Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “Corporate front man.” He frowned, thinking of what one of the ER staff had said about his new campaign. That its goal was to make the community forget the reckless and criminal acts of the former chief of staff. Micah hated the truth in that. He didn’t want to imagine what he’d have done to anyone who’d tried to gloss over or make excuses for the drunk driver responsible for Stephen’s death. But he’d accepted this marketing position with full understanding of the requirements. His job was to sell the hospital.

  “Here we go,” Sloane said, setting the cups down and interrupting his thoughts. “Warmed up. No cat hair.” Her nose wrinkled. “That I can see. Black coffee, black cat.” She nudged the cookie plate his way. “Where is Coop, anyway?”

  “In Sacramento.” Micah lifted his coffee cup. “Or was. He’s taking a couple of extra days. Moving on to San Diego, I’d bet. He said he struck gold with a story he’s been chasing down.”

  “Didn’t you say he writes for the Times Lifestyle section?”

  “Yep.” Micah smiled. “Just covered a local pumpkin patch. But this story is freelance, on his vacation time. Coop’s convinced a Russian inmate at State Prison is pulling the strings on criminal activity up and down the coast, including that attack on our Jane Doe. And those girls in the motel fire.”

  Sloane’s fingers tightened on her cup. “They haven’t made any identifications.”

  “No. It’s going to require dental records.”

  “Horrible.”

  It was. And Micah wasn’t going to tell Sloane what he’d heard earlier today. It wasn’t official and he always kept things confidential. But the elderly woman he’d sat with after the fire had indeed remembered a few of the girls who frequented those burned-out rooms. Some names had been distinctive, “foreign maybe,” and there was another name she’d heard several times. Zoey.

  “Anyway,” Micah said, eager to move on to a less grim subject, “I’ll be on call for cat box crises for another couple of days.” He shook his head. “What ever happened to letting cats go outside to scratch up the neighbor’s flower beds? I’ll bet Marty has his eye on your landlady’s new vegetable garden.”

  “Marty’s mostly an inside cat.” She glanced to where the animal was busy sniffing at Micah’s jacket, draped over the back of a chair. “I used to let him out a little, but I don’t feel like that’s really . . . safe.” Something in Sloane’s voice said this could be about more than her cat.

  Micah realized in a heartbeat that he’d do whatever it took to make this woman feel safe and cared for. It suddenly mattered more than anything.

  “I have a confession,” she said, meeting his gaze again. Her chin lifted a bit as if she were gathering courage. “I thought you should know.”

  What now?

  “This was my first time baking cookies.”

  Micah released his breath in a laugh.

  “Are you shocked?” she asked, a giggle teasing her voice. She’d snuggled so close against him that her lips tickled the flesh beneath his jaw as she spoke. “Scandalized and completely disappointed?”

  “No way.” Micah closed his eyes for a moment, memorizing the feel of her in his arms, breathing her in. Then he leaned her back, just enough to see her eyes. “I’m honored that I’m your first cookie taster.”

  “Well . . . not exactly.”

  “Another confession?”

  “I tried the first batch on a six-year-old. Total flop.” Sloane’s nose wrinkled. “She can’t lie. Her photo is on God’s fridge.”

  “Huh?”

  “Something she told me once. But the point is . . .” Her beautiful face sobered. It was there again, that sweet new openness. “You’re not my first, Micah.”

  “That’s okay.” He took a slow breath, trying to control the insistent drumming of his heart. He knew the subtext here, but he’d never had such a strong sense that this was meant to be. “I’m here now. And it all went right.”

  “Yes.” She sighed as he cupped her face in his hands. “You are. It is.”

  Micah bent to kiss her, then hesitated. This felt too important; he had to be honest.

  “I’ve had my firsts too,” he began. “And seconds. More than a few ‘flops’ of my own doing. I don’t want that anymore, Sloane. What we’re starting feels too good for that. So . . .”

  She watched his eyes, waited.

  “No expectations here,” Micah told her. “No pressure. Cookies, coffee. Then I’m going back to my place. After . . .”

  “After what?”

  “A good night kiss—or three?”

  Sloane’s laugh was part purr. “Yes, please.”

  Micah touched his lips to her forehead, the corner of her eye, then watched her lids flutter shut as he claimed her mouth again.

  28

  “I SWEAR,” Harper teased, peering at Sloane around an IV pump, “you could bottle that and make a million bucks.”

  “Bottle what?” Sloane set the flow rate for a neon-yellow multivitamin infusion. “This stuff?”

  “No. The new you.” Harper smiled. “The way you’ve been acting this week—that look on your face just now. Billboard worthy.” She arched a brow. “Speaking of Micah Prescott.”

  “Which I’m not.” Sloane’s face warmed. But it was true. In the five days since their Malibu date, it felt like everything had changed. As if her life had gone from dark and cautious to full color, like one of the countless glitter-sprinkled rainbows Piper taped to her grandmother’s walls. Sloane had never felt so giddy.

  “See? You’re laughing to yourself.”

  Sloane tapped the suspended IV solution. “Banana bags are funny?”

  “Right. Hilarious.” Harper gave Sloane’s shoulder a squeeze. “Seriously, this look is good on you, Ferrell. When you’re ready to talk, I’ve got two good ears. And Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Toffee Bar Crunch.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “For sure.”

  Sloane watched her friend walk away and felt the new bliss diffuse a little. Ice cream and girl talk? She wasn’t there yet. What she had with Micah was too tenuous and new. She felt a need to protect it, keep it close—like she did with Marty, checking the screen, watching the door, and keeping him safe. There were still threats.

  She touched her fingers to the plastic IV bag, saline solution made vivid yellow by the addition of an ampule of multivitamins. There was folic acid, too, several grams of magnesium, and 100 milligrams of thiamine. It was a mixture designed to protect at-risk patients from a particular type of encephalopathy, dangerous brain swelling. In some cases, it helped ease muscle cramps and “the shakes.” Banana bags were emergency treatment for alcoholics.

  The woman in treatment room 117 was only six years older than Sloane and way down in a hopeless ditch. The former screenwriter could barely put together a coherent sentence. Her limbs were thin and wasted and her belly bloated; there were sores around her lips, and her tongue was glossy red from poor nutrition and B12 deficiency. The whites of her eyes had a telltale yellow tinge. She’d stumbled over a parking bumper outside a convenience store, cracked a tooth, and suffered some minor scrapes and bruises. Fresh injuries among dozens of scabbing old ones. Someone had called the ambulance. She’d wet herself in transit.

  “None of this would have happened if you’d been responsible enough to find yourself a twelve-step program.”

  Sloane grabbed the pump and rolled it through the supply room door toward the corridor. Micah was okay with the way things were right now; he was the one who’d said they’d go slow and take their time getting to know each other. There was no reason to dump details of her past into his lap all at once—or ever, some of them. She’d left all that behind, and once she finished with her stepfather’s parole hearing, she’d finally be free. October 17, only three days away. Maybe grace didn’t come in her size, but for the first time in her life Sloane felt like it was okay to hope that happiness was possible for someone like her. All because of Micah.

  “Here we go,” she sai
d, rolling the IV pump up to her patient’s bedside. “This will make you feel better.”

  The writer’s eyes met hers. “Like a new person?”

  Sloane’s stomach tensed.

  “It’s okay.” The woman gave a weak laugh. “I don’t believe in miracles. Unless you’ve got limoncello martinis in that bag?”

  “Sorry,” Sloane told her, trying for a casual smile. She knew that kind of dark humor; she’d been quite skilled at it during her nights on a barstool. And on the subsequent workdays when she’d nursed a miserable hangover. Brittle, defensive humor. But strangely Sloane suddenly wished she had something to offer more along the lines of . . . She cleared her throat. “Would you like me to call a chaplain?”

  “Am I dying?”

  “No. I just thought—”

  “I know what you think. You see me and want to pull out the God Band-Aid. You feel less guilty about your great life by telling me that I’m worthy of some amazing, unconditional, holy love.” The woman swallowed, the look in her eyes reminding Sloane of Marty, the first time she’d seen him in the cage of the city pound. “Be honest. You really believe that?”

  Sloane glanced away.

  “I figured.” The woman extended her bruised arm. “Now just stick me with the needle.”

  “That makes forty names,” Micah said, scrolling to the end of the Face of Hope nominees on his computer. “The list is growing.”

  “Did you finalize the essay requirement?” Fiona asked. “The two questions you’ll pose to the nominees?”

  “Yes. But it’s three now. After I had coffee with the special projects manager.”

  Fiona looked up from her cell phone.

  “We’ve had a program for a couple of years where employees are encouraged to submit ideas for improvements,” Micah explained. “It’s been sort of hit-and-miss. Mostly miss. But an interesting one came in the other day. From one of the maintenance staff.”

  “What kind of idea?”

  “Something for the new wing, the Excellence in Aging department.” It was Jerry Rhodes’s suggestion and a good one. He proposed that the wing also house a preschool for the children of employees. “It’s a concept they’ve used successfully in Florida. Alzheimer’s patients and other seniors, interacting with the children. Reading, doing crafts . . . talking, listening. It’s a benefit for everyone, including the parents because tuition cost is much lower and the kids are here on campus. I think there’s a personal element to his idea too. This employee’s wife is a preschool teacher. She may want to be involved as well.”

  “I like his idea. A lot.”

  “Me too. And,” Micah continued, “I’m going to ask each of the nominees to come up with a special project idea as part of their candidacy. I think it shows their dedication, and it helps the hospital. Win-win.”

  Fiona raised a thumb. “I’ve said it before and I’m saying it again. You’re good, Prescott.”

  “Corporate front man . . .”

  Coop was back, though he’d barely come up to breathe, let alone to mooch food from Micah. Apparently he’d garnered the interest of the Times. There was more fact-checking to do, but it looked like his coveted byline might actually happen. Soon.

  “Which reminds me,” Fiona added, “I’ll need to start my search for a gala dress. And a date.” She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you’ve already got that crossed off your list.”

  “Yeah.” Micah smiled. “I’m hoping.”

  Fiona shot him a knowing look. “I’ve noticed that.”

  After she left, he forced himself to return a few phone calls and set up some necessary meetings. Micah wanted to have everything in place when the department director came back from his family leave. He also wanted to walk down to the ER and see Sloane. He’d manufactured a half-dozen excuses to visit that department this week; people were starting to notice. He wasn’t sure he cared. It was too hard having her so close and still so far. It had been a busy week for both of them, but they’d managed to meet for coffee twice. And in the hospital gazebo scant minutes after sunrise on Tuesday, for a discreet hug and a quick but memorable kiss.

  Micah had mentioned Sloane in a phone call with his aunt, which meant his parents would know by now. He’d even allowed himself to imagine what Stephen would have thought. He’d say she was beautiful, of course—“crazy gorgeous.” And he’d have had fun with Sloane’s dry wit, her spunk. But . . .

  “I believe in God. . . . But I’m not so sure about forgiveness. . . . I can’t believe everyone gets that.”

  Grace. A sustaining belief for people of faith. Stephen would have been concerned about Sloane’s doubts. He probably would have challenged her in his good-natured and offhand manner to discuss it further. He’d ask her to help him understand her reservations. And he would have listened in that kind and generous way he had. Always putting others first and himself last. A familiar ache spread through Micah’s chest. Stephen would have looked at Sloane the way God did.

  The truth was, Micah understood what Sloane said about forgiveness. Her doubts that it applied to everyone—or should. He’d struggled with that himself after Stephen was killed. He’d tried to distract himself with the work in Afghanistan and afterward tried to deny his continuing faith struggle in a reckless haze of beer and empty relationships. But the doubts remained. Still.

  Not that he didn’t believe in grace. He couldn’t forgive the man responsible for his cousin’s death. That drunken college kid who got behind the wheel of a car and murdered the finest person Micah had ever known. Four years in prison and he was free. Married, kids, and working alongside his father in the family’s carpeting business. Stephen was never coming back. Nothing about it was right, just, or fair. Micah had asked God over and over to take away these feelings, but . . .

  He closed down the computer screen and glanced toward the door. The last time he’d checked, radiology’s supply of nomination forms had been running low. He should probably add a few more and have a brief face-to-face with their department chief. Micah’s phone conference wasn’t for another forty minutes. Plenty of time to walk to radiology. It was just off the emergency department.

  He smiled. He’d promised Sloane they’d take it slow, and he wasn’t going to pressure her in any way; he’d be the respectful man he’d been raised to be. He’d learned the hard way that ignoring those values brought no real satisfaction. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t let himself imagine what might come down the road a ways. Even if that simply meant seeing Sloane by his side at the Face of Hope gala. An amazing woman in a beautiful gown, sharing his joy at By Grace’s comeback performance. And meeting his parents. He had no problem imagining that now.

  Micah stood, lifted his jacket from the back of his chair. He’d stop by the ER on his way to radiology. It would be his only real chance to see Sloane today. He had a meeting tonight—and evidently she did too.

  “I think I’ll sit and listen this time,” Sloane had said again from her chair at one end of the fully occupied back row. She’d discreetly widened the space between herself and the person next to her. Only a foot or so, but it still felt like a safety cushion. So did the fact that she’d come on a different day than usual. Sloane doubted Jocelyn would approach her again—AA made it clear that members chose sponsors, not vice versa—but she didn’t want to take a chance. Things were going too well; she didn’t need that kind of aggravation. She was here; she showed up. That was enough.

  Sloane took a sip of coffee from her paper cup and looked toward the meeting’s chairperson. He’d been talking about the twelve steps. The importance of completing them, one by one. Because, they always said, sobriety wasn’t only about not drinking; it was about seeking recovery in several areas, including physical, mental, emotional . . . and spiritual.

  “It’s okay. . . . I don’t believe in miracles. . . .”

  Sloane winced, remembering her encounter with the alcoholic patient today. And the woman’s cynical remarks.

  “. . . telling me that I’m worthy o
f some amazing, unconditional, holy love. . . . You really believe that?”

  Sloane wasn’t here for miracles. She showed up because it kept her from drinking. Even if she never shared, told no one her name, never joined the closing prayer, and didn’t need a sponsor. One step was enough. That first one: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.”

  Powerless was a stronger word than Sloane would have chosen, and she was managing just fine now. But she wouldn’t be here if she could beat this thing on her own. She’d admit that much. The remaining items on the list about a “moral inventory,” turning your “will and life” over to God, admitting to another person “the exact nature of our wrongs” . . . they didn’t fit her any more than Micah’s grace.

  Sloane drained the last dregs of her coffee. It was time to scoot out of here. Any minute they’d be making that awkward prayer circle.

  She slid from her chair, dodging glances as she made her way to the door. For the first time there was the smallest twinge of regret in her escape. An awareness that she was an outsider here, too. She’d always blamed that feeling on the isolation that came with drinking. But she was sober now.

  Sloane crossed to the parking lot, stopped for a moment, and drew in a deep breath. It was getting dark, and for Los Angeles, the air felt autumn-cool. The freeways hummed in the distance, but there were also the crackly chirps of crickets in trees around the parking lot and a dog yipping in a yard somewhere nearby. All of it felt like a peaceful nightcap to her evening. She rolled her eyes at her metaphor. Then reminded herself that, outsider or not—and despite Jocelyn’s morbid warning—there was no banana bag calling her name.

  Her phone buzzed, signaling a text message. Micah making plans for tomorrow. A day off, together. She tapped in a grinning emoticon, then walked on toward her car with a real-deal smile on her face.