered her jacket and purse. “I called Henry. He’ll be here to pick you up in the morning.”

  I reached out my hand and Charlotte took it. “Thank you. You’ll be in touch?”

  “Of course. I’ll call you after the holiday. Maybe we can have a drink or something.” She blushed as she said this, perhaps unsure if it was appropriate now that we were no longer boss and assistant.

  “I would love that, Charlotte.”

  “All right. I’m off now for a visit home to San Diego. My parents.” She rolled her eyes and made a slashing motion on her neck. “I may or may not survive.”

  We said our good-byes and Charlotte left as Kelly prepared the needle. “This will just help you sleep,” she said.

  “What kind of head injury causes muteness?” I asked, thinking of Sam’s note.

  She looked at me quizzically. “If you injure the Broca area of your brain. Frontal lobe damage can cause impairments to your speech. But don’t worry, you don’t have that.”

  I didn’t bother to reply, thinking instead of Sam. He must have damaged his Broca area and that’s why he could no longer speak. No wonder he’d looked so frightened when I’d fallen.

  Kelly took my arm, prepping it with rubbing alcohol before she slid the needle into my skin. It felt like nothing more than a slight prick. That was a relief. Needles, nasty little things, I thought, dreamily. Just then my eyes felt as if they could not remain open another second. Charlotte, loyal to the end, was my last thought before blackness came.

  Chapter 3

  I WOKE IN DARKNESS except for the ticking sound of machine in the corner that had a blinking red light. Was that the indication I was alive? I sat up and put my feet to the floor. Cold tile made my toes slightly numb as I walked toward the door, hoping to find a light switch. Just as I’d almost reached the door, it opened. A nurse, not Kelly, halted, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the tile. “No, no. We mustn’t be up and about, honey.” She flipped on the light and took a firm hold of my arm as she escorted me back to the hospital bed. “I’m Virginia,” she said. “Your night nurse.” I noted a more age-appropriate head of white hair for a nurse than twelve-year-old Kelly, and a rotund middle under her pink scrubs.

  After she’d tucked the sheets around my shoulders, she went to the end of the bed and picked up my chart. “Well, Bliss Heywood, nothing for you to worry about. You’ll be released in the morning. Best thing you can do for the rest of the night is sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, shoes squeaking, she snapped off the light and was out the door.

  Wait. Where was that nice little drug Kelly had given me? My head ached and I was wired like I’d had an ill-advised second espresso. I stared at the red light across the room that blinked on and off like a chant in my head, Bliss, Bliss, Bliss.

  Bliss. What a name. As it always did, thinking about my name made me seethe with anger toward my mother. Almost forty years old and I still couldn’t let her behavior go, which Blythe often reminds me hurts no one but me, to which I reply that she should stop watching Oprah.

  The light continued to blink.

  Now, mesmerized by the blinking light, I asked myself, what had I done with my life that was of any true value? With my talents, I’d made the lucky few rich. An argument could be made, also, that through my work I provided work for others, which stimulated the economy and enabled many to have fulfilling lives. All this was true but what about relationships? Who would miss me when I was gone? What if I’d died today? Other than Blythe and the girls, would it have mattered to anyone?

  The truth is, no one else would miss me.

  The light blinked, again and again. I was alive, I thought. I had the rest of my life to build a new kind of existence. Silently I said a little prayer. “God if you’re there, could you send me some people to love? Show me my friends.”

  Friends. That might be a good first step. I needed some friends. I needed connections other than my network I used for business purposes. How did someone my age go about getting friends? It wasn’t like in college when everyone s in a new environment and seeking friends. At my age people already had their group of friends. Especially women. I saw them sometimes when I ate dinner alone with my spreadsheets open on my laptop. They sat at the bar talking and laughing and drinking pink drinks, sometimes squealing with apparent delight. Until now I’d never felt the need for friends. I had Blythe. Even at college, I’d kept to myself, studying harder than anyone else because I had so much to prove. I didn’t care that I was a loner. I liked it. Less chance to get hurt, I suppose, is what I thought.

  But now? I wondered. What had I missed by being so driven, so sure of the desired outcome, so fearful of hurt? What would it feel like to have a friend other than Blythe?

  Could I change? Could I become the type of woman who would be mourned once gone? My life spread before me like pages of an unread book. What had I done of importance? Who was I? To whom did I belong? Whom did I love? And then, go home. That was all. Go home—just those simple words, repeated in a silent, insistent chant in time with the blinking light. But I was a woman without a home, an ambitious wanderer chasing wealth and esteem. My home? The only home was my sister, Blythe. Go home to Blythe then, the voices in my head shouted like muses to an artist. Go home and open the unread pages of your book. Find meaning in a soulless life that existed without purpose, without love. Do something different than the day before.

  Go home. Go home to Blythe. I fell asleep.

  * * *

  I awoke in the morning to the sound of my cell phone ringing. It was Kevan Lanigan, my sister’s boyfriend. My heart skipped a beat. Had something happened to Blythe or the girls?

  I picked it up, not bothering to keep the panic from my voice. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He sounded chipper, happy. Well, he should be happy—he had the three best girls in the world by his side. Blythe had fallen madly in love with Kevan last summer, just a year after her divorce was final. He was a multi-millionaire from the Lanigan family of Lanigan Trucks. Love at first sight was how Blythe explained it. “We fell in love in three days,” she told me. Three days? I thought at the time. That’s ridiculous. No one falls in love in three days. Lust maybe, but not love. Blythe dismissed my concern, uncharacteristically bold and bossy, attributes typically reserved for describing me. A month or so later when I visited them in Seattle, I had to admit I’d never seen Blythe as happy, or as much herself. Maybe this was love, I thought, observing the two of them in the kitchen washing dishes with their hips touching, giggling like teenagers.
True love makes you more yourself. Or more your best self. I dismissed that idea as quickly as it came. Good Lord, I was starting to sound like Oprah.

  “Bliss, you still there?” Kevan asked now.

  “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

  “I’m calling to ask your permission to marry your sister.”

  “My permission?”

  “Yes. You’re her family, and I want to make sure you’ll give your blessing before I ask her.”

  Well, even my cold, dead heart couldn’t resist that. “Of course you have my blessing.” I stumbled on the last words, choking up in spite of my best efforts. “Be good to her, though. I swear to God if you cheat on her like her first husband, I will kill you myself.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not the cheating kind.”

  “And the little girls? You’ll love them too?”

  “I already do.”

  “And what about your daughter? Does she approve?” Rori, Kevan’s daughter, was eighteen and attending college at the University of Oregon. She’d had some troubles, according to Blythe, but was better now. Blythe was the best thing that ever happened to the girl, I was quite sure of that.

  As if he read my thoughts, he said, “She knows the best thing to ever happen to either of us was the day Blythe entered our lives. I adore your sister, Bliss. I love her and those little girls, too. I’ll make sure no harm ever comes to them.”

  “You can’t really promise that, but I get your point.”

  “Bliss, you need a little more faith in humanity.”

  I chuckled. “You have been hanging out with Blythe.”

  “Listen, will you come out for Thanksgiving? We’re going to my house in Idaho. Blythe wants to cook a big meal. Fortunately, my mother can’t make it.” This time he chuckled, but it didn’t sound totally convincing that there was any humor associated with his mother. She was a wicked witch as far as I could tell, but at least she wasn’t a flake like my mother. Riona Lanigan had a sharp tongue and a mean streak, but she wasn’t stoned by ten in the morning. That was a good mother in my world. Kevan continued. “Anyway, I thought you could surprise her. She doesn’t think you’ll come. Said you usually work holidays.”

  Go home to Blythe. “I will. I’ll come.”

  “Excellent. I’ll email you directions and details.”

  “Great. See you soon.”

  It didn’t occur to me until after we’d hung up the phone that I couldn’t drive out to see them. No driving, the doctor had said. How was I supposed to get to Idaho without driving?

  Chapter 4

  THEY RELEASED ME from the hospital the next morning, the doctor declaring me well enough to get back to regular life, with several warnings: no driving or flying. I dressed in the clothes I’d been admitted in, wishing I could have a shower and a fresh pair of panties to wear. I had decided, after some back and forth in my mind, not to tell my sister I’d been in the hospital. She was busy with the girls, and I was fine. No reason to worry her.

  Charlotte called from her parents’ in San Diego to tell me she’d arranged for Henry, my occasional driver, to pick me up outside the hospital. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “You’re not technically my assistant any longer.”

  “True. But I’m still your friend.”

  Friend? Was this an answer to my prayer? Show me my friends. “Thank you, Charlotte. I appreciate it.”

  We talked for a few more minutes. Charlotte told me her parents had managed to offend her within an hour of her arrival by ridiculing her plan to finish her mystery novel.

  “Don’t listen to them,” I said. “You can accomplish anything you want if you decide you want it bad enough.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said.

  “Give all the doubters the finger, even if they’re your parents, and get to it.”

  She laughed. “Maybe I’ll stay home for Christmas. Nothing like family to make you feel worthless.”

  Depends on your family, I thought. Go home to Blythe.

  I told her of my plan to head to Idaho for the holiday before we hung up, promising to see one another when we were back in town.

  The weather, according to the nurses, was bad enough that they were advising people to stay off the roads unless absolutely necessary. It was colder by five degrees than the day I’d entered, just twenty-four hours ago, but that seemed like a month. The cloud cover had disappeared and the bright burned my eyes. I put my sunglasses on, thankful they were in the pocket of my bag. I felt like I’d been at an after-hours nightclub only without the fun to show for it. I stood waiting in the cold, shivering. Something in the last twenty-four hours had diminished me, made me feel small and vulnerable. I didn’t care for this feeling. Not one iota. I watched flecks of ice so miniscule they would be invisible except for the way they sparkled in the sun as they drifted sideways in the wind.

  Henry arrived then, pulling into the patient loading area and leaping from the car. For a man in his early sixties, he was lean and agile. “Miss Heywood, how are you? I was quite alarmed to hear you were in the hospital.” English, he possessed the loveliest accent, which only added to his charm and mystique. I often wondered about the details of this elegant man who drove a car for a living, but never asked, for fear he’d think it presumptuous, given his austere demeanor.

  Now, he looked at me a few seconds longer than he normally would, usually the epitome of appropriateness—in his view, I am a client not a friend. With that thought, I looked at him closely. Could Henry be a friend? Probably not. He no doubt had a lot of proper gentlemen friends with which he did English activities like croquet and equestrian sports wearing those cropped riding pants. I glanced at his left hand. He didn’t wear a ring. Was he single? Surely not. A handsome man in his sixties who still had his hair? He’d be snatched up in a second.

  “Miss Thorne filled me in on the details of your injury. Nothing to take lightly.”

  “Charlotte worries too much.”

  He hesitated, as if he might like to add something, but instead opened the passenger door of the black town car without further comment.

  “I’m fine, really. Nothing to worry about.” I slid into the seat, cringing slightly. My tailbone must be bruised. Why hadn’t anyone mentioned the rest of my body, now that I thought about it? Nothing a hot bath wouldn’t cure, I thought, suddenly longing to be home. “Maybe the head thing will knock some sense into me, do you think?” I laughed, feeling awkward.

  He stared at me for a moment, with humorless eyes. I looked away, pretending to look for something in my purse. Making jokes with anyone other than Blythe wasn’t as easy as other people made it look. But I needed humor in order to attract friends. Funny people were always popular.

  Henry shut the door and got into the front seat and pulled out of the hospital driveway and onto the street.

  “I’m glad you’re out and about despite the ice, Henry.”

  “I’m my own boss, Miss Heywood. It would take more than a bit of ice to keep me from my work.”

  Henry didn’t work for a car service but instead owned his own car and worked for a select group of people, of which I was one. I was curious what his other clients were like, whether they were business people or little old ladies too feeble to drive. He always dressed in a black suit, crisp white shirt and a tie. One time he’d mentioned something about his former life as an actor, which would explain the smooth timbre and perfect articulation of his speaking voice, and also how someone obviously intelligent, conscientious and handsome drove rich people around town for a living. He reminded me of an old-fashioned movie star, maybe a cross between Fred Astaire and Frank Sinatra.

  My head ached. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back to rest on the seat cushion.

  “Miss Heywood. Are you sure you’re quite all right?”

  I opened my eyes, meeting his from where they watched me from
the rearview mirror. What was it I saw there? Fear? Sadness? “Perfectly fine.”

  “I’ll get you home right away.”

  “Can you make one stop for me on the way?” Sam. He needed money by now. And this cold. Where had they slept last night?

  “Of course.”

  I directed him to my office building.

  He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. We entered the freeway, headed downtown. Traffic was light. Despite this, Henry stayed in the slowest lane, going five below the speed limit. Was this typical for him? I wasn’t sure. Normally my face was buried in my laptop when he drove me to the airport or to occasional business functions where I knew there would be alcohol. I did not drive, even if I’d had only one drink. Plus, I didn’t care for driving. Last summer I bought my sister a new car and drove it to Seattle. It was the longest trip I’d driven for years. Someone as antsy as me doesn’t do well with a long stretch of highway and nothing to keep me occupied. The only thing that saved me was an audiobook.

  I watched the back of Henry’s head as we moved along the freeway. It was nicely shaped, and his hair was really quite thick for an older man. I’d never noticed it before.

  “Henry?”

  “Yes, Miss Heywood.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  He smiled slightly before sadness crept into his eyes. “My wife died five years ago. My son lives in New York.”

  “Will he come for Thanksgiving?”

  “Oh, no. He has a big job that keeps him busy. Like you.”

  We were both quiet for a moment. Henry took the downtown exit and we stopped at a red light. The streets and sidewalks were nearly empty. “Is it supposed to get any colder?” I asked.

  “In the teens tonight, according to the local news.”

  I sat with this for a moment. Sam and Sweetheart might freeze to death in this cold. Moving about on the seat, I sighed and tapped my fingers on the window. This trip seemed to be taking forever.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Henry’s eyes watched me from the rearview mirror.