by Liz Flaherty
He stopped at the Cup and Cozy and bought two cups of breakfast blend to go. “So,” he said, when they left Peacock’s city limits, “did you sleep well?”
“Yes,” she admitted, and sipped her coffee, “and Maxie said she just didn’t know what the difference was, but she had the best night’s sleep she’d had in months.”
Her imitation of Maxie’s theatrical voice made him chuckle, and when he glanced over at her, he was surprised and pleased by the smile she gave him.
“It was a very nice thing to do,” she said, not even sounding grudging. “Prom and Maxie and Jonah will be so much more comfortable. I want to pay you back, though.”
He set his cup into the holder and reached for her hand to give it a squeeze. Her fragile fingers felt good in his, and the coffee cooled in his cup as they continued toward Kingsport, his thumb rubbing gently on her polished nail.
“Oh, good, company for my walk.” Promise’s smile was brilliant even if Grace knew it was false. “I have washed, walked, eaten and peed already this morning. Did you know that when they remove a catheter it feels just like someone’s pulling a lit candle out of your bladder?”
Dillon kissed her. “No, but it’s certainly knowledge I needed. How are you feeling?”
“About four hundred percent better than I did yesterday.” Promise reached for Grace’s hand. “I’ve decided I will survive. Damned if I’m going through all this for nothing.”
Promise’s grip was so tight on her fingers, Grace had to tighten her jaw to keep from flinching. “So, get up and let’s walk. Do you list to one side like we said?”
“Uh-huh.” The wattage in Promise’s smile decreased, but it became genuine at the same time. “It’s like I told you, sexy as all hell. Trend-setting.”
They walked the length of the hall, twice. On the way back to Promise’s room, they went into the lounge. “Let’s sit in here a while,” said Promise.
Dillon left them alone, saying he’d come back later. Grace watched him go, thinking with a foolish-feeling kind of pride that he wore shorts better than any man she’d ever known.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked, returning her attention to Promise. “And don’t give me that wide-eyed, butter-wouldn’t-melt look you gave Dillon, either. Are you worried about the chemo?”
“There’s that, but there’s something else too.” Promise picked at her unvarnished nails. “I’ve decided to break off my relationship with Steven, whatever it is.” She raised her head, meeting Grace’s gaze with dry eyes. “If I don’t, he’s never going to settle down with anyone, never going to have a family of his own. I always thought we’d end up together, even if it did take us twenty years longer than it takes most people. But it’s different now.”
“No, it’s not. You still love each other. That’s not different.”
“It’s different because I don’t know if I have a future. I don’t know if I can ever have a baby or if I’d live to see it grow up if I did have one. I remember when your mother died and I know what it did to Steven. I can’t do that to him.”
“What do you think breaking off the relationship will do to him? You’re not disposable, Prom.”
“Yes, I am.” Promise slapped a hand against the vinyl chair arm. “Shut up and listen to me, Grace. I’m disposable because he’s never committed to me. Even when we were engaged while he was in med school, I played a really poor second fiddle to medicine.” She smiled feebly. “Steven’s only good with hearts in the clinical sense.” She gazed down at the pear-shaped diamond that once again sparkled white fire on her right hand. “He loves me. Not enough to share his life with me, but too much to share it with anyone else.”
“Because there isn’t anybody else. There never has been.” The memory of women calling in to a radio talk show Steven had been a guest on made her add, “At least not really.” Steven had received a printout of the show’s responses, complete with the callers’ return phone numbers and offers, including an intimate dinner to two even more intimate weeks on a private yacht. One woman had even offered to have his child.
“Gracie, there have been several somebody elses, just none he’s loved. Whatever love he has available, he saves for me. That has to stop.” She set her jaw. “Now, help me up and walk me back to my room. I know there’s a pain shot somewhere just waiting for me.”
“I hope they put it where someone’s foot ought to go,” Grace grumbled.
“You’re a shrew.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Hey, Gracie, let me talk to Prom.”
“She’s not here, Steven.” Grace’s heart slowed down and settled into her chest like lead. Why did her brother insist on calling at one o’clock in the morning? She’d thought it was the hospital when the phone rang. She’d nearly broken her neck finding the hall extension in the darkness.
“Oh, okay. Listen, I’m coming to Peacock this weekend. Since Prom’s staying with you, I guess I am too. That okay with you?”
“That’s fine.” Now there’ll be hell to pay.
“You okay? Campbell being a problem?”
“No more than he ever was.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as phony to Steven as it did to her.
“That covers a lot of territory. I gotta go, but I’ll see you Saturday sometime. Love you, kiddo.”
“Me too.”
“He’s never going to forgive me, and I can’t say as I blame him, but what choice did I have?” Grace spoke to the irises that bloomed on the east side of the backyard as she pulled weeds from their root bed. Dillon eavesdropped without conscience, then went to join her before she caught him.
“None at all.” He squatted beside her. “What’s flowers and what’s weeds?”
She scowled at him. “If you can’t tell the difference, don’t pull anything. I’ve got wildflowers in here with the irises.” She crawled farther down the row of blooms. “He won’t forgive you, either,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“Sure, he will. I can whip him.” He grinned at her. “He worries about his hands. I don’t. Want me to hit him for you?” He followed her, gathering her neat little piles of weeds into a bigger one and paying close attention to the subtle curves of her backside.
She stopped what she was doing and sat back on her heels to stare at him from under the shade of her straw hat. “I don’t need anyone to slay my dragons.”
For the first time since coming to Peacock, Dillon felt a full-scale return of the crippling sadness that had flattened him in France. Her words nearly brought him to his knees, and he had to catch himself with one fist pushed against the ground. He remembered—as though it were yesterday instead of the long-ago past—looking up and seeing Steven standing with his hands on his hips. A dragon-slayer in a ponytail.
After a moment Dillon reached to tap her lightly on the nose. “Don’t you, Gracie? That makes you the strongest person I know, then.”
He left her, going back into the guesthouse and sitting down in front of Chapter Eight. He saw her through the window near his desk, sitting as he had left her, and wondered what she was thinking.
He wrote almost automatically, knowing he’d have to go back later and cull the pages he typed, but unwilling to give in to the thoughts that assailed him.
Thoughts about slaying Grace Elliot’s dragons.
And thoughts about Grace Elliot slaying his.
Chapter 11
The big motorcycle purred its way up the driveway on the west side of the house. Grace stood between Mrs. Rountree’s flapping sheets and watched her brother dismount and reach up to remove the band that held his long hair back. He rode without a helmet, of course, although he wore lightweight leathers to protect his skin. For a man who had dedicated his life to other people’s health, Dr. Steven Elliot had little concern for his own.
He saw her and lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey, Gracie.” He came across the grass, all loose-limbed male splendor. Grace wondered, not for the first time, how parents who had produced her had also produced specime
ns like her sister and brother, whose beauty almost hurt the eyes. He kissed her cheek lightly, giving her a one-armed hug. “Where’s Prom? Still asleep?”
“She’s in Faith’s old room.”
“I’ll go on up then. I like your hair.” He rumpled it with casual affection. “If you see Dillon, tell him I’ll catch him in a little bit.”
She nodded, and watched him walk away. “Steven?”
He turned without stopping. “Yeah?” He walked backwards, his lazy smile brighter than the morning sunlight that splashed the back stoop.
“I love you, Steven.”
He stopped then. His dark gaze searched hers and his smile faded. “I love you too, honey,” he said after a moment. A hint of tenderness made his whiskey voice even smoother, even warmer.
Steven stayed upstairs for a long time, then came down and went to the guesthouse.
She had Mrs. Rountree’s laundry folded and Promise’s lunch on a tray with her medication when he entered the kitchen. She stood at the sink, washing the dishes from breakfast.
“Grace.” Her brother’s voice was like a cold breeze on the back of her neck. “Turn around.”
She obeyed, her stomach twisting into a familiar knot. When he was angry Steven looked like their father. Nausea twisted her stomach, and she forced herself to stand upright.
“I’m furious with you,” he said, not raising his voice. “I don’t even want to know what you were thinking when you kept such a secret. Matter of fact, I don’t want to talk to you at all right now. Is that Promise’s lunch?”
“Yes.”
He took the tray from the counter and went upstairs without another word. Grace turned back to the sink, staring blindly into the soapsuds.
The door opened and Dillon walked into the kitchen just as the stem of a glass broke in the hand she had clenched around it. She gave an involuntary gasp when blood spurted onto the white porcelain of the sink and into the water, turning the suds into a pink froth almost immediately.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph…” Dillon’s shout cut through a loud and insistent ringing in her ears, and she grasped the edge of the counter to keep her balance. The blood gushed then, and she whimpered with startled pain.
“Elliot, get down here!” Dillon placed one arm behind her knees and the other around her shoulders and lifted her. “Never mind, we’re coming up.” He shouldered his way up the stairs. She wanted to tell him to put her down, that she could walk, but somehow the words wouldn’t come.
Steven met them at the top, his face a thundercloud. “What?”
“Pretend you’re a grownup,” Dillon snapped. “Grace cut herself.”
“Put her in bed and wrap a towel around that hand. Keep it elevated. I’ll be right back.”
“Grace?” Promise’s voice came from behind her half-open door, sounding frightened. “Steven, what’s going on?”
“Prom, I’m all right.” It took all the strength Grace had to speak, and her voice sounded odd, tinny. “Stay in bed.”
“We’ll go in there. May as well have both you invalids together.” Dillon pushed his way into Promise’s room and laid Grace on the second twin bed. “Don’t move.”
He came back into the room with towels and a basin and lifted her injured hand to wrap a towel around it. “Are you feeling sick?”
“Oh, yeah.” She bent over the basin.
Dillon held her head, his fingers rubbing gently on her forehead. When her breakfast was but an unpleasant memory, he wiped her face with a wet cloth and laid her back against the pillow. He carried the basin into the bathroom. “When I feel better,” she mumbled, “I think I’ll be embarrassed by that little show. Promise Delaney, get back in that bed.”
“Put a sock in it.” Steven was back, carrying a black bag. “Let’s see what you did to yourself. Dill, come and hold this light.”
Although he still looked angry, his hands were extremely gentle. “Faith used to do this shit. Whenever Papa got mad at her—all of three times in her life—she’d get sick and he’d end up babying her.”
The words hurt, and Grace bit down on her lip to keep from defending herself. She didn’t know there were tears in her eyes till one of them trickled down her cheek.
Dillon caught the droplet with a tissue in his free hand and said mildly, “When you’re done and your mind has cleared some, asshole, you can apologize to Grace for that remark.”
Steven didn’t reply. He was tweezing minute slivers of glass from the wound. “At least you missed the tendon,” he muttered finally. “Prom, will you hold the light so Dillon can keep Grace still? She’s getting wobbly.”
“I’m not wobbly.” Grace turned her face into the front of Dillon’s shirt before she made a liar of herself.
When Steven was done, a neat row of tiny stitches crossed the palm of her hand, covered with gauze and shiny white tape. “Lie here for a while,” he said.
She thought she might possibly have to lie there all night—she was still weak and nauseated, but she moved to get up. “I have to change first. I’m all bloody.”
Dillon stilled her with his hands laid heavily on her shoulders. “I’ll get you something.”
He brought her the chenille robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door. “Do you need help with this?”
“I’ll help her.” Promise came to take the robe from him and give him a push. “Go bond with Steven or something. You’re the only one of us he likes right now.”
In the kitchen, Dillon released the pink dishwater down the drain with a shudder, scrubbing away the blood that spotted the sink above the water line. Over his shoulder, he saw Steven at the stove, adjusting the flame under the pot of black bean soup Grace had prepared for lunch.
Dillon disposed of the pieces of the broken glass. “She wouldn’t do something like that.” He ran hot water onto the dishes remaining in the sink, squirting dishwashing liquid under the faucet.
Steven afforded him a withering glance. “I know.”
“Then why in the hell did you—” Dillon stopped. Anger and fear still sat like a mantle on his friend’s features. His eyes were hollow, his full lips tight, his color ashen. He had shed his leathers and was dressed only in a pair of shorts and a tee shirt with the sleeves cut off. His skin was pale, and Dillon realized how hard he must have been working to have reached midsummer with no sign of a tan. Promise’s illness had undoubtedly been a crippling blow, the duplicity of his sisters and his best friend yet another.
Steven pulled three bowls out of the cupboard and ladled soup into them. “Here,” he said, thrusting one at Dillon. “Take this up to Grace.”
“Take it yourself. It’ll give you a chance to apologize.” Dillon presented a tray and put a cloth napkin and a spoon on it. “You might want to give her something to drink too. I’ll go out back and get us some beer.”
He returned to the kitchen at the same time Steven came down the stairs. When they were seated at the table, Dillon asked, “How long are you staying?”
“I’ll go back Monday morning to make any arrangements I can’t make by phone and pick up some things. Then I’ll come back here and stay as long as it takes. I’ll take a leave if I have to, but I haven’t had a vacation in five years, so I may not need that.”
“You can take my car if you want, to get your stuff.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you?” Dillon laid down his spoon and stared at him.
“Did I what?” Frowning, Steven lifted his bottle and took a long swallow.
“Apologize to your sister.”
“What the hell business is it of yours? For that matter, what business is she of yours? You’re here because she needed money, not to be her keeper.”
Guilt tried to squirm its way into Dillon’s thought processes. Steven was right. How Steven talked to Grace was between the two of them. They were brother and sister, after all. And that’s all she was to Dillon too— Steven’s sister and a temporary landlady.
But sometime between the day he’d come
home for the summer and this one, she had become more. And Steven was an idiot.
“Jesus, Elliot, shut up before you make a total ass of yourself. But first, answer the goddamn question.”
Steven leaned back in his chair and glowered at him. Dillon glared back.
He never knew whose face gave way first, but then they were laughing, the reparation of their friendship instant and seamless.
“Yes,” Steven said finally, “I did apologize. I thought for a minute she was going to cry. But then she told me not to block the driveway with my motorcycle and to put the soup pan in the fridge when we were done eating.”
Dillon chuckled. “That’s Grace, all right.”
“I told her I’d deliver Mrs. Rountree’s laundry, then I’m going over to Faith and Grant’s to yell at Faith for a while. You want to come along? The girls swore they’d be okay.”
“Nah, I’ll stay here. Grace will be sneaking down here to make sure the kitchen’s not a mess and to start on dinner. I can chase her back upstairs.”
“She got a grill?” Steven got up, carrying their bowls to the sink.
“No.”
“I’ll get one while I’m out, and some steaks. Will Maxie and Jonah be here?”
“No, they’re off spending a week with Jonah’s kids. They didn’t want Grace worrying about them while she was taking care of Promise these first few days.”
Steven nodded. “See you later.” He waved and shouldered through the door.
Dillon washed the rest of the dishes, put the soup pot in the refrigerator and wandered through the dining room and into Robert Elliot’s suite of rooms. The ceilings were painted and a partial wall of new wallpaper hung. He wondered when Grace had found the time to do it. God, he hated hanging wallpaper.
Almost absently, he turned on the CD player that sat precariously on a windowsill. The Eagles began singing “Hotel California.”
He was hanging the third strip when Grace’s contralto joined his baritone on “Tequila Sunrise.” He stopping singing and listened for a minute, taking pure pleasure in the sound of her voice, then without turning around said, “Go back to bed. One-armed paperhangers aren’t worth a damn.”