A Season to Love

by Nicole Deese

  “Here, this might help.” A wool blanket dropped onto my lap. Unfortunately, the face behind the gesture didn’t match the man I’d been thinking about all day.

  “Hey, Davis.” I unfolded the blanket and tucked it under my thighs. “Thanks for this.”

  The flash of his straight white teeth and his clean-shaven face remained a stark contrast to his short ebony hair. “Glad I had it in my trunk. I could see you shivering from the parking lot.”

  That was Davis in a nutshell: considerate, kind, always planning for the future. A future I hoped we could avoid discussing for a while longer.

  “I was surprised to see your brother as head coach when I signed Brandon up.” He nodded to the soccer field.

  “Yes, I was surprised, too.” The understatement sank in my belly like a boulder, but my smile stayed fastened on tight.

  Weston and Davis had known each other since grade school, but not even time could blend their oil-and-water personalities. I tried to keep my commentary to a bare minimum when speaking to one about the other. It was better for everybody that way.

  “My grandma said she sat with you at the auction last night.” True to Davis, there wasn’t an ounce of accusation in his tone. “Should I just go ahead and apologize now or after I hear what she said to you?”

  “Ha.” I twisted my hands together on top of the blanket. “Neither. She was fine.”

  “Or maybe you’re too generous.” His quick wink accentuated his long dark lashes.

  With a polite smile, I shook my head and focused again on Savannah, who was sprinting down the field.

  “It’s awesome to see her like this,” he said, shifting his gaze from the field back to me. “To see you both like this—settling back into life.”

  A hot ball of uncertainty swelled in the hollow of my belly as I studied the weave of the blanket on my lap. I picked at the minute pieces of lint, one by one.

  The short blow of a whistle cut through the tension in my body, and a blur of motion at the edge of the field captured my attention.

  In a moment I’d tossed the blanket aside and was running. My focus narrowed on the petite blonde cradling her knee near the orange cones. As I dropped beside her, cold wet mud seeped through my pants. I rested my hand at her back.

  “What happened?” It was my question but Davis’s voice.

  He also knelt behind Savannah while Weston worked to pry her hands away from the wound.

  Blood pulsed between her fingers and my world tipped on its side, my breath shallow and unsteady.

  “Vannie, I need to see how deep it is.” My brother’s stern command was edged with an emotion that made my own blood run cold.

  She whimpered and shook her head, her eyes meeting mine for the first time. Tears coursed down her dirt-smeared cheeks, and she pleaded for me to take her home.

  My brother plucked a sharp-sided rock from the blades of grass at Savannah’s feet. “How did this get on the field?”

  But I was beyond caring about the hows and whys. I just knew that my daughter was hurting. Bleeding. Crying.

  Davis scooped her up into his arms, his T-shirt pulling tight around flexed biceps. I got to my feet quickly and followed after them.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Weston raced after us.

  “Taking her to urgent care,” Davis said without slowing his steps. “You have a practice to finish. I’ll be back to pick Brandon up.”

  “Willa.” Weston grabbed at my elbow, forcing me to a stop. “Let me take her.”

  I yanked out of his grasp, my silence saying more than my words ever could. You’ve done enough.

  Savannah reached her free hand over Davis’s shoulder as they crossed onto the blacktop. “Mommy.”

  I quickened my steps.

  This time when Weston called my name, I didn’t turn back.

  Pressing one of Brandon’s old T-shirts to her kneecap, Savannah sat in the backseat of Davis’s car and leaned her head against my shoulder. She was a tough girl and rarely cried over the small stuff, not when a large portion of her childhood had already been spent enduring pokes and tests and drug side effects that could make a grown adult crumble.

  “Take her to McCade Medical Clinic, please.” It was Tuesday night—the clinic was open until seven.

  Davis glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “Urgent care could be faster—”

  “Please, Davis. Trust me.” Because I trusted Patrick. More than any emergency care doctor in town. The realization sent a zing down my spine.

  Davis didn’t say another word until we pulled up to the clinic. He opened Savannah’s door, then lifted her up into his arms again to carry her inside.

  Marsha stood as she saw us come through the door. “Let me tell Dr. McCade you’re here—he was just about to leave for the night.”

  Time is relative in a crisis, yet from the moment we entered the clinic we hadn’t stopped moving. Nurse Lilly prepped a tray near the sink, Davis untied Savannah’s mud-coated shoelaces, and I rubbed calming circles into her upper back.

  And then Patrick opened the door and everything slowed to a standstill.

  The sizing up between the two men seemed to last a year, the handshake and introduction formality as painful to watch as it was awkward to listen to.

  Before I could gather my thoughts, Davis was halfway through the recap of today’s soccer field trauma. During the entire exchange, Patrick glanced in my direction a total of one time—right before he made his way to the sink.

  And that one look felt like a spur-kick to the gut.

  Snapping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, Patrick approached Savannah. “Might I take a look at your knee, lassie?” The Scottish brogue was back.

  She shook her head, the bloody T-shirt still pressed to her wound. With the toe of his shoe, Patrick guided the rolling stool toward him. I took a step back to allow him space as he sat eye-to-eye with his young patient.

  Accent switched off, he spoke again, “Did you know that during a blizzard some reindeer make a loud clicking sound with their knees?”

  Savannah lifted her head and sniffled. “No.”

  “It’s true. That way they can stay with their other reindeer pals. Never get lost.”

  She blinked.

  “And did you know that a penguin—whose knees you can’t even see—can jump six feet in the air?” He tucked the towels underneath her leg and then reached for the bottle on the tray marked saline.

  She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”

  Holding Savannah’s gaze, he slowly peeled away the cotton shirt from her kneecap to expose a slice in her flesh that made my own knees weak. I gripped the counter behind me and Davis clamped his hands onto my shoulders.

  Patrick flooded the wound, and dirt, blood, and debris soaked into the towel. “So you probably didn’t know that elephants are the only mammal on earth that can’t jump at all. I kinda feel bad for those guys,” Patrick said with an exaggerated sigh.

  Savannah’s lips parted, a slight lift to one side. “I kinda do, too.”

  “Yeah? That’s because you’re empathetic.”

  “What’s empa—?”

  “Empathetic. It means you feel something for the elephants that can’t jump like the rest of the animal kingdom.”

  Patrick removed a large chunk of muck and Savannah yelped.

  “But it would be kinda funny,” he added.

  “Hmm?” Her voice shook as she stared at her knee.

  “To see an elephant jump.”

  Her eyes snapped back to Patrick, the panic on her face transforming into something unexpected. A smile.

  “What do you think would happen if an elephant could jump?” He reached for a small square package at the end of the tray, never missing a beat.

  “Um . . . an earthquake?”

  Patrick laughed as he unwrapped a cleaning pad. “I think you might be right. Maybe that’s why God didn’t allow them to jump. Probably the wisest choice.”

  He held the pad out so she could s
ee it. “Savannah, I’m going to use this to clean out the cut, but I need you to count to five, okay? You can yell out the numbers if you need to. I’ll even do it with you. But if you can let me clean the rest of this yuck from your cut for five whole seconds, then I’ll let you pick from my supersecret treasure box.”

  Her forehead creased as she looked from Patrick to me.

  I nodded. “I’ll count, too, baby.”

  “Me, too,” Davis said, his thumbs kneading the muscles along my upper back.

  “Good, see? We’re all going to count with you,” Patrick said.

  Savannah pinched her eyes closed. “Okay.”

  It wasn’t her style to scream or carry on. She would own this pain and power through it—I’d seen it too many times to count.

  “One.” Patrick started us off, his strokes with the pad against her knee as precise as they were quick. “Two, three . . .”

  “Four,” I chimed in.

  The grimace on Savannah’s face lightened. “Five!”

  “Done.” Patrick tossed the scrubber into the trash. “Well, the great news is you don’t need sutures. Just Steri-Strips. You’ll be jumping again in no time.” He leaned in close and whispered, “Just don’t tell the elephants.”

  Savannah covered her mouth and giggled.

  Patrick rotated on the stool and stood, his feet just inches from mine. In the half second before he pointed to the cabinet and his eyes met mine—or rather met the hands that were still attached to my shoulders—I could have sworn I saw a flash of irritation on his face. And maybe . . . disappointment?

  “I need to get in there,” he said to me.

  I stepped out of Davis’s grasp to allow Patrick access to the shelf he needed and then hugged my arms to my chest, noting the clock on the wall.

  “I don’t want you to be late getting Brandon from practice, Davis. I’m sure my mom can come pick us up so you can take off.”

  He pulled his phone from his back pocket. “I don’t mind waiting. I’ll just arrange for one of the moms to watch him until we’re done here.”

  Sliding my phone from the side pocket of my purse, I prepared for a texting battle. “No, really, I’ll text my mom.”

  “I can drop you off. Savannah’s my last patient of the day.” Patrick’s focus remained on Savannah’s knee, his words a dangling carrot.

  “How long are you in town for, doc?” The lighthearted Davis of moments ago was no more.

  “Just till the end of the year,” Patrick countered.

  A fact I should write on the palm of my hand with permanent marker.

  “It’s your choice, Willa.” Davis’s words were weighted with meaning, but my mental pros-and-cons list would make my decision easy. Accepting a ride with the doctor would require far less energy than avoiding a badly timed let’s-be-more-than-friends discussion with Davis.

  Patrick’s quick-working fingers stilled on Savannah’s leg.

  With the tip of my thumbnail, I pressed the peppermint candy in my pocket into my outer thigh. Maybe I could absorb its calming powers through osmosis. “Thank you for all your help tonight, but we’ll catch a ride back with Patrick.” The instant his first name passed over my lips, I knew I’d made a mistake. I should have called him Dr. McCade.

  Davis studied me for two seconds too long. “I’ll call you later.” And then he exited the office.

  He hadn’t missed my verbal slip either.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Unlike Davis, Patrick didn’t scoop Savannah into his arms and carry her when we arrived home. Instead, he became a human crutch, showing her how to bear the brunt of her weight on her good leg as she walked.

  “Can I watch a show on your laptop, Mommy?” She plunked herself onto her bed and scooted back against the headrest. Immediately, Prince Pickles joined her, snuggling into her side and licking her cheek every few seconds.

  Sometimes I wondered if that dog worried about her more than I did.

  “I’ll wait out here.” Patrick exited the room as I set Savannah up with a movie in bed, propping her foot on a pillow. She gave me a thumbs-up, as if the events of this evening had been the same as every other Tuesday night.

  My phone buzzed again in my pocket, and with a single press of my finger, I silenced it. Just like I had the other five times Weston had called since we’d left the clinic.

  I pulled the door halfway closed behind me and wandered down the hallway in search of Patrick. I found him, standing near the bookshelf, a frame in his hand.

  He set the picture back in place as I entered the room. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I gestured to the silver frame. “That was my husband, Chad.” Even after seven years, the past tense of that sentence still stung to speak aloud.

  He nodded slowly. “Savannah has his smile.”

  I stared past him at the man forever bound to memory. “Yes, she does.”

  “But she has your brown eyes.”

  Patrick’s face captured my focus and for two, three, four heartbeats, the charge between our gazes felt as achingly familiar as it did increasingly uncertain. I blinked, and Patrick’s open, unbuttoned shirt collar caught my attention. The crumpled, turned-up seam begged to be smoothed.

  I took a step back and curled my fingers into a loose fist at my side, silencing the impulse to stretch out my hand and press the tips of my fingers to his neckline—

  I shifted my weight and glanced away. “Thank you. For what you did tonight. I was panicked before you came in, but you were . . .” Exactly what I needed. “So great with her.”

  Patrick braced his hands against the back of the couch, his stance as casual as his tone. “Blood seems to do that to people.”

  “Not to you it doesn’t.”

  “Doctors are a strange breed.” Patrick’s modesty was laughable.

  “Well then, I wish I could be a little more strange and a lot less whatever it is I am,” I said.

  “You’re a mom.”

  And a paranoid control freak. “That’s one way to put it.”

  The amusement on his face dimmed. “A mother’s intuition can’t compete with a medical degree. You’ve done a whole lot right, Willa. Probably more than you give yourself credit for.”

  The sincerity on his face sent an electric current through my body. A tension settled in the space between us, the air thick and my breathing shallow. On unsteady legs, I wove a path around him—through the dining room and into the kitchen. The tiled breakfast bar had never served so great a purpose than it did currently: a physical barrier. A forced reality check. I pressed my palms flat onto the smooth surface and cleared my throat. “So . . . the aftercare instructions, for Savannah’s knee? Is there anything I should know?”

  “Oh, right.” Patrick pushed off the back of the couch and patted his breast pocket for a pen. “Do you have something I can write on? I forgot to ask Marsha for the official handout before we left. Really, the most important thing is to keep the Steri-Strips dry for the first twenty-four hours. I can follow up with you in a couple days.”

  It would take a couple days to clear the fog in my head. “Sounds good.”

  I rummaged through the junk drawer I’d just reorganized, searching for my kitchen Post-it Notes, but turned up nothing. Unfortunately my daughter had an affinity for them, too.

  “Let me check her art box, just a—”

  Patrick strode past me into the dining room. He stopped at the head of the table, facing the far wall—where the photograph that had acted as a lifeline hung. Throughout Savannah’s treatment it had been my visible hope.

  “Did . . . did my father give this to you?”

  I bumped the kitchen drawer closed with my hip. Careful to keep my distance, I joined him at the table. “He did.” At a time I needed it most. “That one’s my favorite.”

  Patrick’s gaze swung from the art to me, his brow wrinkled. “Wait—how many do you have?”

  I folded my arms around my middle. “Three. Two he took straight off his walls at the clinic. Your
parents gave them to me the day Savannah’s diagnosis was confirmed.” I stared at the photograph of frosted trees, at the glow of the setting sun just beyond them. The slatted spaces of forest were alight with the kind of fire that could ignite even the most hopeless of hearts. “Somehow he knew this one was my favorite—probably because I’d commented on it several times during past visits. He enlarged it for me, said that even when we couldn’t leave the house due to risk of infection, he wanted us to have a piece of God’s creation in our home to admire.” The moment was one I cherished, the same way I’d cherished this picture. “His love for sunsets has rubbed off on the whole community. Your younger brother is quite the photographer.”

  Patrick’s blink was like a visual stutter. “What, uh, what did you do with the others he gave to you?”

  “One is in my bedroom, and one I left at the family apartment we stayed in while Savannah received treatments in Portland.”

  “Why? I mean, why did you leave it behind?”

  My reply was simple, an answer that hovered close to my heart. “So it could do for someone else what it had done for me.” I looked back at the photograph. “Sunsets are a reminder that every day will come to an end. And no matter how hard, or how trying, or how all-consuming that twenty-four-hour period might feel . . . every day can be as different as every sunset.”

  I didn’t have to turn my neck to feel Patrick’s gaze on my face, or the spark of desire it ignited in my core.

  I cleared my throat, hoping it would clear the hormone fog I must be under. “Which is your favorite of your father’s collection?” Surely he had one; his brother’s talent was the main décor of the medical clinic where he worked every day.

  “I don’t know if I have a favorite . . . the truth is, no matter how good the lens, it’s hard to replace the memory of the real thing.”

  I twisted around and his grin exploded.

  “Wait . . . you’re the—?”

  “Youngest McCade brother, yes.”