by Joanne Fluke
“It’s good to see you,” Jill said, and she smiled with genuine warmth. Adele had been one of her favorites in the dorm, always cheerful and always urging them all to do what she called “the good, fun things,” like going down to the public library on Wednesdays to read to the kids, finding homes for the stray cats who hung around the campus, and delivering home-baked cookies to the local senior citizen homes.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Adele laughed. “You’re wondering why I didn’t get my teeth fixed.”
Jill nodded. “You’re right. Tell the truth, Adele . . . did you spend the money on a home for stray dogs and cats?”
“Not exactly. I spent it on tuition. I’m getting my doctorate in social work.” Adele turned to the handsome man beside her. “Professor Neil Bradley meet Jill Larkin.”
The man reached out to take Jill’s hand. “Hello, Jill. It’s not really Professor Bradley, not until next year. And then it’s only associate professor. Just call me Neil. It’s a lot less complicated.”
“Neil’s my boss.” Adele beamed. “I work part-time at the ESL lab.”
Neil noticed Jill’s puzzled expression, and he explained. “English as a Second Language. Adele helps foreign students brush up on their English skills.”
“That’s a perfect job for her.” Jill felt the color rise in her cheeks. Neil was still holding her hand. “What do you teach, Neil?”
“I’m Dr. Brown’s teaching assistant for Metaphysical Poets.”
Jill smiled. What else could she do? She knew absolutely nothing about Metaphysical Poetry.
“I also fill in for Professor Harris on Fridays. He teaches a class on Sir Thomas Wyatt.”
Jill raised her eyebrows. Wyatt had been one of her mother’s favorite poets, and she knew one piece of information about him. Perhaps it would be enough to get by and impress this handsome, soon-to-be professor. “Was Wyatt really Anne Boleyn’s lover before she married?”
“The jury’s still out on that.” Neil looked pleased that she knew something about his field. “Let’s just say Wyatt was in the right place at the right time, and anything’s possible. Would you like to dance?”
“I’d love to!” Jill gave a deep sigh of relief as Neil escorted her to the dance floor. She loved to dance, and she was good at it. Everything would be fine just as long as he didn’t expect her to say anything intelligent about poetry.
Neil took her into his arms, and they began to move rhythmically. He was a good dancer, and Jill managed to match his steps perfectly. She searched her mind for something to say, but he was quicker.
“You seem to know something about poetry, Jill. Who’s your favorite poet?”
She took a deep breath. Her mother had always said if you could get a man to talk about himself you wouldn’t have to say another word all night. “I’m not sure, Neil. How about you?”
“I’m not sure, either. Of course there’s Shakespeare. And Keats . . . and Shelly . . . and Byron. And I can’t forget Poe.”
Jill smiled and nodded. Her mother was right. But Neil didn’t begin to rhapsodize about poets in the way she’d expected. Instead, he asked her another question.
“How about favorite poems? Do you have one?”
“Oh . . . well . . .” Jill tried to come up with an answer, but Neil was holding her so close, all she could think about was the way his body was pressing against hers. It was no use trying to dredge up the name of a suitable poem. She decided to be honest, even though she was going to blow her first chance at a handsome, eligible guy in months.
“Look, Neil . . .” She raised her head to meet his gaze, and she almost lost her train of thought. His eyes were a gorgeous, deep brown color, and they were warm, like polished wood in the sun.
“Yes?”
His smile made Jill’s knees weak. How would his lips feel pressed tightly against hers? And his hands, with those long, strong fingers, stroking her body?
“Jill? Why are you blushing?”
Embarrassed, she said the first thing that popped into her mind. “I’m not blushing. That’s just a reflection from my red dress.”
“I see.” Neil laughed. “Now what were you trying to tell me?”
Jill dropped her eyes. It was impossible to think when she was looking at him. “I only took one class in poetry, and that was because it was required. I’m not really into poetry, Neil.”
“Thank God!”
Jill was shocked when Neil started to laugh. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because I’m not into poetry either.”
“But . . . you teach poetry!”
Neil nodded. “That’s true, but I’m only a TA. I don’t get to choose the subjects that interest me. The department gives me an assignment, and that’s what I do.”
Jill nodded. That made sense. If she’d thought about it, she would have realized that teaching assistants went wherever they were needed.
“I’m glad you’re not into poetry, Jill. Most of the women I meet around here expect me to spend the evening reading them sonnets.”
“You mean, ‘How do I love thee?’” Jill started to grin.
“You got it! And that gives me a great idea. Why don’t we go back to my apartment and actually count the ways I can love you.”
Jill laughed. “That’s got to be the most original pick-up line I’ve ever heard!”
“Thank you, but I’m serious. I really would like to make love to you.”
As her mind started to whirl, Jill took a deep breath. This wasn’t some pick-up in a bar by an attractive stranger. He was an alumnus, almost a classmate, and she’d met him through her friend, Adele. She certainly wasn’t drunk, no alcohol had been served at the dance. And he couldn’t be married, Adele would have told her.
“Well, Jill?”
His brown eyes searched hers, and she felt a flush of passion color her face. Even though she’d never been tempted to have casual sex before, what did she have to lose?
“Why not?” Jill snuggled even closer. “But don’t forget that I’m a lawyer. If you make promises you can’t keep, I might just sue.”
* * *
Jill sighed as she remembered how he’d taken her back to his one-room apartment and made love to her. Neil hadn’t been her first lover, but after the first time she’d shared his bed, she’d vowed that he’d be her last. He had told her he felt the same way, and after six months of dating, he’d proposed to her. She’d accepted and here she was, living with a man she no longer loved.
“What happened, Neil?” Jill frowned as she looked down at his face. “I loved you. I really did. Why did you push me away?”
But she already knew the answer to that question. They’d grown apart. They hadn’t really known each other before they’d married, and they hadn’t truly been compatible. Neil was selfish. He wanted everything done his way. He also needed constant reassurance, something Jill was unwilling to give him. Reassuring Neil was a full-time job, and when Jill was busy with her real job, Neil found plenty of attractive female students to feed his ego. Lisa hadn’t been the first, Jill knew that now. And she wouldn’t be the last.
The phone rang, jarring the stillness of the night, and she rushed down the stairs to answer it. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. Who could it be at this hour?
“Hello?” Jill’s voice was shaking slightly, even though she told herself it was probably just a wrong number. A phone call in the middle of the night didn’t always mean disaster.
“Mrs. Bradley? It’s Dr. Varney at the hospital.”
There was a stool by the hallway phone and Jill sat down. Her nerves on edge, she gripped the phone tightly. “Yes, Dr. Varney?”
“I want you to bring Neil in right away. There was a fatal accident tonight, and the victim had filled out a donor card. We’ll harvest the corneas for Neil when he gets here.”
Jill swallowed hard. “Harvest?”
“It’s a medical term. Get here as soon as you can, but don’t feel you have to hurry. We’re keep
ing the donor on life support until his organs can be harvested for transplant.”
“All right, Doctor. Thank you.” Jill hung up the phone and sat there, stunned.
“Jill?” Neil was standing at the top of the stairs, his voice groggy with sleep. “Did I hear the phone ring?”
“Yes, Neil. I’m coming.” She rose and took several shaky steps. Her legs were trembling, and she gripped the banister as she climbed up the stairs. The news Dr. Varney had given her was awful and wonderful at the same time. It was a tragedy for the donor’s family, an incredible stroke of luck for Neil. Someone had died in a horrible accident, but now Neil could get his life back.
CHAPTER 3
She was in bed in a room with pale blue walls, a room she didn’t recognize. Connie tried to focus her eyes, but the objects about her remained hazy and all she could really see was the pretty blue color of the walls. This wasn’t her bedroom. She’d painted that herself, and it was green, the ugly, split-pea shade of green that covered the hallways at school.
In fact, Connie had found the can of paint at school and had brought it home to cover the stained plasterboard walls in her room. The school Dumpster held all sorts of wonderful things: stubs of pencils, partially filled notebooks that had blank pages she could use, and the best find of all—old books, thrown out by teachers because they were ready to fall apart. Connie had taken the books home to read. She loved to read even though her stepfather called her lazy for wasting her time with books.
The fog that seemed to fill her mind lifted a bit as Connie blinked her eyes. She didn’t live at home with her mother and stepfather any longer. She could remember running away, escaping from the house where she’d been forced to do all those awful things. No, she wasn’t at home . . . but where was she?
This wasn’t the room she’d rented at the boardinghouse. Its walls had been a cheery yellow that made the sun seem to shine, even on a rainy day. And it wasn’t one of the bedrooms at the condo. They had been hung with expensive wallpaper in beautiful designs she’d chosen herself.
But she was in bed. Connie looked down to see that she was covered by a white sheet and blanket. Whose bedroom was this? And how had she gotten here?
“Hello, Connie. I see you’re awake.”
A tall, black woman wearing a white smock and slacks stepped into the room. Connie struggled to sit up, but could only manage to raise her head slightly. “Please . . . where am I?”
“University Hospital. They brought you in last night. Don’t worry, honey. A couple days of rest and you’re going to be just fine.”
It took a moment for the words to filter through the layer of fog that still clouded her mind. She was in a hospital. They’d brought her in last night, and she needed rest. “Wha . . . what happened to me?”
“I’ll ring for the doctor. He’ll answer all your questions.” The black woman walked to the bed and took a glass of water from a tray. “How about something to drink? You’re probably thirsty.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” Connie tried to take the glass, but her hands didn’t seem to work. She was so tired, she could barely lift them from the white blanket.
“That’s okay, honey. I’ll hold it for you. You’re still a little dizzy from the anesthetic.”
Of course. The anesthetic. But why had she needed an anesthetic? Had she been in some kind of accident? “Am I . . . hurt?”
“No. You’re all fixed up, thanks to Dr. Peters.”
The woman held the glass in front of her lips, and Connie found the straw. The water was lukewarm, but it tasted delicious so she took several swallows.
“There. Now just rest a minute, and I’ll get Dr. Peters. He’s the resident on call. He told me to beep him the minute you woke up.”
“You’re a nurse?” Connie blinked and tried to focus on the woman’s face. It kept shrinking and expanding before her eyes.
The woman smiled—Connie could see that—and then she nodded and pointed to something pinned to the front of her smock. “Gladys Raft, RN. And you’re . . . ?”
“Connie Wilson.” Connie tried to smile back. She was sure the nurse knew her name, but they always asked to make sure you hadn’t suffered any memory loss.
There was the sound of approaching footsteps, and a moment later, the door opened again. A short man who had brown hair and wore glasses walked to the bed and smiled at her. There must be a course on smiling for employees of this hospital, she thought.
“I’m Dr. Peters. How are you feeling?” The doctor reached out to take her pulse.
“Fine, I think. But everything’s still a little foggy, and I can’t seem to focus my eyes.”
The doctor nodded. “That’ll wear off. Just give it time. Do you know why they brought you here?”
“No.” Connie tried to shake her head, but it was too heavy to move. It felt like a granite boulder on her shoulders, immobile and huge. “The nurse said you’d tell me.”
“I will. But first I want you to answer a few questions for me. What’s your name?”
“Connie Wilson.”
“Good.” Peters looked pleased. “And where do you live, Connie?”
“Three eighty-one Ridgecrest. It’s a condo complex in Edina.”
“Very good. And you live alone?”
Connie tried to shake her head again, and this time it moved. “I live with my fiancé. It’s his condo.”
“And his name is . . . ?”
“Alan Stan—” Connie stopped suddenly as memories came rushing back. The telephone call. The two policemen at the door, looking so somber. And the awful news they’d brought.
She must have moaned, or made some kind of sound, because the doctor motioned to the nurse. “Just take it easy, Miss Wilson. Gladys?”
Connie turned to look at the nurse who was handing Dr. Peters a syringe. “No! You’ve got to tell me the truth! Is Alan . . . dead?”
“I’m afraid so, Miss Wilson. Now just relax, and I’ll give you something to help you—”
“No!” Connie struggled to sit up. “The baby! Our baby! Is the baby all right?”
The sympathy on their faces told Connie all she needed to know. She let out a little cry of anguish, then fell back onto the pillows. “The baby’s dead, too?”
“We did all we could, Miss Wilson.” The doctor reached for her hand again.
And Connie let him take her arm and give her the injection that blanked out the pain of knowing she’d lost everyone who’d ever mattered to her.
* * *
The waiting room was pleasant, with comfortable, tweed-covered furniture and carpeted floors, and Jill knew she should sit down and try to get some rest. Her legs were shaking. She couldn’t keep pacing much longer. But every time she tried to relax on one of the chairs or the couches, she’d hear footsteps in the hallway and leap back to her feet.
She glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned. It was almost six in the morning. Neil had been in surgery for over two hours. Did corneal transplants usually take this long? Or was something terribly wrong?
It took some self-discipline, but Jill forced herself to sit down in the chair nearest to the door. She wished it were summer and the sun were up. It was always easier to handle your worries in the sunlight. But this was the heart of the winter, the darkest season of the year, and the sun wouldn’t peek over the horizon before seven in the morning.
The glare of the fluorescent lights hurt her eyes, and she leaned back and closed them. She hated fluorescent bulbs. They gave everything an overly white, almost antiseptic glow that wasn’t duplicated anywhere in nature. Sunlight was warm, fluorescent light was cold. Jill shivered even though the waiting room was well heated.
The trip to the hospital had been tense. She’d tried to make cheerful conversation, but Neil had looked grim every moment of the way. Jill could understand why he’d been so bleak. He was a pessimist, and Dr. Varney had told them if the muscular repair surgery and the transplant failed, there might not be time for a second chance.
Mont
hs ago, when Dr. Varney had first diagnosed Neil’s disease and had told them he needed a transplant, Jill had used the online service on her office computer to research the statistics. The information she’d gotten wasn’t very encouraging. Nationwide, there were over forty-two thousand people on the waiting list for various transplants and five of them died each day for lack of a donor organ.
Jill sighed and covered her eyes with a hand. Even though Neil wasn’t facing death, she felt hideously depressed in this last dark hour before daylight. Crying might help, but she wouldn’t let herself indulge in the luxury of tears. She had to be strong for Neil, and she had to think positive thoughts. The transplant would work. It had to. It was Neil’s last hope for normal life, a life without a seeing eye dog or a white cane—or total darkness even on the sunniest day.
There were hushed voices in the hallway, and Jill looked up to see a couple walk by. The woman’s shoulders were shaking silently. She was sobbing in grief, and the man was trying to comfort her. Jill couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she knew the words. She’d spoken the very same platitudes to her father, the night her mother had died. Her suffering’s ended and perhaps it’s a blessing. No one should be forced to live with constant pain. She wouldn’t want to see you like this. You should try to remember only the good times and keep her alive in your heart.
The man stopped at the nurses’ desk and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to the woman with an old-fashioned, almost gallant gesture. The woman reached up to touch his face, and then she took the clean square of linen to dab at her eyes. They were united in their grief. Both wore the face of sorrow, but it was apparent that their love for each other would be a consolation.
After they’d left, Jill felt very much alone. She wished she had someone to turn to, someone who would sit on the tweed chair next to hers and tell her that everything was going to be all right. Her parents were dead, she had no children, and her friends from college had all gone their separate ways. Her coworkers cared, but they had lives of their own. She had no one.