by Toni Blake
Now Dahlia laughed lightly. “Is she taking good care of you, Zack?”
He blew out a sigh. “As good as she can,” he confessed. “As good as I let her.”
“You’ve never been a good patient,” Dahlia quipped. She’d seen him through more than one ailment over the years. “You’re not good at...well, being in any situation that’s not what you want it to be.”
Zack took that in. She wasn’t criticizing—just thinking out loud. But for a guy who doesn’t want to make my problems everybody else’s, do I do that every damn day of my life anyway? He knew he’d been a bear to pretty much everyone since Meg had broken up with him. “Maybe I should work on that.” The murmured words snuck out unplanned.
“An enlightened thought,” Dahlia replied on a light chuckle. “But no one will blame you right now for being a little moody.”
Ah, Dahlia. You always go too easy on me. Always. Because you know where I’ve been. And she’d always given him quiet permission to be...moody, surly, distant, whatever he wanted to be. For better or worse.
“Do you forgive me, Zack?”
Damn. Way to get serious without warning, woman. But with Dahlia, he didn’t have to rush, didn’t have to just tell her what she wanted to hear. They could be honest with each other. So he thought it over and said, “I’m working on it. But I might always be a little mad at you for not coming back.”
That kept her quiet for a moment. “I had no way of knowing,” she began softly, “how bad the injury was.”
“You knew I couldn’t walk and had nobody to help me—at least nobody I was comfortable with. Even with your trip plans, it still threw me when you didn’t come back.”
“Fair enough,” she conceded on a sigh. “I’ve always tried to be there for you, and this time I just...wasn’t. I can only hope that maybe someday you’ll understand why I had to get away this winter.”
But he already understood. The two of them were cut from the same cloth—they did what they wanted most of the time, even when it was selfish. Challenges early in life had taught them both to look out for number one. Dahlia just hid that particular trait better than he did. And he’d forgive her eventually, he just hadn’t yet.
“For now,” she went on, “I’ll just take solace in the fact that you’re speaking to me again. It’s been good to talk, Zack.”
Much as the surly side of him wanted to stay surly, the part of him that had just traveled unwittingly back to being seven admitted grudgingly, “Yeah.”
“Keep up the good work with your exercises. And be nice to Suzanne.”
“I’ll do what I can,” he muttered.
Though as he hung up, he glanced toward the door, vaguely wondering how long his nurse would be gone. Other days when she’d left, he’d barely been aware, floating in and out of sleep—but now, as the grogginess wore off, his thoughts drifted to: Wonder what she’s getting at the store. Hope she’s keeping warm enough in the cold. Her eyes are bluer than I ever noticed before.
* * *
WHEN SUZANNE RETURNED from Koester’s, Zack was grumbling about nerve pain. She could have suggested he resume the Percocet, but it didn’t relieve that. Little did, and anti-inflammatories hadn’t helped much. She found a couple of topical treatments in her medicine cabinet that might help, though, so she handed them over, and said, “Rub these on where it hurts”—because she was not doing that.
In the hours that followed, he continued to behave almost like a normal person. Normal being subjective—Lord, the man could turn into a grouch at the drop of a hat. But she kept reminding herself: He’s partially paralyzed—you’d probably be grouchy, too.
At certain moments she almost missed the strange, awkward days of him sleeping most of the time. Suddenly he wanted to watch TV, but not what she wanted to watch. When she suggested they might spend some quiet time each reading and offered to select a book for him from her shelves or help him download something onto her tablet, he balked. “I’m trying to wake up, not have something put me back to sleep. And this Dr. Phil show seems pretty wild.”
Yet again, she was learning to roll with the punches. So while Zack took in the high drama of Dr. Phil—a new discovery for him—she worked in the kitchen, preparing a hearty chicken and noodle dish, and making brownies.
When her phone beeped, she looked down to see a text from Dahlia. I called Zack and he answered! We had a nice talk.
I’m glad for you, Suzanne replied. While she’d been happy to keep Dahlia up-to-date, she remained in Zack’s corner when it came to being hurt by Dahlia’s departure.
Clearly, Dahlia read the dryness in her words. I know you’re still mad at me, too. And I understand. But for the sake of getting Zack through this, I hope you can set that aside until spring.
Frankly, the whole thing still seemed odd—taking off with a friend none of them had ever heard of for parts unknown. And even weirder after Zack’s injury. She texted back, keeping it simple. I’m trying, but you’ve put us both in such a weird position.
Don’t think I don’t realize that, my dear. Just please know that I love you both beyond measure.
That pierced Suzanne’s heart, just a little. Dahlia was still Dahlia, not just the absent mystery person she’d suddenly become. And yet forgiveness didn’t happen just because you snapped your fingers. It could take time. Still, she answered, I love you, too.
* * *
SUZANNE HAD BEEN certain that helping Zack exercise would be less awkward the second time around. She’d been wrong.
As she held on to his thigh and calf through sweatpants the following day, she remained hyperaware of touching him. You’re a nurse—this should be nothing to you. Especially given some of the work you’ve done with the elderly.
But the elderly were nothing like Zack Sheppard. His muscle mass was notably more...solid. And he smelled better, giving off some sort of musky, masculine scent. The one thing he did have in common with the older people she’d worked with? He was happy to complain and said exactly what was on his mind.
“Goddamn it, Suzie Q, you’re killing me.”
“Stop exaggerating,” she replied.
He let out a low sort of yowl as she pressed his knee toward his chest, gentle but firm, a little farther than yesterday. “You’re breaking my damn back.”
“Don’t be a whiner,” she said softly. She knew it hurt—in fact, she was glad it hurt. When it came to physical therapy, no pain, no gain was often really true, and stimulating muscles that stretched up into his back meant stimulating the nerves, too. Despite not being a physical therapist, her orthopedic background gave her confidence that she was doing the best thing she could for him right now. Even if, at certain moments, she wished she could ask Cal’s opinion. But that’s nonsensical—because if Cal were still alive, you wouldn’t be here.
A thought that made her head spin a little as she progressed from hip rotations into ankle rotations. Because... If I wasn’t here, who would be taking care of Zack right now? Well, Dahlia would have had to come back, that’s all. But Dahlia wouldn’t know to do PT with him, or have the skill set that made it easier for Suzanne.
If Dahlia were here with me right now, she’d tell me everything happens for a reason. But Suzanne didn’t want to believe Dahlia was right to have departed, and she still didn’t relish feeling like the pawn here—like everyone else’s well-being mattered more than hers.
Raised in a house with a gruff dad and four older brothers after her mom died giving birth to her, she’d spent most of her young life being treated like she didn’t matter and feeling as if she didn’t belong. One of these things is not like the others, and it’s me. Only Cal had ever made her feel like she really mattered, like she should be put first. And Meg and Dahlia, too, always made her feel like she mattered. Okay, not so much lately. But mostly.
“Do you even know what you’re doing, woman?”
She sla
nted Zack a look. Possible she’d gotten distracted, but no way would she cop to it. “I am an orthopedic nurse,” she reminded him proudly. “You are in the best possible hands on this island that you could be.” And she meant that literally, as she gently but firmly rolled his ankle in her grip, thinking: Reconnect, nerves. Reconnect.
After the toe rotations, he muttered, “Thank God we’re finally done.”
“Bad news,” she told him. “We’re adding a new exercise today.”
He looked unamused. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I wouldn’t kid about physical therapy. And actually, this is good news. The more we stimulate your muscles and nerves, the better off you’ll be come spring.”
At this, he blew out a breath. She could see the argument held water for him, despite being tired and hurting. “Fine,” he bit off. “Torture me a little more.”
She smiled. “My pleasure.”
The new exercise required him to lie on his back while she lifted his leg, placing a hand on the side of his thigh to help him stretch it across his body. It ranked right up there with the hip rotations in feeling personal, making her a little nervous all over again. And it left her aware of the tight bands of muscles in his legs.
Once more she caught the scent of him, even felt his breath on her face. Hovering over him, she peered down into gray-green eyes somehow angry and docile at once. The position he was in maybe, both physically and mentally. They stared at each other; her heart beat faster. Say something. “You’re doing great,” she heard herself tell him, her voice coming out soft. Softer than intended. Her breath felt shallow, her chest—breasts—achy. From being nervous about all this touching.
Which still didn’t make much sense to her. Medical professionals were trained to do this, trained to know we were all just people with bodies and there was nothing to be uneasy about.
“Thanks,” he murmured, averting his eyes slightly, looking uneasy, too.
“Okay, other side,” she said gently when they finished the reps on his paralyzed leg.
On his left leg she repeated the same movements, but it went differently—all the exercises did—because he could feel those. It made his muscles behave differently, and she had to repeatedly remind him to let her guide the motions.
And that was when it hit her. On this side, he feels it, too—my hands on him. My hands on his thigh, knee. My hands pressing into his flesh. Heat filled her cheeks. Why does that matter? He’d felt it yesterday, too, of course. It only mattered because she was thinking about it. And wondering what exactly he felt. Did he feel the intimacy? The weird tension?
Now she avoided his eyes at all costs as she stared down at his leg, the sweatpants covering it, trying to think purely clinical thoughts. She bit her lip and focused on each therapeutic movement. Until finally they finished a set and she decided that was definitely enough for today. “Okay,” she said, still not meeting his gaze as she rose up off the bed. “Good work, good work.”
Then she headed across the room and stoked the fire. Even if she was sweating a little, the fire was a good distraction—a nice, fake reason to put distance between them until she got over this strange reaction.
Placing a new log on the low flame, she stood back up, her eyes finding Cal’s on the mantel. She loved that picture of him. Gray suit, red tie. So classic and handsome. She loved it because it was the Dr. Quinlan the rest of the world got to see—but she got the real him, and she knew that sparkle in his eye was only for her. Or had been only for her. Sometimes her heart still hurt, physically, for just a quick moment, upon remembering he was no longer...anywhere.
“Can I ask you something?”
She flinched, that quickly having almost forgotten Zack was in the room. “Sure. What?”
“What’s the deal with your husband?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE BLINKED, TAKEN ABACK. “The deal?”
Propped up against pillows on the sofa bed, Zack scrunched up his face slightly. “That was the wrong way to ask, wasn’t it?”
She tilted her head. “That depends. On what you’re asking. I haven’t figured it out yet.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line, clearly trying to tread more carefully here. “I know he died. But how? I mean, what’s the story of you and him?”
Suzanne just stared at him. Such a normal question, really. And yet anyone seldom asked. Maybe she seemed too fragile. Maybe her clear heartache over the matter made it seem off-limits. Meg knew the answers, and Dahlia did, too—but not because they’d asked. She’d volunteered it one night her first summer here over too many drinks at the Pink Pelican. Maybe people sensed she didn’t like to talk about it—because generally, she didn’t.
And yet this was quite possibly the first interest Zack Sheppard had ever shown in her as a person. And it seemed a reasonable request on his part—after all, Cal was smiling across the room at him 24-7. If he was curious about Cal, she would tell him. She should tell him. He’d died over five years ago and it was time she got better at discussing it.
“He was a doctor,” she said.
At this, Zack pulled back slightly, clearly surprised. “Really?”
Funny—to her, Cal was such a doctor, down to the marrow of his bones, that she forgot people in her life might not necessarily know.
She nodded. “An orthopedic surgeon. Mainly knees and hips.”
His gaze narrowed on her curiously. “Is that why you were an orthopedic nurse?”
She shook her head, eased down into her favorite comfy chair—she might need her comfy chair for this topic. “No, it’s how we met—I worked at his practice. I guess you could say it’s right out of a movie or an old Harlequin romance novel, but...real life is more complicated and the upshot is that...” He saw something in me no one ever had. He made me feel special. He was my knight in shining armor.
Yet all that truth felt like...too much. She still barely knew the man on her sofa bed, no matter how much she’d been touching his thighs or pulling up his pants lately. So she just shrugged and said, “We fell in love. He was the kind of man I dreamed of finding someday.” She stopped then, backtracked. “And I don’t mean because he was a doctor and had money. I mean because he was a great person who really cared about helping people, and at the same time he made me feel like a princess.”
Word vomit. Stop. Now she sounded like some delicate flower who wanted to be fawned over and catered to. Which wasn’t what her relationship with Cal had been about. “What I mean is...” She stopped, shook her head, got honest. “He loved me. That’s all. He loved me and made me happy. And he inspired me to be a better person.”
“How?” Zack asked. She appreciated that he didn’t linger over her every nervous word—but just moved forward with what he wanted to know.
“He did a lot of volunteer work,” she explained. “With impoverished people and senior citizens without many resources. It inspired me to use my nursing skills in a different way for a while, at a facility for the elderly.”
Zack’s gaze narrowed further. “A nursing home, you’re saying?”
She nodded.
At this, his eyes opened a little wider, even if he still looked tired. “That sounds...a lot harder than working with a knee guy.”
A soft chuckle escaped her. He didn’t know the half of it. “It was...a challenging choice, for sure. I went home each night tired—but feeling like I’d made a difference in someone’s life, even if they didn’t always know it.” At his confused expression, she went on. “There was a lot of dementia. And a lot of people who were just too deep into their own woes to really acknowledge much else. It was hard but satisfying work. Only—I didn’t last long at it.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was too emotionally draining. People there told me my heart was too soft for it, that I needed to toughen up. Cal said there was nothing wrong with a soft heart, but
warned me not to let it break, to know when I’d done all the good I could there and it was time to go in another direction.” She bit her lip. “And then he died.”
She’d inadvertently dropped a heavy blanket of tension over the room with the dramatic statement—and with the fact that she’d clearly felt emotional, swept back in time. Zack stayed quiet—until asking more softly than before, “You want to tell me how that happened? Or is it none of my business?”
The answer was: both. But she’d already said way more than planned, let her houseguest see more of her than intended, so why not keep going. She tried to think of it as a getting-to-know-you exercise—maybe it would help if they got to know each other beyond their connection with Meg or Dahlia or his injury.
“He was doing a stint in Doctors Without Borders,” she told Zack. “His third.”
“Wow,” Zack said. Then, “Damn.”
She supposed the very words Doctors Without Borders plus his having died pretty much told the story. So she could probably just shut up now and be done—but she didn’t. “He was in northern Syria, where the government seems to make a concerted effort to obliterate doctors or medical knowledge—part of the war on their people, and a hard thing to understand. There was an air strike. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And...that was that.”
She chose to push down the rest. Like that being in Aleppo when you didn’t have to was always the wrong place. And that it still tortured her not to know the details, or what his last words were, or if he knew it was coming or felt any fear. That she’d loved him almost more than life itself—which she’d learned was a very dangerous thing to do with another human being.
Silence filled the space between her and Zack. He’d asked, but now clearly didn’t know what to say.
So she said something instead. “It’s okay.” A lie, but what came out. “Time has passed, and he died doing what he valued, helping people. And life eventually goes on.”