“They’re getting married tomorrow,” Portia announced, dying to know what Lydia had been saying. “They want you to arrange the wedding, Mother.”
Lydia flopped back in her chair and rolled her eyes. “Tomorrow? That’s impossible. I’d need at least a week. Your brothers won’t be able to make it unless they have some notice, and neither will Malcolm. You’d better go and talk some sense into them, dear.”
Portia didn’t move and forced herself not to say anything.
Lydia gave Portia a look, sighed and then got to her feet. “All right, I’ll go myself. I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Nelson. And of course you’ll attend the wedding.”
It was a statement instead of a question, and Nelson nodded agreement. “Absolutely. I’d be honored.”
Portia would cheerfully have strangled her mother. Surely Lydia could guess how painful it was for her to be around Nelson. And having him at the wedding would be agonizing, for God’s sake. Her mother had all the sensitivity of a gerbil.
Nelson waited until Lydia was gone and then said, “Unless you’d rather I didn’t come, Portia?”
She struggled with honesty and lost. “Of course you should come,” she lied. After all, he’d been instrumental in finding Stuart and bringing him here. Portia wasn’t mean-spirited enough to tell him to stay away from the wedding.
“Besides, Jules will want you there.” That, at least, was the truth. Juliet loved Nelson. Maybe it was a genetic flaw in the Bailey women, because even Lydia had seemed charmed by him.
“I’ll be seeing you soon, then, Doc.” He touched her cheek with a fingertip, hardly a touch at all, but it burned like fire on her skin. “I’ll just go in and ask Stuart if he wants to bunk with me tonight. He’ll need a place to stay until the wedding. Maybe a little male bonding won’t hurt either of us.” He smiled and winked, and her heart gave a familiar thump.
“’Night, Portia.”
“Good night. And thank you.”
She’d assumed Stuart would come home with her, and she couldn’t pretend even to herself that she’d looked forward to it. She’d been on an emotional roller coaster all day, and she needed to be alone for a while, get some sleep. Nelson knew that, and he was making it easier for her. Why did he have to be so damn thoughtful? Blast the man, why couldn’t he just be a jerk? That would make it so much easier to get over him.
A glance at her watch showed it was nearly two in the morning, but there was one more stop she had to make before she headed home. She’d promised Cedric.
The Palliative Care Unit was hushed and dimly lit. She wasn’t about to disturb him at this hour, but she couldn’t relax without assuring herself that he was resting as comfortably as possible.
She found a nurse at the station, and the moment she said Cedric’s name, Portia knew. The nurse’s colors trumpeted the answer even before she spoke.
“I guess you didn’t get my message, Dr. Bailey. I left it on your machine. Mr. Vencouer died at 10: 43 this evening. Gordon Caldwell was with him. The covering physician, Dr. Gallatly, signed the certificate. I called the central registry to notify them of consent for donation of corneas. Will you be wanting an autopsy?”
“No, no autopsy.” Portia felt numb.
“The body’s gone to the morgue. Mr. Vencouer had you and Mr. Nelson Gregory listed on the admission form as next of kin. I was unable to reach Mr. Gregory, either. I left a message at his home number. We need to know where to release the body.”
Portia was stunned. She’d assumed Cedric had spoken with Gordon about what he wanted done when he died. Instead, he’d named her and Nelson next of kin, realizing it would force them to cooperate.
“I’ll—I’ll contact Mr. Gregory and we’ll notify you of the arrangements in the morning.”
Cedric, how could you do this to me?
She heard his voice in her mind’s ear, the way it had sounded before he got sick, that strong, musical tenor: None ever was so fair as I thought you…
He’d loved her. He’d wanted her to have her heart’s desire, and he’d known all too well what that was. And so he’d done the only thing he could do to bring her and Nelson together.
Oh, my dear, beloved friend. Thank you for trying, but it isn’t going to work.
She made it out of the hospital before the tears began.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NELSON COULDN’T SLEEP. He tried to blame the quantities of pizza and beer he and Stuart had consumed before they headed for bed, but it wasn’t that. Strangely enough, neither was it the familiar worry over the results of the test.
It could have something to do with his conversation with Lydia. The moment Portia left, her mother had stopped the polite chitchat and gone for his jugular, just as he’d known she would.
“Portia told me all about you,” Lydia had said. “I’ll make this fast, because she’ll be back soon. I’ve never seen her as unhappy as she is right now, and I blame you. It’s not up to anyone else to make us happy. It’s our own responsibility. But where love’s concerned, we do have an obligation. You’re in love with my daughter. Do I have that part right?”
“Yes, you do.” Nelson could feel his temper rising. He didn’t want or need a lecture from this haughty woman. His voice grew soft and steely. “I assume she told you about the Huntington’s. Obviously I have to find out the test results before I can make any plans for my life or for hers.”
Lydia snorted. “That’s a load of rubbish. She told me you don’t have the disease, and I believe her. It seems to me that if you truly loved my daughter, you’d trust her on this one, Nelson.” Lydia leaned toward him, accusing and passionate. “And so what if you did get it? She doesn’t need happily ever after, and what makes you think you could promise her that anyway? All any woman wants is unconditional love at this moment. If you wait until the test results come, you’ll lose her.”
The words echoed in Nelson’s brain. He punched the pillow, and outrage surged through him. What was it with these damn women? His own mother, then Portia, now Lydia, all insisting that doing the sensible, mature thing was a mistake. The irony was that he’d lived on the edge for years, risking his life in ways that would make their hair stand on end. Yet when it came to emotions, they were the ones advocating risk.
He flopped onto his back, and for the first time, he admitted to himself that dangerous sports no longer appealed to him. He’d started flying lessons, but he had no real desire to go on with them. Neither did he long to get back on the racetrack. He hadn’t yet figured out what he’d do to fill in the time he used to fill with danger, but something would come to him.
He’d changed; love had changed him.
Portia had changed him. The fact that Stuart was at this moment asleep in his spare bedroom was just one example of how she’d broadened his life and his attitudes.
Before Portia, he would have avoided Stuart. He’d have felt awkward and nervous in his presence; he’d never have been able to laugh with him and drink beer and eat pizza and feel absolutely at ease, even fond of the other man, as he had tonight.
He’d never have met or gotten to know Cedric, either. How he admired Cedric’s ability to get beyond jealousy, because of course Cedric was in love with Portia, too. Nelson applauded the man’s taste in women, and felt humbled and awed by his raw courage in the face of death.
But he didn’t want to think about death.
The bed was a tangle of sheets, and his nerves were jumping. Sleep was impossible. He gave up and swung his legs to the floor. Once he found his cane, he limped to the kitchen and took a bottle of water out of the fridge. The message light on the phone was blinking. He’d noticed it earlier and ignored it; now he reached out to activate the tape.
“Nelson, I can’t sleep.” Stuart’s loud, plaintive voice startled him. He almost dropped the water, and he forgot about the machine.
“I’m scared for the wedding, Nelson.” Stuart’s face was screwed into a worried knot. “They ask you things when you get married. You have to say
stuff. I saw it on television. And I won’t know what to say when they ask me. Juliet knows, but I don’t.” His chin wobbled. “Everybody will laugh at me.”
“No, they won’t, sport.” Nelson changed his mind about the water and put on a pot of coffee, instead. “Fact is, I don’t know them myself. So we’ll look the things up and go over them until we both know them off by heart.” He unearthed a prayer book from his bookshelves, and for the rest of the night he and Stuart practiced reciting the wedding vows to each other.
By 6:00 a.m., they were both letter-perfect. Stuart finally staggered off to his room, confident that he’d make it through the ceremony, and Nelson collapsed on the sofa, too weary even to head for the bedroom. Witnessing Stuart’s struggle to memorize his lines had been exhausting.
God, the kid had guts. Stuart and Cedric had that in common. They took the sucker punches life dealt them and did what they could without whining. A guy could learn one hell of a lot from those two.
Nelson closed his eyes, on the verge of sleep, and then, as if a locked door suddenly slammed open when he tried the handle one last time, he finally got it. The shock was so great he stumbled to his feet, heart pumping.
Stuart and Cedric accepted the way they were, right now. They lived right now; they didn’t wait.
What the hell was it Lydia had said?
All any woman wants is unconditional love at this moment. His mother had told him the same thing, in different words. Portia had tried to make him understand, and he hadn’t heard her.
God, he’d been a deaf and blind fool. He’d wasted so much time, so many precious hours, so many irreplaceable days.
He wouldn’t waste one more minute. He grabbed his cane and hurried to the phone. Portia answered on the first ring, which surprised him. He’d thought she’d be sleeping. Instead, she sounded wide awake, and she’d been crying. She was crying.
He’d spent the night rehearsing a wedding. His heart sank as she told him he was about to spend a day planning a funeral. The news of Cedric’s death brought a lump to his throat, but it also reinforced his decision.
Before another hour of his own life had a chance to fly past, Nelson was going to propose to the woman he loved.
PORTIA OPENED THE DOOR when Nelson rang. She knew she looked about as bad as it was possible to look, and she felt about the same. She’d slept only an hour or two. She couldn’t seem to stop crying. Her eyes were swollen; her nose, red; her robe, the old and tattered plaid her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday. She was having some sort of breakdown; she hadn’t worn the robe since her intern days, and she hardly ever thought about her father.
Nelson, on the other hand, was freshly shaved and showered, in clean jeans, white sweatshirt, tan leather bomber jacket. She was too depleted even to feel a speck of resentment toward him for being perfectly groomed at 6:45 in the morning.
Seeing him just made her feel sad, and the familiar burning began behind her eyes. She tried to hold back, but the bitter tears started all over again. She mopped at them with the back of her hand and sniffled.
“Ah, Portia. Don’t cry, sweetheart.” He stepped inside and tried to take her in his arms.
She had just enough sense of self-preservation to move back, out of his reach. “I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.” She’d already had a pot on her own, and she felt light-headed and spacey from it. She hurried toward the kitchen, grabbing a tissue en route.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve had patients die before,” she said in a reasonable tone, blowing her nose hard. “I called Gordon. Cedric’s left all the directions for his funeral, but he wants you and me to carry them out.” In spite of herself, her voice rose to a wail. “Why couldn’t he just have let Gordon do it? I’d really rather not be around you, Nelson.”
There, she’d said it. She turned her back on him and reached into the cupboard for the coffee.
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
She could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck. She jerked and turned. He was standing right behind her. His arms were on either side of her, resting on the counter, trapping her. His face was inches away. He’d used peppermint toothpaste. She hadn’t even brushed her teeth yet. It was just one more confirmation of the insurmountable differences between them.
“I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you, Portia. I never intended to do that, because I love you with all my heart.”
Her heart was pounding like a kettledrum and she wondered if she was having cardiac arrhythymia. Too much caffeine, she reminded herself. Too much emotion, too much Nelson, too early in the morning.
“Step back from the counter, please.” God, she sounded like a cop.
He did, but then he dropped to one knee on the tile floor. Her first thought was that his injured foot had given way.
“Portia, will you marry me?”
She waited for the qualifying part, the if and when, but the silence lengthened. At last she figured it out. “You got the test results. I told you you didn’t have it.”
“Nope. They’re not due for another three weeks.”
She frowned down at him. “So why are you asking me this now?”
“Because—I—love—you.”
A warm, fuzzy feeling began in her chest, but she squelched it. It was far too soon to take anything for granted. “What about the Huntington’s?”
“You said I don’t have it. If you’re wrong, you’ll just have to take your chances.”
“And you’re sure about this?”
“Damn it, Portia, I’ve never been as sure of anything in my life. I wouldn’t be down here in this ridiculous position on these hard tiles if I wasn’t sure.” He was losing patience; she could see it in the tightening of his jaw. His hip was probably starting to hurt.
She still wasn’t ready to believe. “When?”
“Portia, please. When, what?”
“When do you want us to get married?” She just knew he was going to say three weeks, after the test results came back, and she’d be right back where she’d started from, only worse.
“Today. Tomorrow. I don’t care. The sooner the better.”
Something that felt like bubbles started pulsing through her arteries.
“Okay, then. But we should arrange the funeral first.” She felt a stab of guilt. “Do you think it’s disrespectful to Cedric, talking about a wedding at the same time we’re planning his funeral?”
Nelson was on his feet, and his arms were around her, holding her so tight her ribs were in danger of cracking. “I think he’s up there opening a bottle of champagne and toasting us right now.”
CEDRIC HAD TOLD GORDON exactly what he wanted. The service was simple and straightforward, held in St. Joe’s chapel, conducted by the hospital chaplain, attended by four of Cedric’s street friends, the palliative care personnel who’d gotten to know him during his stay and Nelson, Portia and Gordon.
Cedric had asked that a few lines from Shakespeare be read. He’d marked for Gordon the ones he wanted in his well-worn volume, Shakespeare Complete. He’d requested that his ashes be scattered on the ocean at sunset.
“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,’” Gordon read aloud as the service ended. “‘Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. Oh, no, it is an ever-fixed mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark, whose worth’s unknown although his height be taken.’”
Portia was crying again, but this time the tears were gentle, a benediction and an acknowledgment to and from Cedric. He’d chosen one other piece of poetry that spoke of death in literary terms, but Portia knew this final quote was Cedric’s parting gift to her and to Nelson.
THREE DAYS LATER Juliet and Portia had a double wedding, a candlelight ceremony held on Thursday evening in the little side chapel of a west-side church. There was a Christmas tree in the corner, and the smell of evergreen and beeswax mingled with the perfume
and aftershave of the small group of guests.
Lydia, with Joanne’s help, had performed miracles in a few short days. The altar and the sides of the aisle were heaped with dozens of poinsettias and huge bouquets of white and red roses. Lydia had found Juliet a long velvet dress in purple, the color Juliet wanted to be married in. It was empire style, and Lydia fastened a garland of pink rosebuds in her daughter’s hair, to match the bouquet she carried.
Portia wore a draped silver silk jersey dress she’d seen months before in a boutique window and bought on impulse. She’d never found exactly the right occasion to wear it, till now. Her bouquet was lily of the valley and freesia, and Joanne had pinned some of the blossoms in Portia’s dark hair.
Portia walked down the aisle hand in hand with her sister to the strains of Handel’s Water Music. Juliet’s fingers were entwined with Portia’s, and Portia couldn’t tell whether her own fingers trembled or Juliet’s.
She saw Lydia’s husband, Malcolm, smiling at them from the front pew where he sat beside their mother. He’d flown in late the night before to attend the ceremony, and he’d given the brides the double strands of pearls that encircled their throats. One of Portia’s brothers, Antony, had also managed to come, and he shot his sisters a grin and gave them a thumbs-up.
Nelson and Stuart were waiting at the altar, both perfectly tailored, Stuart in dark gray, Nelson in black. Both wore white shirts. Portia noticed that Nelson’s tie was maroon, Stuart’s floral.
She loosened Juliet’s hand and took her place beside the man she loved. The ceremony began, performed by a round, motherly pastor whose smile never wavered and whose composure was admirable, even when one of the guests from Harmony House, overcome with excitement, burst into a chorus of “Jingle Bells” during the exchange of vows.
When Nelson hesitated slightly during the exchange of vows, Stuart prompted him in a loud whisper.
Portia knew she herself must have repeated the age-old covenant, but she wasn’t conscious of having done so, not then, not afterward.
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