Healed Under the Mistletoe

by Amalie Berlin

  “And here I thought you were dreading my asking questions, and prolonging dinner.”

  “That too.”

  Scooting the chair back, he gestured, beckoning her with one hand. “I can make it easier.”

  “No one can make it easier,” she whispered, but didn’t hesitate coming to stand beside him, and placed her hand in the hand he offered.

  Despite the turmoil in her eyes, just like every time they touched, peace flowed from her. But she needed to accept comfort tonight, not give it. He could pretend in that she was as good as she seemed. For tonight.

  Even if she didn’t return the sentiment about needing to talk about whatever was hurting her, he was going to talk first. Ease her into it.

  And he’d have her in his arms meanwhile.

  It only took a little prompting for her to slide into his lap. She sat crossways, one arm around his shoulders and the other hand draped across her lap, holding the hand she’d originally taken.

  “I know you don’t talk about whatever happened, so I’ll go first.”

  One look into her eyes said she was thinking about whatever had happened that made her bribe her sister with photos of New York—what else could set up that situation?

  He knew too well how easily thoughts returned to a painful subject if not controlled. It took far more effort to stay out of the memories, and he saw that effort mirrored in her face. And then he saw her lift her chin and give him a half nod to continue.

  Lyons didn’t know when he’d decided to talk to her—it was some time since she’d basically told him that she believed in him—and he didn’t know if he just wanted to tell her for the benefit of his own soul, or the benefit of hers so she could get away and stop trying to make him better.

  In those seconds while she held his gaze, he couldn’t think of where to begin. What he did know was that she felt good on his lap, and she smelled of cinnamon and peaches—a strange mix he couldn’t quite believe worked so well on her skin.

  “Do you want me to ask questions?”

  “No. Thinking of where to start.”

  “With your friend?”

  “Eleni,” he answered and went with it, all the while watching her eyes for the censure that had to be coming. “She was an emergency specialist too. Was leaving her husband. He abused her. I’d offered to help her get away. Christmas Eve he got angry, and she finally made her decision, showed up in Emergency. I always worked Christmas, so that’s where she came.”

  “You were dating?”

  “No,” he said too strongly, judging by the way she recoiled slightly. He tried again, more quietly. “She was married. My parents are infamous for their affairs and scandals. I have a very low view of people who cheat and the damage it does.”

  His heart rate had already started to pick up and he hadn’t even gotten to the part of the memory that kept him from ever discussing what happened. Because when he said the words, when he even thought them, there was no way to avoid seeing it, and his body reacted the same as it had at the time.

  “And he shot her in the ER?”

  She just blurted it out, and suddenly the air in the room thickened like a dense fog, and his body reacted by breathing hard and far too shallow.

  “I tried to get the gun. Told her to run. But I didn’t get it.” He spoke in bursts, breathing too frequently. “He shot her in the back. As she ran away.”

  “You’re breathing too fast.” Her eyes had widened, and now flickered over his face as the arm around his neck curled so she could reach her fingers to a pulse point on the side. “You have to slow it down. Head between your legs.”

  He grabbed her before she could get up. “No. If I stop now, I won’t finish.”

  She frowned, but nodded and gestured for him to hurry.

  “He shot me first.”

  Both of her arms retracted so she could cover her face with both hands, trying to muffle the sob that wrenched out of her.

  Just the one, and she removed her hands to grab his shoulders. “Where? Leg? Arm?”

  She forgot his breathing, and he did too. Her undisguised distress, not disgust or castigation, sank in better than being coddled and held had done.

  He caught one hand and placed it over his left upper chest, a place hidden by his clothes.

  Past that big, gut-punching sob, she quieted but tears continued to stream from her eyes. She leaned back, hands going to the waist of his jumper and jerking up. “Can I see? Can you just show me?”

  She found the three scarred holes puckering his chest and shoulder, then stroked and petted over them with cool fingertips while her other arm slid around him to search his back for exit wounds.

  He let her; she was openly crying now and he didn’t have it in him to say anything else.

  Had his brother cried when it had happened? Would he be able to mourn for Wolfe if he suffered now?

  Yes. The idea of Wolfe being shot made an ache sink in his chest he wasn’t sure he’d have been capable of feeling even a week ago. The same place that wanted her distress to end, but which he knew he couldn’t let go of now. He needed to know what ate at her.

  “One...”

  Her fingers sought blindly on his back.

  “Two...

  “Three.”

  They all exited.

  She twisted on his lap to flatten her chest to his, her arms around his shoulders to squeeze as tight as her trembling arms would allow.

  “What happened with Noelle?” He said the words as gently as he could, one hand cupping the back of her head and burrowing into her silky hair.

  She shook harder and he held tighter, listening to her breaths coming in tremulous gasps.

  God, she was fighting it. And the harder she did, the larger the hole in his chest grew.

  The wetness rushing over his bare shoulder was going to kill him, and that drove home how much more he was feeling for her. He couldn’t ask again.

  Didn’t have to. He knew: Noelle had died.

  “I’m sorry.” He offered the only words he had to give, that and holding and rocking. Her touch comforted him—he doubted his would be as beneficial, but he had to do something.

  She rocked with him, fluid, and the longer it went, the more she relaxed against him. Her hiccups subsided, settling into sniffing.

  Without prompting, she said, “It was a fluke, like a lightning strike. MRSA urinary tract infection.”

  His heart sank. Bladder infections seemed like the last thing that could make someone go septic, but it happened to young, otherwise healthy people with disturbing frequency. But it felt like a lightning strike. “Didn’t respond to treatment?”

  “It was silent until it had already spread beyond her bladder. She felt more like she’d just had a random virus.” She tilted her head so her cheek rested on his shoulder. “She was a pilot, and all that time in airports and on planes with recirculating air, she got sick a lot.”

  He squeezed, not knowing what else to say to her. Wanting to stop...but the emails. The pictures. He couldn’t leave it at that. “When did it happen?”

  “Last year.” Whispers. Her voice had fallen to whispers.

  “Christmas?”

  “No.” She swallowed. “July.”

  “The pictures?” he asked, just to get it done.

  “Her email still works.” The trembling in her body started again. “I know I should stop. I thought maybe after Christmas.”

  That was her coping mechanism. He couldn’t fix this. The best he could do was make sure she didn’t spend Christmas alone.

  “Will you stay tonight?” she asked, voice soft, barely more than a breath, and pulled back to look at him, eyes red and damp. “But, I don’t feel very sexy right now.”

  She didn’t want to be alone with it. He didn’t either.

  “I’ll stay.”

 
She pressed forward and kissed him, her lips soft, seeking and giving comfort. Sweet. Loving. He felt it burning in his chest, where her hand still rested over two of the scars, as if she could protect those old wounds by covering them.

  “I think I need you to hide my phone,” she said against his lips.

  “Hmm?”

  “Turn it off, put it somewhere I can’t find it for tonight. I still want to email her because it makes me feel better.”

  “Do you want to stop or are you feeling the need to keep up appearances by stopping?”

  “I know it’s unhealthy. But if I’m not alone, I think I can stop.”

  She didn’t say she felt better because it was him, just by having someone. That pinched a bit, until he remembered how bad he tended to be with relationships after the abysmal examples he had with his parents, and accepted her just needing someone was better than needing him.

  “Get the phone,” he said, reluctantly relaxing his arms so she could retrieve it.

  She made sure it was turned off, then handed it to him. “I’ll put dinner up, and I just kind of want to go to sleep. Is that okay?”

  He looked at the pretty rose-gold phone in his hand, and nodded, then cleared his throat and asked one more question. “Is that why you always have your nose in your phone in the cafeteria and locker room?”

  “Sometimes,” she answered. “Sometimes I’m reading the books you told me to read.”

  Then she went to the kitchen and busied herself with containers and rolls of foil, or plastic, or something. He stood, leaving his tops where they’d fallen on the floor, and went in search of a hiding place.

  * * *

  Lyons awoke the next morning with Belle sprawled, face down, over his chest, her feet hanging off the edge of the bed and her cheek propped on his shoulder, facing away. The hair he’d known would be miles of silk half covered his face. But he still felt himself smile as he gathered the tresses and tucked it under his chin.

  She was not a sleeping angel. There was nothing peaceful or quiet about her slumber. It didn’t seem to be restlessness spawned by bad dreams; she just moved a lot. And at one point, she might have been talking to a pet. At least he hoped she was talking to a pet, because that was definitely baby talk.

  He’d awakened once to find her hand covering the scars on his still-bare chest, the thickest knot of flesh directly in the hollow of her palm. It felt deliberate, even in sleep. It gave him a feeling he could neither name nor decide what to do with.

  They’d sleep easier in the same bed tonight. Or maybe they wouldn’t. He hadn’t really considered anything beyond last night.

  She stirred and lifted off him to look down, her eyes sleepy, and still a little pink from last night’s difficult conversation.

  “I’m lying on top of you,” she mumbled in a sleepy voice. “Did I talk?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Did I sing?”

  “You sing while asleep?” Even as the words came, he could picture it, and smiled again.

  “Not very often. Noelle said I meowed at her once.”

  He laughed out loud then.

  “I’m hungry. I bought panettone yesterday and ran out of time to make bread pudding.”

  Two thoughts that did not seem to go together. “You’re making bread pudding now?”

  “French toast.” She rubbed her eyes, stretched once loud and long, then sprang from the bed in the cute little shorts and tee shirt she wore to jiggle off, presumably to the kitchen.

  He hadn’t gotten to see any underwear show, or even suggest it. Things had not gone down that road, and her little jiggling rear made him curse himself and lie in bed a few more minutes until his body settled down.

  When he got to the kitchen, she’d already pulled her hair back in a knotted ponytail and had a pan heating on the stove while she sliced the bread. Eggs, milk, sugar and cinnamon sat in a clump on the counter, ready to be assembled. He washed up and went to help.

  “How many eggs?”

  “Three,” she answered, grinning as she rattled off the other ingredients and measurements he’d never be able to get right—about this much of this...about that much of that.

  When he grumbled about it, she asked, “Didn’t you ever cook before?”

  “Infrequently.”

  “Because you have people who cook, right?”

  “Because I have a lady who stocks my fridge with meals that just need warming up.”

  “Spoiled.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Why did you come here from Scotland? And when? Your accent only appears here and there, but Wolfe’s is very prominent.” She’d awakened quite chatty, and in a much better mood than she’d gone to sleep in, which he suddenly remembered he’d been worried about.

  “Came for medical school and to get far away from my parents.”

  “You mentioned their affairs—just tired of the drama?”

  “They’re not good people.”

  “Are they like...criminals or something?” She mixed the egg and milk concoction for him.

  After he got directions from her on where to find the supplies, he set about making coffee instead.

  “Your father was a cop. My parents aren’t criminals that I’m aware, they just know no loyalty and have a very unhealthy relationship. They’re told no so infrequently they accept no boundaries, even with their children, in getting their way.” He tried to explain, but realized she was disturbed but not quite getting it when he looked at her. Knowing she’d lost her family, how deeply she’d loved them, he could see how his family situation sounded alien to her.

  “When you have enough money, you get used to having things go the way you want. Doesn’t make for good people.”

  “You didn’t turn out that way.”

  “I get told no often—maybe I missed getting used to having my way. Especially after being raised by them.”

  He had no real explanation, and thinking about his childhood never gave any peace or happiness, so he avoided it.

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you no today. What do you want to do? Do you want to run off home and get away from crazy me, or hang out and eat some more of the massive amounts of food I made yesterday?”

  “There’s a lot?”

  “We could have manicotti for breakfast, lunch and dinner until Monday.”

  He grinned but went quiet.

  He knew what he wanted to do, but it seemed wrong to just say: How about we get naked and make up for last night? Because last night hadn’t been a failure, it had just gone in a completely different direction than either of them had expected, and left a strange sort of intimacy in its wake.

  “Ask me after breakfast. I need time to think something up.”

  “I’ll ask an easier question.” She set about dipping the slices of bread and placing them into the pan. If he let her feed him often, he’d gain thirty pounds.

  But this was just for the weekend. He swallowed the coffee, which tasted more bitter than the first drink.

  “How do the people at Sutcliffe not know that you were shot at your last hospital?”

  “Different hospital system, about an hour north of the city,” he said, because that had been the agreed-upon answer should anyone ever find out and ask, but it was only part of the story. “To help, Wolfe employed some of our parents’ more corrupt practices to keep my name out of the papers.”

  Her brows shot up, but she didn’t say anything out loud, just the questions shooting from her eyes.

  “He paid off a lot of people.”

  “Wolfe?”

  Wolfe had done those things because he’d been trying to protect the brother who’d really needed looking after at the time, and Lyons had still distanced himself. He should’ve accepted the dinner invitation sooner. “All news starts local. It wasn’t that hard.”

 
; “Wow.”

  “Don’t judge him too harshly. I really didn’t want the scrutiny.”

  “Because you think people would think that the only reason she left her husband was because you were having an affair and blame you?”

  “We weren’t, but I’m a man, she was a woman. We’d spent a lot of time talking. All it takes is one internet search with my parents’ names to see their indiscretions. It would be hard to keep a job if they thought I was having an affair with a colleague and got her killed.”

  “But you didn’t kill her.”

  The same words Wolfe had said so many times.

  “I know.”

  “If her husband was abusive and shot you both, he was capable of doing it no matter what gave her the strength to try and get free. People like that...” She paused to flip the toast and then looked at him. “Did he go to jail?”

  “Killed himself there.”

  She didn’t say anything, but the quiet fury he saw in her face was startling.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Torn between being glad he can’t hurt anyone else, and wishing you’d been able to confront him for answers.” She frowned deeply, then just changed the subject. “Thought about what you want to do with the day?”

  Bed.

  He almost said the word, but when he opened his mouth, something else came out. “I want to go to Ramapo.”

  “You want to what?”

  “I want to go to my old hospital. In Ramapo.”

  She was quiet for several seconds, busied herself with breakfast, brows tense. “Don’t think I’m doubting you can do it, but why do you want to do it now? Why not wait until after Christmas, when it’ll be less stressful?”

  They discussed the idea until breakfast was fully ready, with Belle firmly in protective mode, and him arguing about hot irons and striking while.

  Was he sure?

  No.

  But before this morning, he’d never had the slightest urge to return. If he waited, he might lose his nerve.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BELLE DRAGGED HER feet cleaning the kitchen and getting ready after breakfast, which was a really passive-aggressive way of trying to get him to change his mind about going. But about one, he left to get his car and told her to be ready when he came back, or she wasn’t coming.