by Toni Blake
CHAPTER FOUR
“DO YOU NEED HELP?”
“No.” More of a grunt than a word.
Suzanne watched as Zack hobbled to her bathroom, remembering that a patient’s first time on crutches sometimes looked like a baby deer learning to walk. At one point, he accidentally put his weight down on the injured leg and let out a yowl as it dropped out from under him, but he caught himself. Then he banged one crutch into a door frame. Oh good, I’ll get to do touch-up painting after he’s gone. This just keeps getting better and better.
“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice cautious but laced with a tinge of sarcasm.
“I’ve got it,” he snapped.
Sure ya do. “Just...try not to break anything, okay? In my house,” she added. In case it sounded like she was concerned for his bones. And maybe she should be—but at the moment, she felt more protective of her cute little cottage. She wanted to keep it cute. Even if it no longer felt like the private sanctuary it had been only an hour ago.
“Relax,” he grumbled. “I’ll fix anything I break.”
She found that response less than reassuring. But decided to keep that to herself as she went to stir the chili she’d started in her slow cooker back when this had been just a normal winter day. Better to stir than stand outside the bathroom door listening and waiting like some worrywart mom. The chili smelled good, the perfect balm for a cold, snowy afternoon. Or evening—darkness had fallen a little while ago, coming early this time of year. But the comfort food had sounded more comforting back when she’d been planning to eat alone.
A moment later, the bathroom door burst open and Zack and his crutches came trundling out, still flailing and Bambi-like. If Bambi could be compared to a surly man who hated life right now. Seemed unfair to the cartoon deer.
When one crutch literally got away from him, hitting the floor, he cursed, and Suzanne went to help the big lug, whether either of them liked it or not. Moving instinctively, she slid beneath the shoulder where the crutch had been, anchored her arm around his waist, and hoisted him in the direction of the sofa bed where he’d been resting since his arrival.
“Hand me the damn crutch,” he said.
“You’re not very good with crutches yet, and I’m sturdier. So I think what you meant to say was ‘thank you.’”
His indecipherable grumble made her eyes roll. She’d never stood this close to Zack before and he smelled masculine and musky, his body solid against her side. The simple awareness somehow left her feeling even more awkward, and after plopping him down onto the pullout couch, she was relieved to walk away, picking up the crutch to place it with its mate.
“Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to use the crutches better.”
“No need—I’ll get used to ’em.”
Another eye roll. “There is a need actually,” she insisted, crossing the room toward the wide opening to the kitchen. “My need to not have to carry you to the bathroom for a week.”
When he didn’t reply, she glanced over to see him glowering back. Their gazes met, but she found it oddly unnerving and looked away.
It struck her that they’d never looked each other in the eye before—she knew him only as Meg’s one-time boyfriend, Dahlia’s nephew. They’d always been at odds and resentment had hung in the air. And now—this. He was in her home. Dependent on her. And clearly resenting that.
“Do you want some chili?” The question seemed the wiser, simpler path than continuing down the resentment road.
Though the offer appeared to throw him slightly—he looked confused, and then said, “Oh, that’s what I smell.”
“I imagine you’re hungry. Want a bowl?”
He looked a little less belligerent as he said, “Yep.”
And it was only as she turned back toward the kitchen counter, reaching for bowls in an overhead cabinet, that it dawned on her to ask, “How’s your pain?”
He didn’t answer right away. But as she swirled a big spoon through the tangy-smelling chili, he admitted, “Pretty bad.”
That’s when she realized how out of practice she was at nursing. His pain level should have been on her mind, much more than how he smelled. “How bad on a scale of one to ten?”
He let out a sigh, appearing to think it through. “Five.”
She suspected it was higher but that he didn’t want to seem weak—the problem with asking people to scale their pain was that everyone worked on a different scale. He was suffering both muscular and nerve pain, nerve pain being trickier to deal with. Dr. Andover had suggested anti-inflammatories might ease the nerve issues, and prescribed low-dose Percocet for the other, which the drugstore had opened especially to fill. “You can take some pain meds with dinner,” she told Zack now.
“No,” he said.
She leaned her head back in frustration, blew out a breath.
“I don’t need it. Don’t want my brain clouded.”
She pinned him in place with a glare. “Look, tough guy, that’s admirable and all, but we need to control the pain cycle. The longer pain goes untreated, the worse it gets. Managing the pain promotes healing in numerous ways. So this isn’t a request, or an option—it’s an order.”
He shot her a look through narrowed eyes. “You had to go and be a nurse, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m regretting that career choice pretty much right now myself.”
“I’m going to kill Dahlia when she gets back.”
“Get in line.”
With that, she turned back to ladling the thick chili into two bowls. She made Zack a tray, including a can of soda and his medication. Carrying it to where he sat, legs stretched out before him, she lowered it to his lap and said, “Pills first. While I watch.”
He cast a skeptical glance upward. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” she said. “As a nurse dispensing an opioid, I need to be sure what you’ve taken.”
“Fine,” he bit off. Then popped the top on the can, threw the pills into his mouth, and washed them down. “Happy, nurse?”
“Overjoyed,” she said dryly. Then left him to find her remote and turn on the TV, suspecting they’d both welcome a distraction.
From her small dining table, she watched the evening news out of Sault Ste. Marie, currently airing a short feature about Great Lakes fishermen biding their time in winter. “Winter is our summer,” said a crusty-looking old fellow. “Sure, I s’pose the time off’s nice, but most of us got mouths to feed and are itchin’ to get back out there early as we can.”
“You can say that again,” Zack muttered. “Spring can’t come fast enough.”
It surprised her only because, no matter how great his affinity for the water, she’d have thought he’d be more wrapped up in the matter at hand right now. “What is it with you and fishing?” she heard herself ask without planning.
Zack’s gaze shot defensively to hers. “It’s how I make my living.”
But she was truly trying to understand. “I just mean...you really seem to love it.” She tried to speak without accusation. And the distance and low evening lighting made it a little easier to look at him now. “What do you love about it?”
He shoveled another spoonful of chili into his mouth, taking his time with an answer. Finally he said, “Not the fish so much. Not even the work so much. Just...the quiet of it. The dependability of it. Doesn’t hold a lot of surprises. And I like my freedom.”
He’d sounded almost forthright until the last part, which reverted to defensiveness. She supposed he’d had to spend a lot of time defending his choices to Meg, and maybe to him Suzanne just seemed like an extension of her. After all, that was all she’d ever been to him...until now.
“Mmm,” was all she said. It seemed the safest reply. And she had no desire to over-engage with this man while he was under her roof. She was the caregiver; he was the patient.
It was j
ust past seven when she emerged from the kitchen to see he’d fallen asleep, empty chili bowl balanced on his stomach, fingers still loosely wrapped about the spoon handle. It reminded her that an injury could wipe a person out.
Stepping up beside him, she bent to gingerly lift the bowl. As his fingers fell away and she reached over him to grab the tray, the nearness again created that strange awareness. You’ve been away from nursing too long. Being in someone’s space when performing nursing duties had never bothered her before—if it bothered you, you couldn’t be an effective nurse.
At least a few days’ scruff covered his jaw—showing he wasn’t diligent about shaving. Maybe it was a winter thing. Or a depression thing. The edge of his sweatshirt currently revealed his lower stomach and the drawstring of his sweatpants, and she thought about pulling it down but stopped—not wanting to wake him and have him see her tugging on his clothes. Again, simple nursing care shouldn’t create such concerns—but she supposed this was less than simple, for all the reasons she’d been mired in the last few hours. A smattering of dark hair lay curled across his lower abdomen, above the drawstring. Why are you looking at it?
When her phone trilled a text notification from across the room, she flinched, took a step back—and the spoon rattled in the bowl. As Zack shifted in his slumber, she retreated quickly to the kitchen, feeling almost as if she’d been caught at something. Which was silly, of course.
When she returned to the living room, she gave the sleeping man only a quick glance as she passed, then lowered herself into her favorite easy chair, next to the fireplace, currently alight with warm, cozy flames. After muting the TV, she plucked up her phone to find a text from Dahlia. How’s Zack?
Sleeping, Suzanne typed back to her.
Another text arrived a moment later. And how are you? Still mad at me?
Suzanne stared at the phone. She’d spent much of her life being a little too quiet and a little too polite. But Cal’s death five years ago had drained some of the polite right out of her. The rawness of losing her husband in the prime of both their lives had made her less guarded, more honest.
Truthfully, I’m confused. Why me? The nurse thing aside, there’s an island full of people you’ve known for twenty years.
Dahlia’s reply came quickly. The nurse thing aside, I trust you. I trust your loving spirit.
More frank honesty. I don’t feel very loving right now.
But you are, Dahlia replied. Like it or not. I thought through everyone who winters on the island, and you’re the one I picked.
It’s like winning a backward lottery. Like being a Hunger Games tribute.
She could almost hear Dahlia laughing before she replied, I know he can be unpleasant, but you’ll both survive this.
Unless I kill him. Where are you?
Atlanta. Layover, Dahlia answered.
Where are you flying to?
Grand Cayman.
Suzanne sighed, thinking how nice that sounded. Sunny days, warm nights, tan skin. How long will you be there?
Undecided.
And this friend of yours is with you? What was her name again?
Giselle. And yes.
Well, have a nice trip.
Suzanne wondered, after she sent it, if it sounded terse. She hadn’t meant it that way, but it still stung that Dahlia had abandoned her beloved nephew and dumped him on Suzanne.
I’ll be in touch. And, Suzanne, thank you. I appreciate this more than I can say.
A small lump formed in Suzanne’s throat when she least expected it. But she didn’t answer. She didn’t even know why she felt the lump. So she just turned the phone’s screen to black and listened to the crackle of the fire as she peered across the room at the injured man on her sofa. Practically a stranger in some ways. And if not a stranger, more an enemy than a friend. Was that why she felt on the verge of tears? Or was it something more?
Was it still the heartache of Beck Grainger choosing someone else? Was it that being confined with someone you didn’t like was almost worse than being lonely? Was it feeling distant from Meg—and now Dahlia, as well? Was it winter and whiteness and cold—the sensation of being trapped in a snow globe? Was it wondering how her life before six years ago—when she was a happy florist deeply in love with her handsome doctor husband—had somehow devolved into this?
Maybe it had just been a long six years.
Somberly, she pushed up from the chair, turned off the TV, stoked the fire. Then she walked back over to the sofa bed and once again peered down. Stomach still showing. Eyes still shut. The nurse in her felt glad he was sleeping peacefully. And it was also the nurse in her who reached for the quilt at the foot of the mattress to lay it gently over him.
Unfortunately, it disturbed his slumber enough that he let out a heavy breath, stirred slightly, and opened his eyes.
“Sorry to wake you,” she whispered, then made a show of pulling the quilt up, so he’d understand she wasn’t just hovering over him like a crazed stalker.
It surprised her when he said, “S’okay,” his voice softer than she’d ever heard it before. Then, “The chili was good.”
It drew out an unwitting smile. “I’m glad you liked it. Get some sleep.”
He nodded against his pillow, and she watched his gray eyes—green in some lighting perhaps—fall shut again. She studied his eyelashes briefly. She didn’t know why.
Or maybe it was about...intimacy. Because in one way he was a stranger, but in another, he definitely wasn’t. And she was suddenly watching him sleep, covering him up, and standing close enough to notice the way his lashes lay against his face, and the way life on the water had turned his skin slightly ruddy—but that looking a little weathered made him no less handsome, instead only adding character and maybe a few question marks about his life.
But again, why are you looking at him?
She flipped off the dim lamp on an end table. Then turned to walk toward her bedroom.
“Thank you.”
Caught off guard, she stopped, glanced back, met his gaze in the firelight. “It’s only chili.”
“No. I mean, thank you.”
That was all, but somehow she heard everything he wasn’t saying. He was grateful for her care. And maybe embarrassed that the one person he’d thought he could depend on had deserted him. And hurt that the other person he used to depend on lived with another man now. She heard it all. And felt more empathy for him than she’d known she could.
Nodding an acknowledgment, she said, “Goodnight, Zack. Everything will look brighter in the morning.”
* * *
SUN IN ZACK’S eyes made him pull the covers over his head. But...he wasn’t in his own bed. Flipping them back down, he eased open tired eyes. Shit. He was at Suzanne’s. Suzanne, who could barely tolerate him. And he usually felt the same. Of all the people for Dahlia to leave him with.
But she had been...decent to him last night. More than decent. Even if she didn’t like him.
He blew out a breath, disgusted by the whole situation all over again. But hadn’t she said things would look brighter today? Maybe she was right. Maybe his leg would feel stronger. And he had no idea when his meds were due, but his only discomfort was a dull ache in his lower back. So maybe they’d done what she said—broken the pain cycle.
The aroma of bacon lifted his spirits a little further. Dahlia made him bacon. Meg used to make him bacon. Maybe this was what people meant by comfort food. Without even weighing it, he called out, “That smells great!”
Suzanne’s dark, curly head peeked out from the kitchen. She didn’t quite smile—but she didn’t look as unhappy as she had for most of last evening. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Over easy. Over hard. Scrambled. Doesn’t matter—never met an egg I didn’t like.”
Now she smiled. Even laughed a little. Possible she’d never heard him be ve
ry talkative. And he didn’t know why he was being that way now. Maybe it was bacon. Maybe it was hope.
“You want to try coming to the table to eat?” she suggested.
When he glanced at his nemeses, the crutches, leaning near the end table, she must have taken his hesitation as doubt, adding, “If you’d rather stick to the bed for now, it’s okay—I’ll make you a tray.”
But the last thing he wanted was to stick to the bed. He wanted back on his feet as soon as possible. “No, I need to use the bathroom anyway, so if I’m gonna get up, might as well sit at the table.”
As she walked toward him, reaching for the crutches, he took in her fleecy pink pajamas with gray cat faces on them. Not what he’d expected from the woman he’d always thought smug and self-righteous. “You don’t seem like the cat-pajama type,” he informed her.
Passing him the crutches, she said, “Then you misjudged me.”
When he tried to take them from her, though, she said, “No, wait,” and pulled them back. “You’re going to learn to use these the right way today.”
“C’mon,” he protested. “I’m hungry. And I have to pee. It’s too early to concentrate.”
“Just put your feet on the floor and let me show you the right way to stand up on them.”
“For cryin’ out loud, woman,” he groused. And he was about to object and complain further—when he realized something wasn’t right. He’d tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but it wasn’t quite happening. Now he looked down to see his left leg lying awkwardly across the right one, when he knew good and well he hadn’t crossed it over that way.
“What...are you doing?” Her voice came cautiously—and he knew that even as she’d spoken, she’d realized something was wrong. More wrong than it had been yesterday.
Looking down at his legs, he made another focused effort to swing them over the side of the mattress. As a result, the left one crossed over the right even farther—and the right didn’t move at all. He blinked, his chest tightening. He tried to get words out, but they stuck in his throat. Breathing was suddenly hard. “My leg...”