“Well,” Angie reassured the young woman. “There is absolutely no hurry. Would you like to sample some of our selections? Or go straight to a glass or bottle to share?”
“Let’s sample the reds first,” the man said, looking a question at his companion. “Then we’ll order a glass.”
With an efficient but impressive flourish, Angie poured them each an inch of Sunset Bay merlot, explaining that the wine was made right here from their own grapes. Next it was a shiraz, followed by a cabernet. After more questions about the wine (2016 was a very good year for the grapes, she said, because of the dry summer), the couple ordered a glass each of merlot and claimed a table for two in a corner near a window.
So far it had been steady for a Saturday, but the tasting room had been far from overrun. It was the first weekend of September, and tourist traffic was beginning to taper off for the season. Angie was topping up the glasses of a couple in their fifties at another table when, from the corner of her eye, she noticed a tall blonde take a seat at the bar.
“Welcome to Sunset Bay Wines. Can I—”
Oh, shit! It was Victoria Turner, the ER doc, the wife of Brooke’s lover, and about the last person she wanted to run into…well, other than Brooke or Karen. Angie could only guess at what the hell was she doing here. Had she come to grill her? Pick a fight with her? Angie felt heat rush to her cheeks. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be happening today and certainly not here.
Victoria turned sharply, her eyes widening and then dimming at the sight of Angie. The flash of panic in her face was so brief, it was almost as though it’d never been there. “I…Miss Cullen, I…I forgot this was your family’s winery. Would you like me to leave?”
Yes, Angie was about to exclaim—wanting never, although she knew it was impossible, to see this Dr. Turner again. They couldn’t avoid each other forever at work, she supposed, but she was damned if she wanted such a stark reminder of Brooke’s infidelity thrown in her face right here on her own territory.
The doctor started to rise, but something in her eyes, in the slump of her shoulders, in the slow, languid, almost painful movements of her body, gave Angie pause to reconsider the unforgiving line she’d mentally drawn. Clearly, Victoria Turner was lonely. Hurting. Vulnerable. Which was a little shocking, given, in Angie’s experience, that emergency medicine physicians were typically control freaks or adrenaline junkies who didn’t fear a hell of a lot. They were bossy, sometimes dismissive, always distracted because they were either in a hurry or they were multitasking. Instead, Victoria Turner possessed the stunned look of someone who’d been slapped around. Figuratively, anyway.
“No, wait. Sit. Please.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” Angie took a deep breath and found her business demeanor—courteous, efficient, pleasant without being too friendly. She didn’t particularly want Victoria Turner sitting here drowning her sorrows—the very same sorrows Angie knew all too well—but it would be rude, not to mention bad business, to turn somebody away for personal reasons. Besides, her mother would have her hide if she was anything besides polite. “What can I get you, Dr. Turner?”
The doctor resumed her seat and ordered a glass of merlot, which moments later Angie placed in front of her on an orange and red Sunset Bay Winery coaster. She left her there, intentionally seeking out other chores, other customers to check on. The last thing she wanted was to hover around Victoria or, worse, have a conversation with her. It wasn’t as if they’d be able to ignore the elephant in the room and chat about the weather or the varieties of wine available. No. Not when that very same elephant had stampeded through their lives seven days ago, razing everything recognizable, destroying all they thought they knew about the person they loved most. She could almost—but not quite, because she knew better—equate it to the battlefield, where, after a firefight, it took a considerable mental recalibration to get your bearings back, to resume what was considered normal.
By the time Victoria started in on her third glass of wine, Angie started keeping an eye on her from the other end of the bar. The Cullens didn’t encourage people to sit here and get drunk; it wasn’t a bar, after all. The tasting room had gradually begun to empty; closing time was six o’clock, thirty minutes away. The doctor raised her glass to signal to Angie for a fourth.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Doc.”
“Please,” Victoria said, raising glassy eyes to Angie that were devoid of emotion. Angie had seen that look many times in battle-fatigued soldiers. “Do me a favor and stop calling me doc unless we’re at the hospital.”
“All right. Ms. Turner or Victoria?”
There was a sharp edge to her laugh. “Call me Vic. I hate Victoria. It sounds far too formal. And Ms. is definitely…” She waved a limp-wristed hand in dismissal or defeat. “One more and I promise I’ll get out of your hair.”
“I’ll call you Vic if you call me Angie. Deal?” She waited for Vic to nod. “You’re not a seasoned drinker, are you?” The woman shouldn’t be this loaded after three glasses of wine.
A smile, endearing in all the right ways, produced dimples Angie hadn’t noticed before. “No, I’m not generally a lush, if that’s what you’re getting at. Certain recent circumstances, of which you’re all too aware, seem to be turning me into one, I’m afraid.”
Vic laughed then, which only made Angie frown. Nothing about any of this was funny. Before her sat a woman whose pride had been visibly steamrolled. A woman lost, directionless, bleeding her pain. Angie too felt adrift, at the whim of whatever emotional currents assailed her at any given moment. And yes, it was tempting to disappear into a bottle of wine. Hell, she had access to giant vats of the stuff if she wanted to tie one on. But since she’d survived combat medic tours in both Afghanistan and Iraq without resorting to buckets of alcohol, she’d find a way to survive this too.
“Come on,” she said in a tone that left no room for resistance. “I’m driving you home.”
“Oh no. There’s no need for that.”
“There is.”
“I’ll get a cab then.”
“They’re not out this way much. You’d probably have to wait close to an hour for one, especially at dinnertime on a Saturday evening.”
She shook her head. “I’ll wait.”
“You won’t. I said I’ll take you and it’s closing time anyway. Let’s go.” She called to Charles, a college student who worked part-time doing odd jobs around the place, and asked him to close up. Angie cupped the doctor’s elbow.
“I don’t need your help!” Vic jerked herself away, stumbling in the process.
“I’m not the enemy here,” Angie hissed, touching her lightly this time. She’d dealt with nasty drunks before. Had dealt plenty often with people who were in a miserable place. She could be infinitely patient when it came to people’s suffering. Not so much with herself, but that was another matter. What she needed to do was focus on the uncooperative Dr. Turner—er, Vic—and get her home.
* * *
By the time Angie had stuffed her into the passenger seat of her SUV, Vic had resigned herself to the inevitable. She didn’t like relying on others. Worse, she’d made a fool of herself, and with her wife’s lover’s partner. Well, ex-partner. God! Could she be any more pathetic? Angie was going to think it was no wonder Karen had left her.
Without being obvious about it, she studied the woman at the wheel. Angie Cullen drove with expert efficiency, neither too fast nor too slow, and handled the car like it was an extension of herself. She wore no expression, though she glanced occasionally at Vic with clinical curiosity. Probably to see if I’m asleep or slobbering or getting ready to argue. She’d merely given Angie her address and didn’t have to direct her further to her two-story Victorian duplex a couple of miles from the hospital. Probably knows the city like the back of her hand, Vic guessed, as Angie pulled expertly into the driveway. Her silence was unnerving, and Vic grabbed for the door handle. She couldn’t get into her house fast enoug
h.
“Wait,” Angie said. “Let me help you in.”
“I don’t need your help, thank you.” An icy declarative, but it was the truth. And she certainly didn’t need this woman’s help.
But Angie raced around the front of the vehicle and caught Vic as she nearly tumbled out the door. Dammit! I am not helpless and I am not a drunk, she wanted to scream. She tried to pull away, but Angie Cullen was a strong woman and was having none of it. She was as tall as Vic, but meatier, much stronger. Where Vic resembled a marathon runner, Angie looked more like she was into rugby or field hockey or lacrosse or something that required a lot of muscles.
“Let me help you,” Angie urged, gentler this time. “You don’t want to end up in your own emergency room, do you?”
That got Vic’s attention. She’d die of embarrassment if she ended up hurt and in her own ER having to be patched up by gossipy colleagues, so she let Angie guide her to the mammoth oak and leaded glass double front door and handed her the key to let them in.
“I’m not,” she started, “you know, normally…in need of assistance like this.”
“I know. Let’s get you comfortable somewhere.”
Vic pointed down the short hall and to the left, which opened to the living room. She heard a tiny intake of breath from Angie. It was a spectacular room, with a fourteen-foot high ceiling, gleaming oak hardwood floors, a working fireplace framed on either side by full built-in bookcases, leaded glass French doors separating it from the dining room, and a big bay window that let in just the right amount of light.
“I feel like I should offer you a drink or something,” Vic said, her voice tight. She wanted Angie out of here, away from her as quickly as possible, but didn’t want to be any more rude than she’d already been. The situation was awkward as hell. In fact, awkward didn’t even begin to describe it. It was almost incestuous—no, appalling—to have the woman who was Karen’s lover’s partner in her home like this, just the two of them. But Angie had gone out of her way for her, had done her a favor, and Vic hated that she was being so ungrateful about it.
“Thanks, but I need to get back to the farm. I can let myself out.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” Angie seemed as uncomfortable about the idea of an innocent little chitchat right now as Vic did. Thank goodness.
Vic flopped down unceremoniously on her leather sofa, impatient suddenly for Angie to get on with it and leave.
“You know, don’t you,” Angie said, spinning around suddenly, “that it’s not our fault, right?”
Vic snapped her eyes shut, pretending to be asleep already. Go away, she bellowed in her mind.
Chapter Five
Angie was sweeping the cement floor of the large fermenting room when her sister-in-law Claire appeared with a sly smile on her lips and asked who the knockout blonde was.
“What knockout blonde?”
“Tall, fit-looking, late thirties, maybe early forties. An hour or so ago, she came and retrieved that Mercedes that was in our parking lot all night.”
Angie leaned against her broom and rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask.”
“Too late, I’m asking. Don’t tell me you’re already dating? Not that I’m judging. You know we all thought Brooke didn’t deserve you.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I think.” She knew her family had never especially cared for Brooke, had behind her back labeled her snobby, among any number of disparaging descriptions, although they’d been nothing but superficially polite in Brooke’s presence. Their conclusions had been proven right, it seemed, but she wasn’t in the mood to concede yet. “And no, I’m not dating.”
“Too bad.” Claire leaned against a massive stainless steel vat filled with what would eventually become a rich, smooth cabernet sauvignon. A yeasty, pungent smell permeated the room. “She’d have my vote. So, do you know her?”
Crap. She started sweeping again, mostly to try to kill time and hopefully derail Claire. But Claire followed, stared at her like a drill homing in on its target. “All right, fine. She’s Victoria Turner, an ER doc at Munson.”
“Turner.” Claire wrinkled her nose. “Not related to the homewrecker Karen Turner, is she?”
Angie had come clean with her family about her breakup with Brooke. And about Brooke’s affair. She hadn’t wanted to spill it all, not while her wounds were still raw and oozing, but she knew they’d drag it out of her eventually. Better to rip off the Band-Aid in one swift pull. Painful as the confession had been, it finally allowed her to breathe without feeling like a truck was sitting on her chest.
With more than a little reluctance, Angie explained who Vic was and why her car had been left overnight.
“Ooh, what’s she like?” Claire’s relentless curiosity had sprung to life and she moved closer.
“Don’t know and don’t care.”
“That’s kind of harsh. She must be hurting pretty bad too. I mean, they were married, weren’t they? Together for a number of years?”
“Yes and I suppose so.”
“Jeez, Ange, don’t take it out on me. Or on the nice doctor.”
“Take what out on you?”
“Your shitty feelings toward Brooke. Which she totally deserves.”
“Fine. I’m sorry.” Angie leaned her broom against the wall and rubbed her temples, where a headache threatened to take up residence. “And what makes you think the doctor is nice, anyway?”
“I don’t know. She looked nice. And why wouldn’t she be nice?” Claire shot her a sly look. “Unless she was a terrible wife, a rotten person. Maybe that’s why her wife set her sights on Brooke.”
Angie rolled her eyes. “I doubt it’s that simple. And besides, I’m not letting Brooke off the goddamned hook. Even if this Karen needed rescuing, and I’m not saying she did, Brooke should have kept her hands off her. Brooke alone is responsible for making the decision to cheat on me.”
“Of course she is, sweetie. I think what I’m trying to get at is, have you had a heart-to-heart conversation with the doctor? You know, to get her take on what happened?”
“Why the hell would I do that?” Jeez! Could she just be left alone with her own misery for once?
“To try and get some answers, some closure. I’m sure she’s feeling all the same things you’re feeling as well. It might be good to talk to someone else who’s going through this. You know, to—”
“No!” Angie snapped. The thought of talking about the affair with a stranger…worse than a stranger, with the wife of Brooke’s lover, was a terrible idea, the worst. In fact, she’d rather rip off her own fingernails. “Look, Claire, I know you’re trying to help. But I really don’t want to talk about Brooke or Karen or Dr. Turner anymore, okay?” Vic, she remembered, not Dr. Turner. Vic with the beguiling gray-green eyes left shadowed and shattered by pain.
Claire put her arms around Angie and pulled her in for a hug. “I’m so sorry, Ange. I’m not trying to make things worse for you. I just want you to be okay. We all do.”
“I know. And I will be. I promise.”
* * *
There were certain calls on the EMS radio that instantaneously galvanized everyone in the ER. Vic remembered one such call, almost four months ago, when the paramedics were bringing in a teenager who’d suffered life-threatening head injuries while backing his mother’s car out of the driveway for her. It was a ritual he did every morning before school—he’d start the car and back it out of the garage and down the driveway a few yards, then when his mom arrived he’d get out and head over to the passenger side and let her drive. But that particular morning, he’d hadn’t firmly placed the transmission in park, and when he tried to exit the car, it continued rolling back. The boy slipped and got his head jammed between the car and another car parked at the end of the driveway.
During the eight-minute rush to the hospital, Vic, two other doctors, and three nurses stood transfixed as they listened to the paramedics describe the boy’s ongoing condition, the ambu
lance’s siren an impatient and constant wail in the background. The boy’s pupils were fixed and dilated and gray matter was visible, the paramedic said in an urgent and breathy voice. A pin could have been heard to drop in the ER at that moment; they all realized this boy had almost no chance of survival.
The call crackling through the radio now was almost as bad, though the chances for a better outcome were much greater. It was a seven-year-old girl who’d choked on a piece of candy at a birthday party. Vic recognized Angie Cullen’s voice on the radio, and her heart sank a little. It’d been a week since the winery fiasco, and Vic inwardly cringed every time she remembered being tipsy in front of Angie, of needing to be escorted home like some drunken loser. God, how stupid she’d been that day. Pathetic came to mind. She’d not run across Angie since, nor was she anxious to, given that her level of embarrassment was still a code red.
“Unconscious but not moving much air. We’ve bagged her, but it’s not helping much,” Angie was saying over the two-way radio. “Pulse is still one hundred and we’ve started an IV.”
Vic grabbed the mic before Liv could get to it. “Did you try the Heimlich?”
“Yes. Several times.”
“What about suction?”
“We did, but it didn’t work.” There was a faint tone of annoyance in Angie’s voice. “We’re about four minutes out. Anything else you want us to do?”
“No, just get here!”
Vic caught the raised eyebrows and pointed expression from Liv. “What?”
“I’m sure they’re doing the best they can.”
“Whatever.” She didn’t have time to hold the paramedics’ hands. “Dr. Whitaker.” She touched the sleeve of Julie Whitaker’s white coat and began hustling her toward the trauma room closest to the ambulance bay, Liv hot on their heels. “We’re going to need to prepare for an emergency trach. Liv, please set up a trach tray.” She yelled over her shoulder for the secretary at the ER desk to page whatever surgeon was on call.
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