“I . . . am.” Her voice sounded different somehow. Micah couldn’t put a finger on it.
“Good. That’s good. Where are you exactly?”
“Home.”
That wasn’t good, was it? Alone in that place where so much had happened? He reminded himself he wasn’t a crisis responder here. That what he wanted to be was—“I need to see you, Sloane.”
“I’m leaving in a few minutes. Going away for a while.”
What? His breath caught. “Where?”
“Up north.”
“I need to see you,” Micah told her again. “I can be there in like ten minutes. Fifteen at the latest.”
Please . . .
There was a long pause. He held his breath.
“I have to go, Micah. It’s important.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Not sure? His mind whirled. Had Brill already convinced Hope hospital to fire her? If that was true, Micah swore he’d make the man regret it.
“I should go,” Sloane said. “I want to make good time on the road tonight.”
He told himself he could get there in less than ten minutes if he pushed a few yellow lights, risked a red. If he got there in time, he could convince Sloane that . . . What? What did he want? Was this only about rescuing her?
“Micah? Did you hear me?”
“Is it okay if I call you up there?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It’s complicated.”
He closed his eyes, the weight of good-bye pressing down. Complicated wasn’t even close to a big enough word.
40
MICAH RETURNED TO HIS SEAT at the media room table after refilling his coffee cup, a useless attempt to focus his scattered thoughts; he’d slept less than three hours last night. Every conversation he’d ever had with Sloane had replayed in his head, and then when he’d grown tired of staring at the bedroom ceiling, he’d opted for the boring balm of the late-night movie channel. It turned out to be a marathon of classics, the offering at the time being none other than An Affair to Remember. One of the films Sloane mentioned as a favorite of her mother’s. It was a cruel jab that led him to imagine Sloane as that child tap-dancing on the Walk of Fame. And left him remembering how, twenty-five years later, she’d raised her beautiful face for his kiss on that amazing night in the Hollywood Hills. Then he recalled every kiss after that, each touch, every laugh.
“I’m leaving. . . . Going away for a while.”
Micah glanced up as he heard the ER director say his name.
“. . . would like to say a few words before we begin,” she finished, nodding at him.
He took another futile sip of his prescription coffee, then rose from his chair.
“I appreciate this opportunity to speak,” Micah said, surprised, frankly, that it took so few people to give Sloane the ax. The ER director and her assistant, the day shift clinical coordinators, Harper Tatum—apparently a member of the peer review board and not at all happy to be here, from the look on her face—plus two other senior staffers. Fiona was there too. Howard Brill wasn’t, but the more Micah thought about it, the more certain he was that this was the arrogant board member’s brainchild. Sloane fired first, then Micah.
“We’re glad you could come,” the director added, something in her expression saying she understood the idiocy in that statement. He hadn’t been invited; he’d bullied his way in. But Micah had always known her as a kind woman. And fair, from what he’d heard. She was clearly responding to what Fiona referred to as “pressure.” She folded her hands on the table. “Please understand, however, that the latter part of this meeting must involve only nursing administration.” She glanced at the PIO, garnered her nod as well. “Go ahead, Micah.”
“Thank you.” He glanced around the table. He’d meet Brill’s subversion with complete honesty.
“Before I begin,” he started, “you should know that Miss Ferrell and I had been seeing each other outside of work.” Had been. He hoped his disappointment didn’t register in his voice. “But that has no bearing whatsoever on what I came here to say on behalf of your teammate. A dedicated Hope employee. I think you know that.”
One of the clinical coordinators failed to hide a guilty flinch.
“During the Face of Hope campaign,” Micah continued, “I’ve made a point of stopping by the ER to meet with your team. It’s given me a rare chance to see you in action, doing what you all do best.” He knew he’d begin with praise—everyone needed that—but he was going to wing the rest of his statement. He was fairly skilled at it. Businesslike and persuasive. In truth, that skill was a big part of why he’d been hired. “Offering not only your technical expertise but your selfless compassion. Day in and day out, in situations that would stop most people cold in their tracks. Including me. It’s made me even more certain that this hospital is the face of hope for our community. Because of people like you.”
The director glanced down at her paper.
“In all honesty,” Micah was surprised to hear himself admit, “it hasn’t been easy to take over the task of rebuilding this hospital’s image after the scandal involving the former chief of staff. Many of you may know that a member of my family was the victim of vehicular manslaughter related to alcohol abuse.” His gut tensed; he hadn’t planned to say that. Lack of sleep was taking the reins. Maybe, this time, winging it was a mistake. But he couldn’t seem to stop. “Knowing you now and seeing your dedication makes me proud to do this work—makes me want to do it well.”
Fiona nodded at him.
“Sloane Ferrell is an example of what I’m talking about. I could cite several instances, but I’ll just share one.” He looked at the director. “Is that all right?”
“Of course.”
“A homeless man came in by ambulance, drunk and apparently a ‘frequent flier.’” Micah saw Harper grimace a little; she knew who this patient was. “The patient was a mess. Literally. I won’t deny the stench alone made me want to hustle back to my department. He roused long enough to complain of painful feet. Bad shoes, rotted socks, too much walking. Not anywhere near the acuity that requires nurses of your caliber. He was the kind of patient, I think I heard someone say, that staff draws straws over.” Micah shook his head. “Well, the short-straw nurse wasn’t having any of it. So the nurse in charge, Sloane Ferrell, attended this man herself. She did that without complaint and with the attention and respect you might expect if this man were a local celebrity, a star athlete. Or a hospital board member.”
Fiona smiled.
“She washed his feet,” Micah said, the image still branded in his mind. “This nurse with so much responsibility, such a high level of training, and not a minute to spare in a busy shift took on the most humble of tasks. She rolled up her sleeves and showed a homeless, hopeless man more kindness and compassion than I’d bet he’d seen in a long, long time.” Micah glanced from person to person around the table, not caring anymore that emotion had crept into his voice. “We’re a hospital system that sees patient care as a ministry, as God’s work. I’ve included that mission statement in more PR blurbs than I can count. But I didn’t really get it until that moment. When I saw Sloane Ferrell washing her patient’s feet.”
Harper met his gaze and mouthed a teary-eyed thank-you.
There was a stretch of silence. Long enough for Micah to realize that he’d meant everything he’d said. Not only about Sloane but about his job too. It wasn’t just marketing-speak. These people, this hospital, did represent hope for their community.
“Well . . .” Micah looked around the table again, aware only that he needed this personal “campaign” to succeed no matter what happened to his own relationship with Sloane. “I know you have more to discuss. But I’d like to leave you with this thought: I think the primary question isn’t whether or not to continue Miss Ferrell’s contract. Or even how much skin it would take off our noses to do whatever we can to support a fellow employee who’s going through
something none of us would want to deal with. No. I think the real question should be, how do we find more people like her?”
Micah left the media room and went straight to the hospital chapel.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there; he only knew that what he’d said in defense of Sloane had pointed out, even more, how confused he’d been feeling about his own actions—or more honestly, his inaction. His disturbing inadequacy. He’d sat with Sloane and talked about grace, told her that God didn’t see scars or flaws, only a child he loved. He told Sloane he’d believed in forgiveness all his life. Time after time he pulled on a volunteer jacket and waded into scenes of tragedy and chaos to offer a lifeline of support to countless strangers, and yet . . . I let her go.
Micah drew in a slow breath that did nothing to ease the ache in his heart. Then bowed his head and prayed.
41
SLOANE ARRIVED AT HER LA EXIT around 2:30, after leaving early Sunday morning and making the eight-hour drive home in one long stretch. She smiled, thinking of her godmother’s offer to share the driving and fly back home on Monday. She’d been tempted to take her up on it, not for the driving respite but because she’d hated for their time together to end. It had been all Sloane dared to hope for and then so much more. She’d been grateful and teary at her godfather’s return yesterday, but it was the time alone with her godmother that had meant the most. They’d laughed, cried, and left no subject untouched, including her godmother’s regret at the estrangement from Sloane’s mother and her deep concerns—well-founded, as it turned out—about the relationship with her boyfriend Phillip. They talked of her mother’s growing abuse of alcohol and dependence on prescription drugs. Her godmother spoke of her own heartbreak when she learned of her best friend’s drowning, and how very desperately she’d wanted to provide comfort and hope for her troubled teenage daughter. She confided that her heart had broken all over again when Sloane moved on and then gradually became so distant. She’d been praying all these years that Sloane would find her way “home.”
And her godmother listened late into the night—more than one night—as Sloane shared, for the first time, the whole story of her childhood abuse and the confusing and bitter hostility she’d felt toward her stepfather, Bob Bullard. She revealed the tragic details of her relationship with a married man in Sacramento, her own descent into alcohol abuse afterward, and the fateful journey with Paul . . . that eventually led her back to Mendocino now, fifteen years later. A full-circle return, they’d both tearfully agreed, that was set in motion by God’s infinite mercy.
Sloane had finally had time, too, to untangle her unexpected reactions at the parole board meeting. When, just as she was poised to strike at her stepfather, memories of her own mistakes had come flooding back instead. Had she been any less irresponsible than he?
Maybe Bob Bullard’s fellow inmate had the best insight: “He told me I’m worth something even after all I done wrong.”
Wasn’t that just what Sloane told Zoey—and exactly what, for most of her life, Sloane had so desperately longed for?
And then, just this morning, as Sloane and her godparents were having an eggs-and-sausage breakfast, they’d even tossed around ideas about what to do with a lifetime supply of cereal. A donation to a food bank seemed in order.
“You don’t need cereal to prove how beautiful you are, my darling girl.”
Loss, shame, forgiveness, faith, love . . . and cereal. They’d talked about almost everything, Sloane thought as she turned onto Ernest Court. The only thing she hadn’t shared with her godmother was her still-unsettled feelings about—
Micah?
Sloane blinked, certain road fatigue was playing tricks on her eyes. But it was true, and her heart staggered. Micah’s Durango was parked next to Jerry’s truck. What on earth?
The cottage door was open, sawhorses in the foyer. She stepped around them.
“Sloane.” Micah set a handsaw down, stood up from where he’d been kneeling. “Harper said you’d be back tomorrow.”
“I decided to drive straight through,” she told him, having a little trouble breathing. Not only because it had been a surprise to find him here, but because he looked so . . . Her skin warmed as her gaze took in the old plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, frayed jeans, and work boots. Sawdust in his hair, on his glasses. He looked every inch like the hunky star of one of those HGTV house renovation shows Harper watched.
“What are you doing here?” Sloane asked, finally reclaiming her voice.
“Working.” Micah’s smile wreaked further havoc on Sloane’s vital signs. “Home Depot gofer. Cat-sitter. Talent show practice audience. Whatever’s needed.”
What Sloane needed was to sit down before her knees gave way. What was happening? In her whole time in Mendocino, she’d never mentioned Micah because she couldn’t be sure of her feelings. And now he was here, fixing her house . . . and rattling her senses?
“I took some time off,” he continued, wiping his glasses on his shirt before setting them on the coffee table. He joined her on the couch. “I told them I had some things to do.”
According to Harper, Micah had already done plenty.
“He stood up for you, Sloane. Told them that what Hope hospital needs is more people like you.”
And from what Harper heard via the hospital grapevine, Micah hadn’t stopped there. He’d gone to the chief of staff and informed him that if Sloane was fired, they could count on seeing Micah’s resignation as well.
“It looks amazing.” Sloane turned to gaze around the room; if she looked at Micah one minute longer, she’d lose her mind. “Jerry’s . . .”
“Checking in at Celeste’s, then done for the day. I said I’d finish up.”
“Oh.” Sloane glanced toward the kitchen. It had been partially painted in a soft bisque color. Even from this distance, she could see a fancy new pull-down faucet. And a new sink, probably. Celeste had said something about that, hadn’t she? She couldn’t remember anything. Only that Micah was here. And her heart was making a fool of itself. “The kitchen cabinets are being painted, too. Everything’s lighter . . . brighter.”
“All the barnyard stuff is gone.” Micah shook his head. “Piper entertained Zoey with clucking sounds while Zoey scraped off the wallpaper.”
“Zoey was here?”
“Supervising mostly. Except for the wallpaper. She said it had to go. Because you aren’t ‘the rooster type.’”
Sloane’s heart tugged. “Where is she?”
“In Colorado with her mother.”
Sloane glanced toward the hallway. “And Marty?”
“At Celeste’s.” He captured her gaze as she turned back. There was kindness in his eyes. “How was it? Your visit?”
“Good. More than good.” Sloane’s throat tightened as she thought of the times she and her godmother prayed together. They’d asked God, as Sloane had right here in this house, to show her what he wanted for her. Was it possible this was part of his plan? “It helped a lot.”
“I’m glad. I think having someone really listen makes a big difference.”
“It did. It does.” There was no option but the truth anymore. “I’ve made a commitment to really work the program with AA. I have a sponsor now. And I’m going down the twelve-step list, one thing at a time. I think I’m getting a grip on the first three.” She took a breath that felt fresh and new as the paint in her kitchen and smiled. “It seems God has been waiting for me, all this time.”
“I’m certain of it.” The look on Micah’s face made her heart ache.
“So,” he said, moving a little closer. “You’ll be looking at number four, then. Big one. ‘A searching and fearless moral inventory.’”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“My church hosts AA meetings,” Micah said. “It’s an open meeting, so visitors can come. It turns out there are several more open meetings in the city. All times of the day and evening, seven days a week.”
“You went to one?”
“I went to three. So far.”
“But . . .” Sloane stared at him, confused. “You don’t have a drinking problem.”
“No.” Micah’s expression was somber. “But I have a serious problem judging people who do.”
“Wait . . .” Sloane hesitated. “If this is about me, don’t beat yourself up. I can understand how you’d feel. Stephen was killed because of a drunk driver. And then you find out about my accident and my drinking and—”
“No,” Micah interrupted. “It’s not about you. It’s not even about the guy who was convicted in Stephen’s accident. It’s about me.”
Micah hadn’t said this aloud to anyone yet. He’d only whispered it to God. Or maybe it was the other way round.
“After Stephen was killed,” he explained, “I volunteered with that embedded news team, mostly because I wanted to get out of here. Away from everything and everybody.” He shook his head. “Maybe I even had a death wish—it’s possible. At the very least, I was looking for distraction, escape. It didn’t work. And when I came home, I spent the next year behaving like an irresponsible jerk. That didn’t help either.”
The look in Sloane’s eyes said she got it.
“I moved on with my life. Took that job at the paper, then insurance.” Micah frowned. “I didn’t think any of that work ‘fit,’ but I didn’t really care, either. Maybe I just settled, the same way I settled for friendship with Coop. He and I have nothing that matters in common.” Micah had used similar words when he’d finally had it out with Coop about the photo he’d sold—the lie. It had been hard, but he’d kept his temper in check. “Maybe I didn’t think I deserved more than that after Stephen.” Micah sighed. “Then I finally found something that made sense. Filled a hole in my life.”
“Your crisis work.”
“Yes. But I still carried that anger around. A sort of festering judgment when it came to drunks. I saw it all through the lens of what happened to my cousin. It felt justified, a banner I had a right to carry. Maybe even some kind of . . . sacred obligation. And then you came along, Sloane. With a history that smacked up against all of that.”
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