by Joy Fielding
She looked up and down the almost empty street. The chances were slim to none she’d find a decent bar in this area, although what better place for one than close to a hospital? She looked back over her shoulder at the low-rise medical building known as Good Samaritan, and grimaced with the memory of the scene that had just played itself out in its intensive care unit. Don’t tell us you’re surprised, she could almost hear her mother and sister whisper in her ear, their voices in perfect harmony with each other, the way they always were, or at least, the way they always used to be, when her mother was alive.
“Of course I was surprised,” Jamie muttered without moving her lips. “How was I to know?” A sudden gust of wind carried her question into the warm night air. At least it had finally stopped raining. For the last two days, the entire east coast of Florida had been pummeled by a series of spectacular storms, and some of the streets, including her own, had flooded over. Yes, I know that’s what I get for insisting on an apartment overlooking the water, but it’s just a little stream, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like I’m living in some overpriced oceanfront condo, like some younger siblings I could mention. She marched purposefully toward the small parking lot attached to the hospital, all the while continuing her silent dispute with her sister and recently deceased mother. Who would have thought the damn river would overflow?
That’s just your problem, her mother began.
You don’t think, her sister finished.
“And you don’t give me enough credit,” Jamie whispered, climbing behind the wheel of her old blue Thunderbird, the only thing she’d walked away with—driven away with?—when her divorce became final last year. She pulled out of the parking lot, hopeful she’d find a suitable establishment before she reached the turnpike.
Luckily her apartment was on the second floor of the three-story building, and so her unit had escaped the water damage suffered by the less fortunate tenants on the floor below. And speaking of water damage, she thought, checking her supposedly waterproof mascara in the car’s rearview mirror, gratified to see that her tears had left no lasting trail. Indeed, big brown eyes stared back at her with something approaching serenity. Sun-streaked, shoulder-length hair framed a pretty, oval face that, amazingly, registered none of her inner turmoil. Whose big idea had it been to surprise him anyway? Hadn’t he told her repeatedly that he hated surprises?
On impulse, she turned the car left on Dixie and headed south. Yes, it meant she’d have farther to drive later on, but downtown West Palm was only a few blocks away, and she’d undoubtedly find a more welcoming atmosphere in the bars along Clematis than those on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard. And this way, if she wasn’t immediately comfortable with one establishment, she could simply continue on down the street to the next. She wouldn’t even have to get back in her car.
A bright red Mercedes was pulling out of a parking space on Datura, and Jamie quickly maneuvered the old blue Thunderbird into its place, careful to align it properly with the curb. She climbed out of the car and fished inside her purse for some change, feeding more than was required into the nearby meter. She wasn’t planning on staying very long.
Jamie turned the corner onto Clematis as a young couple, their arms falling intimately across each other’s shoulders, their hips seemingly welded together, walked past her, the girl’s skinny gold stilettos clicking noisily along the pavement. They stopped at the corner to kiss before crossing against the light. Going home to happily ever after, Jamie thought, watching them disappear into the night. She shook her head. Instead of happily ever after, she’d settle for one night without lies.
The Watering Hole was surprisingly busy for a Wednesday night. Jamie checked her watch. Seven o’clock. Dinnertime. Early May. Why wouldn’t the place be busy? It was a popular spot on a trendy street, and even though the so-called season was technically over, there were still plenty of snowbirds around, reluctant to pack their final bags and head north for the summer. Probably that’s what she should do, she thought. Just pack up all her belongings and throw them into the backseat of her car. Get the hell out of town. Again.
Who would miss her? Not her family. Her mother had died eight weeks ago; her father and wife number four—unbelievably, he’d married two Joans, one Joanne, and now a former stewardess named Joanna, who at thirty-six was only seven years Jamie’s senior—lived somewhere in New Jersey; her sister would be glad to see her go. (“You’re worse than my kids,” Cynthia said when Jamie had called yesterday to commiserate about all the rain.) Jamie’s job as a claims adjuster at an insurance agency was boring and going nowhere, her boss an unpleasant woman who was always in a snit about something. Jamie would have quit months ago if it hadn’t been for the fact it was Cynthia’s husband, Todd, who’d recommended her for the job in the first place. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you ever stick with anything? she could hear her sister admonish. Followed by, I should have known. You’re such a flake. To be further followed by, When are you going to stop fooling around and start taking some responsibility? When are you going to go back to law school? To be hammered into the ground with, Who quits school two credits shy of graduation to marry some jerk she barely knows? And in case she was still breathing, You know I’m only saying these things for your own good. It’s high time you stepped up to the plate, took control of your life. Are you ever going to be ready?
Jamie pulled out one of the stools at the long bar and signaled the bartender for a drink. Just wait till Cynthia hears about tonight’s little fiasco, she thought, deciding to be bold—opting for a glass of the house Burgundy over her regular white wine spritzer. She peered through the dim light, swallowing the large room in a single glance. It was a long rectangular space that spilled out into a sidewalk patio. A series of banquettes ran along the interior west brick wall, the bar directly opposite, with dozens of tables occupying the center and front sections of the room. The tile floor amplified the noise of the crowd, a crowd that consisted largely of young women much like herself.
Where were all the men? Jamie wondered absently. Aside from a nearby table of forty-somethings who were so caught up in their discussion of redesigning the company logo that they hadn’t even looked at her when she squeezed by in her tight, low-rise Juicy jeans and even tighter pink sweater, and a morose-looking man with an overgrown Tom Selleck mustache nursing a drink at the far end of the bar, there were none. At least not yet. Jamie checked her watch again, although only minutes had passed since her last peek. It was probably too early for the men to be out, she realized. Seven o’clock meant that if a man saw a woman he liked, he’d feel obliged to buy her dinner, instead of only a few drinks.
The bartender approached with her wine. “Enjoy.”
Jamie took the glass from his hand. She gulped at the wine as if it were air.
“Tough day?”
“My boyfriend’s in the hospital,” Jamie said, instantly feeling like a walking cliché. She was confiding in the bartender, for God’s sake. How pitiful was that? Except maybe if she told the bartender her sad tale of woe, she wouldn’t be tempted to tell her sister, and then maybe the bartender, who was tall and cute and had an interesting scar below his right eye, might ask her to wait around until he finished his shift, and they’d sit by the fountain at the end of the street, and he’d turn out to be sensitive and funny and smart and … “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
“I asked if your boyfriend was sick.”
“No. He had an accident at work and needed surgery.”
“Really? What kind of accident?”
“He tripped on a piece of carpet on his way to the john and broke his ankle.” She laughed. How ridiculous was that!
“Bummer,” the bartender said.
Jamie smiled and took a long sip of her drink, waiting until the bartender moved away before looking back up. So much for funny and smart, she was thinking, deciding that no matter how lonely or desperate she got, she would never go out with a grown man who said bummer.
She stole a
glance at the man with the Tom Selleck mustache, but he was hunched over his drink, protectively. He looked up briefly, caught her gaze, then turned his head away, as if to underline his disinterest. “Mustache looks fake anyway,” Jamie muttered, staring into her glass, temporarily mesmerized by her reflection in the deep purple of the wine.
In the next instant, she saw herself walking up the front steps of Good Samaritan Hospital and asking the regal-looking black woman at the reception desk for directions to Tim Rannells’s room. “He was scheduled for surgery on his ankle this morning,” she informed the woman, tightly clutching the gift she’d brought him, the plastic bag crinkling beneath her fingers.
The woman typed the information into her computer, a worried look flashing across her handsome features. “I’m afraid Mr. Rannells has been moved to intensive care.”
“Intensive care? For a broken ankle?”
“That’s all the information I have.”
The woman directed Jamie to the intensive care ward on the third floor. But the doors to the ward were locked and nobody answered when she pushed the call button, so Jamie spent the next several minutes pacing back and forth in the sterile waiting area, trying to figure out how a healthy, thirty-five-year-old man could enter the hospital for a relatively minor operation and end up in intensive care.
“You might as well sit down,” a middle-aged woman with pale white skin, short brown hair, and tired blue eyes said from one of the orange plastic seats lining the bare walls. “I think they’re pretty busy in there.”
“Have you been waiting long?”
“I’m actually waiting for a friend.” She spread the People magazine she’d been reading across her lap. “She’s inside visiting her daughter who was in a car accident. They’re not sure if she’s gonna make it.”
“That’s terrible.” Jamie looked around, but there was nothing to see. “My boyfriend was scheduled for surgery this morning,” she offered, unprompted. “Somehow he ended up here.” She returned to the call button, pushed it several times in rapid succession.
“Yes?” a disembodied voice answered seconds later. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Jamie Kellogg. I’m here to see Tim Rannells,” Jamie shouted at the button.
“Are you a relative of Mr. Rannells?”
“You better say yes,” the woman advised from her orange plastic chair. “Or they won’t let you in.”
“I’m his sister,” Jamie answered without thinking. Probably because she had her own sister on the brain. Cynthia had been bugging her for weeks about coming over to go through their mother’s things.
“Please have a seat for a few minutes,” the disembodied voice said before clicking off.
Jamie swiveled back toward the woman in the orange chair. “Thanks for warning me.”
“They have these rules,” the woman said with a shrug. “I’m Marilyn, by the way.”
“Jamie,” Jamie said. “I wish someone would tell me what’s going on.” She stared at the call button. “You don’t think something terrrible’s happened, do you?” A stupid question, she realized immediately, although that didn’t stop her from asking another. “You don’t think he could have died, do you?”
“I’m sure someone will be out in a minute,” Marilyn said.
“I mean, he just came in for a broken ankle.”
“Try to stay calm.”
Jamie smiled, although tears were already forming in the corners of her eyes. Her mother was always telling her to stay calm. “My mother was always telling me that,” she repeated out loud. “She said I was too impulsive, too quick to react, that I had a tendency to jump to conclusions before I was in possession of all the facts.”
“That’s quite a mouthful.”
“My mother was a judge.”
“She certainly sounds judgmental enough.”
Jamie sat back in her chair, unsettled by Marilyn’s remark. People were forever reminding Jamie what a great woman her mother was. She was surprised by this stranger’s unsolicited comment, and by how grateful she felt for it.
“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“You didn’t.”
The woman turned her attention to the magazine in her lap.
“I have a sister,” Jamie continued, unprompted. “She’s pretty much what I was supposed to be—a lawyer, married, two kids, you know … perfect.”
“A perfect pain in the butt, you mean.”
Jamie smiled. The more Marilyn talked, the more Jamie liked her. “She’s okay. It’s just hard sometimes because I’m the big sister. She’s supposed to be the one looking up to me, not the other way around.”
Jamie waited for Marilyn to say, I’m sure she looks up to you too, which, even if it wasn’t true, would have been nice to hear, but the woman said nothing. Suddenly the door to the intensive care unit swung open and an attractive woman wearing black pants, a yellow sweater, and a wide scowl strode into the waiting area. At least two inches taller than Jamie, and older by several years, she was pretty in an aggressive, in-your-face kind of way, her chin-length hair a little too black, her lipstick a little too coral.
“Which one of you is Jamie Kellogg?”
Jamie jumped to her feet. “I’m Jamie.”
“You’re Tim Rannells’s sister?”
Was this Tim’s doctor? Jamie wondered, thinking the woman needed to work on her bedside manner. “Half-sister actually,” Jamie heard herself say, then bit down on her lip to keep from embellishing further. Hadn’t her mother told her that you could always tell when a witness was lying by how many unsolicited details he or she felt compelled to supply?
“Tim doesn’t have a sister. Half or otherwise,” the woman said, as Jamie felt the color drain from her cheeks. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” Jamie asked in return.
“I’m Eleanor Rannells. Tim’s wife.”
The words hit Jamie like a giant fist, knocking the wind from her lungs, so that it was all she could do to remain standing.
“I repeat, who the hell are you?”
“I work with your husband,” Jamie said quickly, almost gagging on the word. “And this is Marilyn.” She pointed to the woman in the plastic orange chair, who immediately dropped her magazine to the floor and jumped to her feet.
“Nice to meet you,” Marilyn said, extending her hand. “You work at Allstate?”
“I’m a claims adjuster,” Jamie said. “Marilyn’s in payroll.”
“Payroll,” Marilyn agreed.
“I don’t understand. What are you doing here? And why would you say you’re Tim’s sister?”
“We heard about Tim’s accident,” Jamie explained. “And we thought we’d drop by and see how he was doing. We bought him a present. It’s the new John Grisham.”
Eleanor Rannells took the book from Jamie’s outstretched hand, tucked it under her arm.
“Apparently the only people allowed into intensive care are relatives,” Marilyn continued, picking up the slack. “So …”
“So you became the sister he never had,” Eleanor said to Jamie.
As opposed to the wife he does, Jamie thought, wondering if Eleanor was actually buying any of this, or if she was simply too polite to cause a scene. “How is he?”
“He had a bad reaction to the anesthetic. It was touch-and-go for a few minutes there, but it looks like he’s out of danger now, although they aren’t allowing any visitors.”
“Please give him our love,” Marilyn said.
“I’ll do that.” Eleanor patted the novel, which was now securely wedged beneath her arm. “Thanks for the book. Grisham’s his favorite. How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess,” Jamie said, watching the door of the intensive care ward close behind her boyfriend’s wife.
“Are you all right?” Marilyn asked from somewhere beside her.
“He’s married.”
“Apparently so.”
“He’s married!”
“Can I get you a glass o
f water?”
“We’ve been going out for four months. How could I not know he was married?”
“Trust me,” Marilyn said. “It happens to the best of us.”
“I’m so stupid!” Jamie wailed.
“You aren’t stupid. You just fell for the wrong guy.”
“This isn’t the first time.”
“No, and it probably won’t be the last. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“That lying bastard!” Jamie burst into a flood of bitter, angry tears.
“Thatta girl. That’s more like it.”
“What am I going to do?”
“I’ll tell you what you’re not going to do, and that’s waste any more tears on guys like that.” Marilyn wiped the tears from Jamie’s cheeks with gentle fingers. “You’re a sweet and lovely young woman, and you’re going to find another guy in no time at all. Now, go home, pour yourself a glass of wine, and climb into a nice, hot bubble bath. You’ll feel much better. I promise.”
Jamie smiled through her tears.
“And stop crying. You’ll ruin your mascara.”
“Thanks for coming to my rescue before.”
“I enjoyed it. Now, go on. Get out of here.”
Jamie began walking toward the bank of elevators, then stopped, turned back. “I hope everything works out with your friend’s daughter.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Jamie asked, jumping back into the present tense with the sudden reappearance of the bartender.
“I said the gentleman at the far end of the bar is wondering whether he can buy you a drink.”
Really? Jamie thought. He’d barely looked her way when she sat down. And there’d been something vaguely sinister about his posture, as if he was hiding something. The last thing she needed was another man with secrets. But the man with the Tom Selleck mustache had disappeared, and in his place sat a clean-shaven young man with a buzz cut and a crooked smile. He lifted his beer glass into the air in a silent toast.
Jamie pictured Tim Rannells lying in his hospital bed, his wife at his side, reading to him from the gift she’d brought him. Eleanor Rannells was soon joined by Jamie’s sister, Cynthia, then by their mother, the three women shaking their heads at Jamie in collective disapproval. How can you even be considering something so foolhardy? they demanded in unison.