“We didn’t . . .” He looked at her, not sure of anything. Seeing her lift a seductive brow, he asked uneasily, “What—what exactly do you mean by consummate?” The last thing he wanted in this world was any more emotional baggage. His shoulders were simply not wide enough.
Carol let the moment lengthen substantially before finally patting his hand. “Nothing physical.”
His sigh was so full of relief, it made her chuckle. “That’s just the way you made me feel, so consider this payback.”
“Thanks,” he murmured feebly, trying to sit up and then wincing. His head was splitting.
“So I take it you were upset enough to get sauced last night?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. God, my mouth stinks. Move, let me get up.” She stood, letting him pass.
“Go get cleaned up; I’ll make coffee,” she instructed him, even escorting him to the back stairs.
Humming, she fixed not only coffee, but also pancakes from a mix. By the time he came back down, his hair still damp from the shower, she had a place all fixed up for him at the table. He stopped at the bottom stair, taking in the food, coffee; she had even gone outside and plucked some colorful flowers that scented the room.
He wasn’t hungry. His head still hurt and while he boasted of an iron stomach, it was letting him know how little it appreciated last night.
What he really wanted was a drink.
She pulled out the chair for him. There was nothing left to do but sit. He wondered how quickly he could get rid of her.
It was then that he noticed a folder filled with papers next to the plate, which was heaped with pancakes. Butter and syrup were on the side and a big mug of steaming coffee.
Carol sat down next to him, her own cup half full, looking like she was settling in.
“Carol, thanks, but I wasn’t expecting all this. To tell you the truth, I’m not this hungry.” He waved a hand at the plate.
“Then just eat what you can,” she said reasonably.
“To tell you the truth, I’d rather . . .” He bit the inside of his lip, wondering how to carry this out. She did it for him.
“Be alone, right?” She watched him nod, then waited for him to look her in the eye. “Not a chance. Not until we talk. You owe me.”
He put a hand to his thudding head, wondering what he had ever done to deserve this. “You barge into my house, spend the night uninvited, and now you won’t leave when you know I don’t want you to be here, and I owe you?” He was incredulous.
She smiled sweetly. “Now, you know how I felt when you barged into my house last year, bringing food to wile your way in, promising to leave on your Scout’s honor, when you were never a Scout, and then staying even after I told you to leave. Have I got it right?”
He gave her a beleagured look and wished he could say she was wrong. He took a quick sip of coffee. “You forgot to mention I had your very best interests at heart.” The two situations were not alike at all.
She smiled and touched the folder next to his plate. “And I have your very best interests at heart. But that’s not why you owe me,” she said softly.
He sighed, knowing he was not going to get what he wanted. “And why not?”
“You owe me because when I got here last night you were three sheets to the wind and very soon you passed out on the recliner. I saw on your calendar you had lunch with Michael. I figured if anyone knew why you got loaded last night, it would be him.”
“Yeah. So?”
She grimaced. “So I had to call him and talk to him. And found out more than I wanted to know. You don’t want to live in a capitalistic country anymore, you’re beating yourself up over something you had no control over, and you think Elizabeth is doing the right thing—boy, that really pissed him off.” She watched him rub his eyes vigorously before peeking around to look at her.
“I said all that?”
“And more. So why don’t you want to live in a capitalistic country anymore?”
“What I meant—and I thought I said this—was that this is a capitalistic country without a heart. Only the bottom line is valid, and that’s just not right.”
She watched as amusement started to dance in his eyes.
“So Michael was pissed?” She nodded. “Hell, you should just take me out and shoot me.” He took a gulp of coffee, feeling a little more human. The thudding in his head was getting softer. “I guess it comes as no surprise that I don’t remember anything that happened after I got home last night?” With raised eyebrows, he watched her shake her head.
“Doesn’t surprise me. I saw what you were drinking. Very strong; very expensive. When you tie one on, you do it with style.”
“Thanks.”
He set the coffee down and then noticed the folder again and began to pick it up. “What’s in this, anyway?”
This was the part she wasn’t sure about. How would he take her digging up other cases where bone-marrow transplants had been successful? Since she wasn’t sure what kind of cancer Allison had, she knew it might not be accurate, but would it be worth anything?
“It’s what I spent my time doing while you were snoring last night,” she said lightly, watching intensely as he glanced through the pages she had printed from several sources on the Internet.
He finally collected them all and put them back into the folder. “Thank you,” he said softly, “but this has nothing to do with Allison’s situation. It’s like comparing a . . . an oyster to a water chestnut.”
“I was afraid of that,” she admitted, “but I wanted you to understand . . .” Her voice trailed off as she thought hard about how to say this.
“Understand what?”
“That you and hundreds of others might have been duped by the research, but you did the best you could with what you had . . . And there are plenty of people who have had their lives saved by this very thing. And, as I recall, Michael kept saying over and over how you hate statistics, your patients don’t fit into tidy molds, etc. Allison was terminal. Whatever you both decided to do was probably not going to work. And besides that, what right do you have to wallow in self-pity when you have other patients who need you now? Your office administrator called last night, hoping you were feeling better because they really need you. Today. Or sooner rather than later.”
He looked at her, surprised. He hadn’t thought of it that way at all. And besides the words, her caring touched him. Staying with him while he slept off the alcohol, making the effort to get this information, and then not leaving when he wanted to be alone. Damn, he hated it when she was right.
With a reluctant smile, his hand covered hers. “We really did consummate our friendship last night, so now we’re really even. So. Thank you.”
Her answering smile was relieved. “My pleasure.”
And suddenly his appetite returned. As he helped himself to the pancakes he asked about her New York trip. “Do you have the television series?”
She fiddled with her coffee cup. “Maybe. The powers that be are interested. Actually, I have an oral agreement. They’re putting things in writing, but the one thing we haven’t agreed on is talent. I want to pick an unknown for the lead character, and so far she doesn’t exist anywhere but in my head. They want a known star, but—” She looked up at him and smiled. “We’ll see.”
Of that, he was certain.
Serenity Brown watched Elizabeth’s car pull into the driveway of her river house. Right on time. She let out a long sigh of relief. She knew she could pull this off.
It was an early release day at school on this Monday. Serenity remained hidden behind a swatch of shrubs and greenery a few lots down. It had almost been too easy, the girl mused, anxious about all the things that could go wrong. Days before, she had written Elizabeth a brief but very polite note asking for this meeting. Her granny didn’t know anything about it. Serenity had been waiting twenty minutes, and during that time she had purposefully recalled a moment from her past that always provoked tears.
She ke
pt that memory in place until her eyes and face were swollen. She checked her image in the mirror one more time before she replaced it into the backpack. She looked miserable, disconsolate, and repentant. Perfect.
A pair of huge reflective sunglasses hid her face as she stood up, her shoulders hunched over as she walked sadly the several yards to Elizabeth’s front door.
“When she took off those sunglasses I thought someone had died,” Elizabeth exclaimed. She was sitting in Adrienne’s kitchen, talking about what had just happened in the last hour. “That poor little girl was miserable. She said, ‘Mrs. Whittaker, I want you to know I talked to Preacher Sammy Deitz at the church and he told me I had to ask God to forgive me, and I did. Then he said I had to ask Granny to forgive my evilness and I did.’”
Elizabeth tried to tell it as vividly as it had happened.
Serenity gulped in some air, her pale face suddenly flooding with color, eyes starting to water again. “Then he told me I had to ask your forgiveness and say how sorry I am and . . .” She tried to swallow a sob back and fell into a spasm of coughing.
Elizabeth immediately poured her some water and set it on the table in front of her, gently patting her back. “It’s okay, Serenity, take small sips. And small breaths of air.” Elizabeth felt like crying, too, but she forced herself to remain composed until the apology was finished.
“I’m s-sorry,” Serenity had finally managed to whisper. “Please. W-will . . . you forgive me?” Without hesitation, Elizabeth offered forgiveness freely, praising Serenity for her honesty and courage.
“I was impressed, Adrienne, I really was. She was sincere and humble; I think she is going to be just fine. I’m so glad for her and for Mehalia. I told her how worried her grandmother has been.” Her smile was relieved. “Mehalia wanted me to call the police and scare Serenity when we found the jewelry in her pocket; I just couldn’t do it. But everything seems to be working out anyway.”
“I’m glad that you’re glad.” Adrienne nodded. “Does she ever hear from her mother?”
Elizabeth shook her head and glanced at her watch. “No, no one’s heard from the mother since she’s been in jail. She has at least another two years to go. And speaking of going, I’ve got to do just that. Michael didn’t know I was coming here today, so I need to get back.”
Adrienne glanced at the wall clock. “But you won’t get home until well after dinner. Won’t that be too late?”
Elizabeth shook her head, standing up. “Normally it would be, but he has a dinner meeting with the MS Society tonight. He’s helping with one of the fund-raisers.”
“Good for him,” Adrienne said, her cart following Elizabeth to the front door, pleased to know the man was doing something practical and positive.
Chapter Twenty-three
Dr. Meade, I’ve heard a lot of wonderful things about you,” Adrienne said, extending her hand to a man who looked ancient. Yet her doctors said this man would be able to monitor her condition and keep them apprised. And he could do this without having any diagnostic tools in his small office.
“We will keep seeing you every three months, but this way he can monitor you monthly for us, and if need be send you back to us or send you to one of the local hospitals in that area,” one of her doctors had patiently explained. “Don’t be misled by his age or brusque manner. That man has eyes and a brain that can see things we mere mortals can’t.” He described this small-town doctor as a “legend at two state medical colleges.”
With those accolades, she had finally set up this first meeting. Driving to Maryland for monthly routine maintenance was too time consuming, too exhausting.
“Well, I would advise you not to believe everything you hear,” he said gruffly, but there was no mistaking the pleased twinkle in those dark eyes. She relaxed.
Dr. Meade was looking at the copies of the charts that had been sent to him. When he looked up, his words floored her. “You’ve been through hell and you’re not done yet. This is awful.”
She suddenly felt her eyes burning. No doctor had ever said anything like that to her. There had been no validation of the awful shock. “Well,” she said weakly.
“I just want you to know I can only imagine how hard this has been for you, but I’ll do my best to look after you and keep my ear to the ground, along with the bigwigs up at—where? Johns Hopkins, good school. Anything worthwhile comes out of the pipe, I’ll let you know. Now let’s check those muscles.”
He was kind and gentle, and made what was usually an uncomfortable exam bearable, talking to her quietly the whole time, explaining and saying encouraging things when he found them.
Back in the small office, he told her what he was going to write to her doctors in the big city. The whole visit had taken only twenty-five minutes, and he had charged a pittance compared to what the others charged.
“Now, I don’t bill insurance companies; that’s something you’ll have to do. I’ll tell you the truth. I’m darn glad I’m not starting in medicine now with all these insurance rules and regulations binding up a doctor so tight he can’t do squat for his patient.”
They commiserated a bit over the sad state of health care in this country, but before she left, Adrienne had a totally unrelated question.
“Dr. Meade, how is Charlie Jamison?”
Dr. Meade looked at her blankly. “Same as he’s been for the past—what—two years?”
“So he hasn’t gotten any worse?” she said, her voice relieved, wondering why he hadn’t come to the support group with his nephew during the past few months.
“I sure as hell hope he’s not any worse. Dead is about as bad as it gets, I think.”
It was Adrienne’s turn to stare at the doctor blankly. “I don’t understand . . .”
And they talked a little more, without either one of them initially knowing what the other knew. By the time she left, however, they each knew all they needed to know.
“Are you going to say anything to him?” Elizabeth wondered out loud as Adrienne pulled up to the long table. The support group would be meeting soon, and Gregory often popped in to chat or sometimes to listen to a speaker. The two women, who had ridden together, had come early to ready things.
Adrienne shook her head. “No, I don’t think there’s any reason. If he wants to keep coming, that’s fine. No one else needs to know. Don’t you agree?”
Elizabeth nodded. “It’s so very sad, don’t you think? I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be young and know such awful things will probably happen.” Pity settled on her face; Adrienne glanced sharply at her.
“My dear Elizabeth, you are living with such knowledge. Think about it. You’re still young. You know you have a crippling chronic illness, and you don’t seem to be doing too badly.” As a matter of fact, she looked the picture of health in a deep burgundy jacket, a lightly shaded gray crisp cotton blouse, and gray slacks.
“I never thought of it that way,” Elizabeth said slowly. “I guess because even now, it doesn’t seem real, does it?”
“Nope.” Adrienne reached inside the metal basket attached to the front of her scooter and hauled out a sheaf of papers that included home addresses, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses of the members of the group. “This way we can keep in touch with each other,” she explained, handing one to Elizabeth. She then wheeled herself around the table, leaving a folder at each chair.
There was no specific program planned. Instead, Adrienne had thought they would discuss some political issues and any other topic that came up. She also had preprinted letters people could sign to send to Congress to support health insurance reform. There were at least five members who had no insurance within the group, and while there was a free health clinic miles away in the next county, the care that was provided took hours to receive.
Almost everyone was there when Nicole Anderson walked in, using a cane. Although they had known her only a few months, it was obvious the woman had changed. Her haircut was the same, she wore blue jeans, battered tennis sho
es, and a nondescript cotton shirt, a zippered sweater—but she was much, much smaller. A belt was cinched tight to keep her baggy pants from falling off.
A month ago, the weight of extra pounds had added soft rolling creases to her diminutive frame. But now, her small bones were emphasized by leanness.
“Nicole.” Adrienne was astonished, and watched as the small woman’s face turned red.
“What?” she asked softly, averting her eyes.
“Did you not eat a bite of food since we last met? Good God, how much weight have you lost?”
Nicole smoothed a hand over the piece of paper in front of her, surprised. “You think I’ve lost weight?”
“Don’t you?” Elizabeth asked and then saw the sheepish smile.
“Sure I do.”
“Then how?” Pearl Smith wanted to know. She had some pounds of her own she’d like to get rid of.
Nicole raised shy eyes. “Well, you have to promise not to tell anyone. It’s kind of personal.”
“You’re not bulimic, are you?” Adrienne asked, distressed. Surely this woman had enough problems . . .
Nicole shook her head. “Of course not. I’m not crazy.” She paused and glanced at Carl apologetically. “Well, you see, I really believe in God . . .”
Adrienne, ever watchful, immediately cut in when she saw those fretful glances. “You don’t have to apologize, Nicole. Carl has his beliefs and you have yours, and both are just as valid. So. You believe in God. Okay. So do I. Go on, please.”
Nicole stretched a hand up to her neck, angling her face away from Carl’s observation and began.
“About eighteen months ago a good Baptist introduced my husband and me to red wine, touting the good health benefits to the heart and all. I never grew up with any sort of alcohol around, nor did my husband, so it was a new experience for us. My husband didn’t like it, but I kept trying it. And trying it. And before I knew it, I was buying bottles and bottles and consuming gallons. I never really liked it, but it made things hazy, softer . . . easier.”
A Sundog Moment Page 23