“Amazing is the word that comes to mind.”
“Oh, stop,” she said on a cute little giggle. Then she set the dog aside, patting it as if saying goodbye. “You’re very sweet. But you didn’t have to get me anything at all. Let alone half the gift shop. Also—” she sighed “—I have no idea how I’m gonna get all this stuff home.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to take you.”
Her eyes shot to his. “I can’t let you do that. You’ve got your family to think about—”
“All under control,” he said, adding when she opened her mouth to protest, “Really. My parents are quite safe here for the night, and the others have hotel rooms. Strange as it might sound, nobody needs me.”
Christina stared at her lap for what seemed like forever, then picked up the box of chocolates, slipping one finger underneath a seam in the cellophane and carefully peeling it away. “I wish I could say I don’t, either. Need you, I mean.” The box open, she carefully selected a piece of candy, popped it into her mouth, then held the box out to Scott, who declined. “Oh, right. You don’t like sweets.” She shrugged. “More for me, then.”
Genuinely bewildered, Scott folded his arms. “I don’t understand.”
“About why I wish I didn’t need you? I don’t expect you to. So…I’m simply going to say thank you for the gifts—I’m crazy about chocolate, as you can probably tell—and for offering to take me home. Since I hadn’t figured out how I was going to get there. Although…” Her forehead creased. “Fair warning—my place…it’s nothing special.”
“And why on earth would I care about that?”
“Because, well…we’re not exactly talking Ethan Allen here.”
Remembering his Atlanta decorator’s horrified expression when he’d proudly shown her the Ethan Allen sofa he’d picked out all by himself for his condo’s living room, Scott smiled. To Christina, Ethan Allen clearly had a different connotation than to dear Aileen, to whom Ethan Allen reeked of bourgeois. Poor woman never had recovered.
“I’m sure it’s fine. But couldn’t your mother have taken you?”
“Apparently not. And now I need you to leave so I can get dressed.” She grimaced at the strange assortment of clothes piled on the bed, picking up the shiny, lurid purple…things. “Although dressed might be overstating it.”
Chuckling, Scott left her to it. But he’d no sooner shut her door behind him than his phone buzzed—a text from Wendy: In OR waiting room. Dr here. Where r u?
On my way, he texted back.
Twenty minutes later, Scott stood on the hospital’s rooftop deck, his phone clamped to his ear. He’d caught Dr. Rhodes as the man was about to leave for the very gala the Fortunes were supposed to be hosting. Scott succinctly relayed what Javier’s surgeon had said about his case—that they’d operated to relieve the pressure, were keeping him in a medically induced coma until the swelling subsided—then released a sigh.
“They’re not even being ‘cautiously optimistic.’”
“Understandable, given the circumstances. Although obviously I can’t comment, not being familiar with the case—”
“That’s why I’m calling. To see if you’d consider flying out—on our dime, of course—to see Javier yourself.”
“Damn, Scott…I’m sorry. With my schedule that would be very tricky. But you said San Antonio Memorial?”
“Yes.”
“Liz Cuthbert’s head of neurology there, as I recall. We did our residency together a million years ago. She’s excellent, trust me. In fact, if I ever needed a neurologist, I’d want it to be Liz. I swear. Look…what I can do is give her a call, make sure she’s aware of the case. And I’ll be glad to consult by phone, if Liz thinks it’s warranted. But your friend is in very good hands already. And their rehabilitation facilities are second to none.”
“If you’re sure…”
“Couldn’t be more so. Can’t promise miracles—I learned a long time ago that way lies madness—but I can promise you if any team could pull him through, it’s that one. But, from the sounds of it, you all are damn lucky things weren’t a lot worse. Please give my best to your parents, won’t you?”
Marginally reassured, Scott slipped his phone back inside his pocket and returned downstairs to check on his parents. His mother was overjoyed to be reunited with her luggage, especially her carry-on with her jewelry.
“Jewelry can be replaced, Mom,” Scott said, as she pawed through the various pieces with her good hand, her eyes alight.
“And if I’d bought it for myself, I’d completely agree with you. But your father gave me each and every one of these. And that can’t be replaced. And yes, I know he probably had his PA pick out half the pieces—”
Try all of them. But whatever.
“—but in his case, it really is the thought that counts. Especially since I know he’s never bought jewelry, personally or otherwise, for any other woman. Except for your sisters, of course,” she added with a smile.
That much was true, at least, although his mother’s conviction was a testament to her faith in her husband. That, or the services of a private investigator. Still, for all his father’s faults—his workaholic tendencies, his emotional detachment—he’d never cheated on his wife. And not, Scott knew, for lack of opportunity, since he’d witnessed firsthand his father rebuff any number of all-too-eager, would-be successors to his mother. And with, as far as Scott could tell, not even a trace of regret.
Oh, yeah, his father had left broken hearts strewn all over Atlanta. But his mother’s was not one of them.
As if on cue, John Michael appeared at the doorway to his wife’s room, the only man on earth who could manage to still look dignified in a faded hospital gown and wrinkled cotton robe. “I asked the nurse to bring my meal in here so we could eat together,” he said, and his mother beamed.
“What a good idea!” She giggled, her loose hair around her face making her look like a girl again. “I ordered the fish. How about you?”
“The same.” With a heavy breath, he took the chair beside her bed, his mouth curving at the sight of the jewelry. “Got you that bracelet when Emily was born, as I recall.”
“You did indeed,” his mother said, her “told you” gaze sliding to Scott’s.
Perhaps it wasn’t as difficult as he’d thought to understand what bound them to each other. After all, there was a lot to be said for simply knowing the other person would never leave you.
Which he supposed began, he mused as he left his mother’s room and started the long trek back downstairs where—he hoped—Christina was waiting, with finding someone you never wanted to leave.
Chapter Five
By the time Scott returned, Christina had had some time to think over a few things, not the least of which was to wonder what on earth had prompted her to apologize for where she lived. It was what it was, she was who she was, and since he was leaving the next day, anyway, what the heck difference did it make?
“Turn left at the light, then keep on to the end of the road.”
Scott glanced over at her, his brow drawn. “How’re you doing?”
“Just dandy.” She glared at the lovely, knee-high contraption she was sporting, courtesy of the House of Frankenstein. Which hadn’t seemed so bad while she was still in the hospital. Out here in the wild, however, especially when she factored in the crutches…
“If it’s any consolation,” Scott said, “I broke my foot my senior year of high school.” A grin pushed at the corners of his mouth. “And please don’t ask how. My brothers still won’t let me live it down. But anyway, I had the boot, the crutches, the whole nine yards. In my case, for eight weeks.” He sighed. “So much for that track season.”
“You ran?”
“Not that year, I didn’t. I did, however, make straight
As. Since there wasn’t a whole lot else I could do other than study. And play Nintendo. Although I have to admit…” The grin spread. “There were certain…advantages.”
“Ah. As in, pretty girls falling all over themselves for the privilege of lugging your backpack around?”
“More than could be numbered.”
Christina sputtered a laugh, only to feel her eyes sting. Because in her case there would be no entourage eager to fetch and carry and wait on her. Oh, her landlady would certainly help out, but Enid had her own life, and there was only so much she could do. All her old friends had either moved or married and had their hands full with husbands and houses and little kids…
The stinging spread to the back of her throat, forming a lump. How on earth was she going to manage, with no car, no job, this blankety-blank cast…?
When a renegade tear slid down her cheek, Christina dug in her purse—which one of the rescuers had amazingly found in the rubble nearby—for a tissue to blow her nose, hoping Scott wouldn’t notice.
“Hey,” he said, and she thought, So much for that.
“What?”
“It’s going to be okay.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it—”
“You have no idea what I’m facing, Scott,” she said, his equanimity suddenly irritating the very life out of her. “None. And since you don’t, you have no right to tell me everything’s going to be okay. You don’t know that. I don’t know that. So please—spare me the platitudes.”
Silence stretched between them until he said, “I take it reality just hit?”
She snorted. “Like a ton of bricks. Sorry.”
“No apology necessary. Nice to see you’re human, after all. But…you don’t think I’d understand what you’re going through?”
“Not a whole lot, no.”
“Because…?”
“Because that hospital bill you took care of without a blink? Would’ve taken me years to pay off—”
“Which is maybe why I paid it?”
“And I’m grateful, I really am. But it only points out how different we are. That you’re so used to things coming easy for you there’s no way you could even begin to comprehend what life is like for the rest of us peasants. Now you’ve done your good deed you can tuck yourself into your thousand-count Egyptian sheets at night with a clear conscience…what are you doing?”
Gravel sprayed as he yanked the car off to the side of the road by somebody’s pasture. In the distance, by a stand of trees, a half-dozen fat and sassy horses grazed. The engine cut, Scott twisted to face her, his left hand gripping the steering wheel, the anger in his eyes boring straight through her.
“Hopefully setting you straight.” His gaze darkened. “I work hard for my money, Christina. I’ve earned it. As has my whole family. And I’m not going to apologize for it, or them, or pretend this isn’t who I am because it offends you.” When she turned away, her face hot, he said, “I know you’re scared, Christina—”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t even give me that. Right now you’re like a wounded animal backed into a corner, lashing out at me not because I have money, but because you’re afraid I’m somehow going to make things worse. Not that I blame you. You don’t know me from Adam, for one thing. And, for another, no matter what I say you’re going to think I’m patronizing you. Which irritates me no end, but I get it. However,” he said when her eyes cut back to his, “I didn’t pay your bill, or offer you a lift, so I could check them off some hypothetical ‘good deeds’ list.”
Christina broke free of that penetrating gaze to look out the windshield. “Then why—?”
“Because I like you, dammit. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Why?” she said again, more softly.
“I don’t know, maybe because you’re likable?” he said, adding, when her eyes bugged out of her head, “But the why is immaterial. The point is, there’s no way I’m leaving you in the lurch. You’re going to need help, honey. And I’m going to make sure you get it. Because that’s how I roll.”
After a brief but intense conscience-grappling session—although why she should feel guilty about accepting whatever assistance he could give, she had no idea—Christina blew out a long, shaky sigh. “You must think I’m a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”
“No,” Scott said with a sigh as he pulled back onto the highway. “I’ve dated crazy before. Trust me, you don’t even come close. But I do wish you’d judge me by what I do. Not what I am. That you’d simply…give me a shot.”
She could feel her heart beat throbbing at the base of her throat. “At…what?”
“Well, to begin with…how about the chance to prove I’m a human being and not a stereotype?”
“Oh, Lord…” Christina lifted one hand to her flaming face. “I deserved that, didn’t I?”
“’Fraid so, petunia,” he said with a light laugh, then glanced over. “So do we have a deal?”
“Sure,” she said, since, at the moment, it didn’t appear she had much choice. Although whether Scott was her guardian angel, or she’d just made a pact with the devil, remained to be seen.
She was an odd little duck, that was sure. His entire adult life Scott never been able to tell if women were interested in him or his bank account—a major reason why he’d never let himself fall in love, most likely. Christina, on the other hand, almost seemed afraid of his money. Or, at the very least, found it suspect.
Go figure.
“It’s right up there—you can’t miss it.”
Gravel from the disintegrating blacktop crunched under the wheels as he pulled into the parking lot. “You live in a motel?” he said, regretting the question the instant it left his mouth.
“Used to be a motel,” Christina said. Almost cheerfully, as though maybe that air-clearing a few miles back had done some good. One could hope. “Since, as you may have noticed, this is no longer a through road, about twenty years ago Enid—that’s my landlady—and her husband Eddie converted it to apartments. After a fashion.”
Scott’s gaze swung to the murky, leprous hole in the ground in front of the units. “I take it the pool is no longer in service.”
“Not since I’ve been here. I’m up at the far end, by the way. No extra charge for the second window.”
“Good deal.”
“I thought so.”
He parked in front of her unit. The architecture was strictly midcentury Minimalist—varicosed stucco walls, plain brown numbered doors, slider windows, a flat roof. A five-foot overhang sheltered the cement slab “porch,” dotted with a couple of banged-up molded plastic chairs, a kid’s lower-rider tricycle, a cheap charcoal grill.
A scene that by rights should have been unrelentingly dismal. Except for the occasional wind chime or sparkly porch ornament, a glittery Christmas garland entwining one of the porch posts, a wreath of bright red poinsettias on one door. And, lining the entire edge of Christina’s allotment of porch real estate, pot after pot of multicolored pansies, bravely shivering in the cool breeze.
“Home is what you make it, you know,” she said, as if seeing the picture through his eyes.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
He got out to help her from the car, saw her bite her lip as she fitted the crutches under her arms. “Lean on your hands.”
“That hurts, too.”
“I know. But this will hurt less. Trust me.”
“Say that enough times,” she grumbled, hobbling to her door, “I might eventually believe you.”
After several obviously frustrating moments trying to juggle her purse, her keys and the crutches, Scott took the keys to unlock her door—behind which he heard very excited whining and scratching.
“Should I be worried?” S
cott asked as the lock tumbled.
“Only if you’re in the way.”
He pushed the door open, barely avoiding the four-legged torpedo that shot out, a bow-legged, stout-bodied, floppy-eared canine concoction whose sole purpose was to love, love, love. Laughing, Christina practically threw down the crutches to somehow lower herself to the porch, where she wrapped her arms around the wriggling mass of unbridled bliss, burying her face in his golden brown ruff.
Scott sternly told himself it was stupid to be jealous of a dog. Okay, maybe not jealous. Envious?
Still dumb.
“Hey, guy—gotta pee?” A question that apparently ratcheted up the excitement factor another level or two, before, with a joyful woof, the pooch bounded like a jackrabbit for the stand of trees a few feet away and did his thing.
“Tough little dude,” Scott observed.
“Yup. Like a gymnast. Lots of power in a small package.”
Gumbo sauntered back, grinning like he was hot stuff, the tail wagging the entire dog. Then he seemed to notice Scott, schlurping his tongue into his mouth and cocking his head, his furry forehead furrowed before he sidled back to Christina. Scott could have sworn the dog nodded in Scott’s direction as if to say, So who’s the dude?
Still on her rump on the porch, Christina lifted her eyes to Scott. “Sorry. I don’t bring…visitors here very often—”
“Ohmigosh, you’re back!”
Scott no sooner hauled Christina to her feet than a scrawny redhead in a flowered housecoat, a bright orange down vest and a pair of scuffed-up sneaker clogs grabbed Christina out of Scott’s grasp and into her own. For a moment he feared for Christina’s rib cage. The woman barely came up to Christina’s chin and had arms like a plucked chicken, but that was one fierce hug. Then she let go, her painted claws clamped around Christina’s elbows as she scrutinized her from head to broken foot. “Lord, child, where did you get those clothes?”
“My mother. ’Nuff said. Scott, this is my landlady, Enid Jackson. Enid, this is Scott Fortune. Scott and I…got trapped together in the same part of the airport. After the tornado.”
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