She stood slowly, her eyes red and her cheeks blotched. The intercom announced another page and there was a rhythmic wave of electronic beeps; the Hispanic woman became hysterical.
Yanking up his sweatshirt, he used it to wipe Hannah’s cheek. “You have a speck of bl—”
“Is it gone?” Her head fell to his shoulder as Galen’s had done an hour earlier. “Tell me it’s gone.”
“Gone, darling.” Didn’t mean to call her that. Really, really didn’t mean to call her that.
Hugging had never come naturally, but he began rocking her the way he’d rocked Freddie after a nightmare. Hannah clutched at him, moving so quickly he almost lost his balance. She said something, but it was muffled.
“I didn’t hear you, darling.” There it was again—that word.
She raised her head and stared at him. Eye-to-eye, exactly his height. Holding her felt so comfortable, so warm. So easy.
“Your dad?” she said.
Always she thought of other people.
“Poppy’s with him. She wanted to come, but I persuaded her to stay. I...I had to see you.”
Hannah laid her head back on Will’s shoulder. He pulled her into his body and wanted her closer.
“They asked so many questions,” she said. “And I couldn’t answer them. I don’t know what he took, how much. I don’t know anything. The most important thing is to figure out the combination of what he took, and I don’t know. I don’t know. The bag had so few, so few... And they asked about his medical history, and—” she gulped “—they asked about family history.”
“Shh,” he said softly.
“His vitals are good, they don’t have to intubate him, but they need to empty his stomach. Give him charcoal to absorb the drugs. If they’re worried about cardiovascular function, he’ll go to intensive care.” She was talking fast, dumping information. “Psychiatry will do a consultation when he sobers up, when he can talk, but since it was a serious attempt, it’s likely he’ll be transferred to the psych ward. Voluntarily or— Hospitalization isn’t really optional.” She clung to him. “He’s going back, Will. He’s going back.”
“Who are you?” said a deep voice.
Will turned, his arms locked around Hannah. Two men stood in front of them, but only one was glowering at him with hard, dark eyes—a broad-shouldered guy who was seriously ripped. Everything about Inigo was crafted with care: the citrus cologne, the graying hair trimmed to perfection like a presidential wannabe, the knit shirt he wore like a second skin, the faded jeans that fit a little too snugly around the groin. Christ, he was looking at another man’s package.
Still fastening Hannah to his chest, Will extended a hand. “Will Shepard. I rent your wife’s cottage. Sorry, man. I mean, your ex-wife.”
“Matt.” The other guy, the younger—much younger—one with small, frightened eyes, preempted Inigo and shook Will’s hand.
Inigo glared. “You’re the one who took Galen rock climbing.”
“Will saved our son’s life,” Hannah said.
An older African-American woman cradling a sleeping child blinked up at Will, then turned to stare at the Tar Heels game on the flat-screen TV in the main waiting room.
“Let’s all sit down.” Matt touched Inigo’s arm, but Inigo shrugged him off.
“Our son could have died, Han. Died. What were you thinking?”
“The rock climbing was my suggestion,” Will said.
Inigo ignored him. “You allow Galen out on some testosterone adventure with a stranger and yet you wouldn’t let me, his own father, anywhere near the house? You let our son go off on an adventure with this...this person, and twenty-four hours later Galen tries to end his life? You told me you could handle this.” He jabbed a finger toward Hannah’s face. “You told me you had everything under control.” Another jab. “You told me I would make things worse.”
One inch closer with that manicured fingernail, dickhead, and my fist will be crunching into the bridge of your nose.
“Well, it doesn’t get much worse than this,” Inigo said.
“Wow, time out.” Will raised his hand between Hannah’s face and Inigo’s finger.
Matt flinched; his glance jumped from Will to Inigo and back again.
“I wasn’t aware I asked for your opinion,” Inigo said to Will. “In fact, I don’t know why you’re here. This has nothing to do with you. I want you to go. Leave.”
“He’s here,” Hannah said, “because I want him to be. And that’s enough, Inigo. We need to concentrate on helping Galen. Come and sit down, please.”
Without warning, Inigo disintegrated into a flood of wails. Heads in both waiting areas turned and Will had a flashback to his mother at the powwow, to that awful feeling of being exposed under a spotlight, front and center stage. Will wanted to pity Inigo, wanted to say, I know, I understand the terror, but he was swallowing the urge to scream, You have no idea how lucky you are. No idea. Your son’s been alive for twenty-two years, that’s seventeen more than my son. My son will never play on a Little League team, have a first kiss, build the unopened Lego set in his bedroom.
And today is the four-month anniversary of his death.
Hannah stepped away, but it was as if she’d been snatched from him. Without the warmth of her breath on his neck, it was cold, so cold. He rubbed his arms and watched Matt and Hannah settle Inigo into a chair. Then Will claimed the empty chair on Hannah’s left side. Reaching for her free hand, he folded his fingers around hers and squeezed. She squeezed back.
Poppy had been right that day at Hawk’s Ridge—he made crap decisions. And that simple physical gesture was proof. Both he and Hannah knew he was leaving, and yet by holding her hand, he was blasting open whatever it was that hung in the air between them. Like they both needed an extra layer of emotion right now.
Even on the phone that first night, her voice had triggered a strange high as if someone had spiked his senses with a stimulant. When they met it was that plus the opposite: a sense of calm and well-being. Until the powwow tossed him into the downward spin of lust. Until half an hour earlier when he sat at a traffic light, paralyzed by the pain of love.
He was in the middle of Armageddon, and he was in love.
An old instinct was calling out to be heard, one that had served him well in the past, one that he was trying to ignore.
Run, Will, run.
* * *
Manhattan had killed Will’s night vision. After they left Chapel Hill, the traffic disappeared and the roads retreated into black stillness. The engine hummed; thunder clapped intermittently.
The evening had tethered him and Hannah in a never-to-be-forgotten string of events, and yet they were caught in silence. Silence that stung like razor burn. They had so much to talk about. Or maybe not. How many ways could he say, I’m sorry?
Inigo had nailed him with accusations about the climb. The guy was just lashing out, being the overprotective father, but suppose he was on to something? After all, one kid had died on Will’s watch. And the whole time he’d been holding Galen in the bathroom—the whole time—he’d imagined himself holding Freddie.
Watching for deer, Will glanced into the blockade of trees looming on either side of the car. A buck running out could do serious damage to the biggest big-ass pickup truck. Who knew what it could do to the hood of a Prius? He slowed down and squinted, pulling forward to search for the Nascar bar on the corner of Hannah’s road. His seat belt locked, cutting into his chest, pinning him in place.
“Bit farther,” Hannah said, her face angled away from him.
It was the first time she’d spoken since leaving the hospital. Galen had been smart enough to take the path of least resistance and go to the psych ward voluntarily. The doc had explained they were lucky to get a bed, since people often had to wait in the E.R. for days, or be transferr
ed to another facility. Hannah had remarked, her voice cold, that there was nothing lucky about knowing your son was returning to a locked ward. She had remained calm, poised and distant, while Inigo had bawled into Matt’s chest. If only Hannah would do that now—lose her shit. Hysterics and tantrums Will could handle. Withdrawal was an unknown monster.
A streak of lightning lit up the road ahead.
“Man, that was close,” Will said
The last few fronts had rolled in blind, without rain, and recent pop-up thunderstorms had split around Saponi Mountain as if they were skirting the edge of a black hole. If it rained, would Hannah talk?
The wind picked up and low-growing branches snapped back and forth under the power lines. As he clicked on the turn signal, pellets of rain fired at the windshield with the force of hail.
“How about that? It’s raining.” Could he sound any more stupid? He half expected Hannah to reply with, Well, duh, but she didn’t even move.
“We’re home,” he said. More five-star inanity.
They bumped along the driveway and rain lashed the car. No rain for months and then a monsoon. Will shivered. If his mom were still alive, she’d be dancing barefoot in the mud, doing the escaped lunatic pirouette.
He parked as close as he could to Hannah’s porch. “I’ve got an umbrella in the trunk—”
But Hannah was out of the car and walking away. Too beat to protest, Will flopped over the steering wheel. He would check on his dad and then grab a few hours’ sleep before taking Hannah back to the hospital, as promised. After that? Pack up and return to New York with his dad.
Watching Hannah and Inigo ground themselves in happier memories had led to this decision. Recriminations vanished the moment they began to guide each other through their living, breathing family album with remember-when-Galen-did-this moments. The same had been true of him and his dad with Freddie’s trip.
Hannah and Inigo faced a long recovery with Galen. They needed to come together, and so did he and his dad. It was time to retreat into the family shell, to think small and close ranks. It was time to salvage happy memories before there were none left, before his dad forgot his grandson’s life as well as his death.
Since leaving New York, Will had repeatedly questioned his behavior, his lie. Not anymore. Lying to his dad had been the right decision, and so was taking him back to the city. Who knew how they would manage, but family was family, and the old man was not ending up in some shithole wearing Depends and being spoon-fed. His dad had once taken care of Will, and now the situation would reverse. Surely that was the natural order in normal families.
And his feelings for Hannah? Irrelevant. He’d left love behind before and survived. He could do so again. Decision made—New York or bust.
Hannah knocked on his car window and Will was out in the downpour before he could draw breath. Pathetic, but she held his strings. Needed to cut those, too.
“Come in?” she said.
He nodded and they ran for the porch.
The dogs welcomed them inside; Rosie went straight to Hannah and shadowed her as she slipped off her clogs. Will unlaced his Converse and lined them up nearby. Then he stood, playing with his watchband. Hannah began flicking off switches one by one, throwing the living room into darkness. He should have noticed, should have turned them all off before he went to the hospital. Should have done that one small thing for her, just as now he should talk, set the tone, do something guy-ish. If he suggested changing out of her wet clothes, would she think he was taking advantage?
“I’ll ask Poppy if she can stay with Dad while I drive you back to the hospital.” Will shook rain from his hair. “Any idea what time you want to go?”
“Visiting hours are flexible on the ward, but I can drive myself. You concentrate on your dad. I’m sure all the disruption has unsettled him.”
If he didn’t drive her to the hospital, they could be gone by the time she came home. No explanations necessary.
“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?” he said.
“No. I’m exhausted but wide-awake. You?”
“The same.”
Hannah started walking toward her bedroom and stopped. “I can’t be alone. Stay with me?”
Did she mean stay with me in my bed? Or stay on the floor by my bed? Maybe she meant stay and talk with me. Climbing was so much easier than getting a foothold with a woman. What did an older, more experienced woman expect when she invited a man to “stay with me”?
She didn’t feel like an older woman, but she had a way of processing the world that made her seem so in control. They were both dealing with tragedy, but she was doing so as a full-fledged grown-up; he was doing it as a full-fledged screw-up.
Back to basics: stay with me didn’t mean standing in the living room like a moron.
She opened a closet door in the hallway, pulled out two white towels and offered one to Will. He declined.
“Would you like me to sleep on the sofa? Stay until I know you’re asleep?” Inspired, Will.
She had started toweling her hair but paused to throw him a puzzled look. Okay, so clearly he’d missed some clues. Older women—whole new game with separate ground rules.
“No. I meant stay with me in my bedroom.”
“Right,” he mumbled, and followed her. Did she just make a pass?
“Please don’t think I’m some desperate middle-aged woman making a pass.”
“Never crossed my mind.”
“Yes, it did,” she said. “You’re a crap liar.”
Crap decision maker, crap liar, crap friend to Galen, crap everything right now.
“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “I’m not sure I could be alone, either.” Although for reasons you can’t possibly guess.
Before he could stop himself, Will glanced up the staircase. Suicide cleanup was one task a parent shouldn’t have to face. Something else Galen had thought through. When Hannah was asleep, Will would find her cleaning supplies and take care of it.
The dogs lay down on the floor surrounding the bed, but he hovered in the doorway. Hannah closed the window, then disappeared into the adjacent bathroom.
A dark stain on the natural-colored carpet suggested she hadn’t shut the window in time. Sleeping on the ground floor with her window open was so dangerous. Almost as dangerous as him joining her in the room with the large, unmade bed.
Strange, he would have pegged her for an early-morning bed-maker, not a woman who left domestic tasks undone. Or was she in bed when he’d barged in hours earlier? He barely remembered the first part of the evening. Blood gushing out of a gaping wound was an effective mind-wipe. He’d researched and written worse, but witnessing the gore in real time, with someone he cared about...
The room was white and sparsely decorated, with a pine rocking chair in the corner. A turquoise see-through bra was draped over the back.
Definitely not leaving the safety of the door frame, then.
A strip of small spotlights illuminated a gallery of black-and-white photographs on the far wall. The still lifes of sassafras, sweetgum, tulip poplars and red oak drew him in. When he glanced down, he was standing over the stain in the middle of the carpet. He was inside her bedroom.
Will moved closer to peer at a panorama. It was taken from the tower on Occoneechee Mountain.
“Who’s the photographer?” he called toward the bathroom door.
“Me.”
Every time he thought he had her figured out, she surprised him. Finding the real Hannah was like exploring an exotic locale without a AAA guide. He stared at another stunning print, this one of a cloudless sky through the spiky needles of a loblolly pine.
“You’re really good.”
“Thanks.”
He turned to see Hannah sitting on the bed in her white dressing gown.
“My clothes were soaked. Your jeans?”
“Fine,” he answered quickly. God help him, she’d better be wearing something under that robe. He pictured the tattoo weaving toward her right breast and gulped.
Thunder boomed and rain rattled against the window. His heart was galloping all over the place. Did she expect him to sit on the bed next to her or in the rocker with the lacy bra?
“You could sell these,” he said, gesturing to the photographs.
“Why? I take them for me. Only me.”
Admirable.
“This one—” he pointed at the panorama “—reminds me of quiet moments soloing.”
“Soloing?”
“Climbing unroped and alone. It’s how I gain control when my life feels as if it’s being dragged off by a herd of wild horses.” He was jabbering, but the image had just popped up like spam.
“You don’t have a cigarette, do you?” Hannah said.
Will shook his head. “I would never have pegged you for a smoker.”
“I haven’t been for twenty-five years.”
“Really?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Was there a wrong answer to that question? “You just don’t seem the type. I can’t imagine you doing anything unhealthy.”
“That’s because of what I do, not because of who I am.” She fell back on the bed and spread out her arms. One hand was balled up in a tight fist.
He had a flash-thought about getting laid, which was beyond sick. Maybe he should just leave.
“I don’t really have my act together,” she said. “I make everything up as I go along.”
“Hey, that’s my line.”
“I don’t think I can go through this again.” She raised the heel of her clenched hand to her forehead. “I lost my mother, I lost my father. I can’t lose my son. I can’t...”
He was across the room in two strides and then sitting next to her. Two damaged parents, just trying to drag themselves into another day. Lightning flashed in the space between them.
“You’d be surprised,” he said, “what you can get through when you have to.”
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