by Lisa Fox
Back at his desk, he sat down and cracked his knuckles. Before he could even begin her project, he had to do a little research on the author. He needed to get a sense of her books, her style, before he could know what was right for her. He tried not to feel like a creeper as he typed her name into Google. It was for work. It was what he would have done with any client. His personal interest had no place in it. The fact that he was thrilled when he saw that she was single meant nothing. She was just another client. He scrolled through the returns, picking up little tidbits about her professional life. She’d won quite a few awards and was part of a reading series last month at The New School. He opened a new tab, went to Amazon, and downloaded her first book to his tablet. He’d read that over the weekend. He went back to his search list and clicked on her Wiki page. It was time to get to know Grace Betancourt.
Chapter Two
Grace flexed her fingers over her laptop keyboard. 4,742 words done. Not the best words, she was going to have to do some serious editing, but still, words on the page. Her gaze flicked to the lower left side of the screen. 31,284 words in total. Not enough. No break for her today. She was writing on a tighter deadline than she had ever worked with before, and she constantly felt like she could fall behind at any moment. She had to make this work, find a way to write more. Missing any one of her new set of deadlines was not an option.
She picked up her coffee mug and blew on the hot liquid, reading over what she’d written. She couldn’t go forward until she assessed what she had. There was a new man in town, Seth Winters, and he’d just arrived at the B&B to drop off brochures with deals for the tourists and guests at his new fitness club. He was younger than the heroine, Mia, with dark brown hair and dancing hazel eyes. Tall and fit, Seth was hot, and all the locals and celebrities were flocking to his place to get worked out, slimmed down, bulked up. He had a wide grin with one imperfection, the slightest overlapping of his two front teeth. That tiny flaw in his otherwise flawless face only made him more handsome, and caused the women, and a lot of the men, of the Hamptons to swoon. So far, she wasn’t sure if Seth was going to be a murderer or a just another victim.
Or maybe, he could be a love interest for Mia.
Grace rolled her eyes at herself. Could she be more desperate? It was bad enough she’d totally put her new web designer in her book, but to make him her heroine’s love interest was going a bit overboard. If she wanted to keep him in there at all, she was going to have to change some of the details. The smile was an especially huge giveaway. Still, Ryan made an excellent model, and Mia did deserve a man. This was going to be her third book and maybe it was time for Mia to meet someone. Readers seemed to like a bit of romance.
Her old leather office chair squeaked as she sat back in it, her feet up on the desk. A love interest would definitely open the series to more people, lend it some new marketability. That was the name of the game after all. She had a four-book deal with advances and publisher expectations. She had to make it good, make it readable and liked. She also really needed the money. She wasn’t going to try any gimmick just to sell books, but over the span of four novels, Mia couldn’t remain stagnant. That would be dreadfully boring. She needed to have a life in the town. Meeting someone was the next logical step in a normal life. Seth would enrich the story. He was going to have to stick around for a while.
Grace sighed. Not that she could write from experience or anything. Her own life was sorely lacking in the love interest department. Ryan Granger was an attractive man. And if she read the signs right, kind of interested. She couldn’t believe she’d flirted with him the way she had. But he’d flirted back. No woman could pass up that kind of encouragement. Her cheeks heated as she recalled his smile, the way his gaze fixed on her, the appreciative gleam in his eyes. It was unfortunate that they met now. She had no time for distractions.
Which reminded her—she had a meeting with him on Wednesday. She needed to make that list of “fun extras” for him. She sat up, opened her calendar, and made a note to do it tomorrow. She ran her fingers lightly over the keyboard, her thoughts drifting back to her web designer. She was really looking forward to seeing him again. More than she should be. He was a rough sort, the tight, faded jeans, the black eye, the rakish grin. He knew he was attractive too and had no problem flaunting it. His butt had been stupendous in those jeans. She’d bet he’d look good in leather.
Hmm, leather. Leather jacket, leather chaps…
Inspiration slapped her across the face. She sat up, her fingers flying over the keyboard, busting out sixty words a minute. She deleted Seth’s original introduction, rewrote his entire entrance. A motorcycle. Ryan—Seth—needed to have a motorcycle. What kind of motorcycle? She paused, her hands hovering over the keys. She didn’t know anything about motorcycles. It had to be sexy, all chrome and black. She was going to have to ask on Twitter for suggestions. Maybe she should run a contest. Give away a book and allow the winner to decide which bike Ryan—Seth—gets to ride. She scribbled a note in the notebook she kept beside the computer, envisioning how she would promote it, getting caught up in the details.
“Okay, stop,” she said out loud. Write now, worry about the promo later. She turned her attention back to her work.
Mia frowned at the unfamiliar noise outside the B&B. She peeked through the white lace curtains framing the inn’s bay window and watched a man in leather ride by on a (MOTORCYCLE). He parked the bike a few feet away from the entrance, and when he lifted off his helmet, Mia gasped. He was devastatingly handsome, with a thick stock of unruly dark hair, a bold nose, and the kind of lips that could make a woman think about wicked, wicked things. His muscular thighs flexed as he dismounted the bike, and her heartbeat galloped, the blood racing through her veins suddenly a whole lot warmer.
Grace cocked her head to the side, smiling as she read over what she’d written. It was amazing how easy the words came when she was writing about Seth. She was a slow writer by nature and often struggled over every word, but his appearance seemed to flow with a rhythm all on its own. And it was fun writing about him—fun like it had been in the beginning, before she was caught up in word counts and deadlines and marketing strategies. Writing about him brought back the pure joy of simply writing. It was a welcome change—one she hadn’t even realized she’d been missing.
She went back to work, the scene playing out in her head as she typed. Seth crossing the spacious front porch, the chime of the bell as he opened the door, the fluttering of Mia’s stomach when he approached the reception desk. She gave Mia the warmth she had felt in her own chest when Ryan first smiled at her, that first pulse of instant attraction. Their handshake went on a little longer than normal, and Mia’s breath caught as the heat of his palm warmed hers, a wild flush on her cheeks. It was all so clear in her mind, and the words flowed effortlessly, the tension between Mia and Seth building with every new paragraph.
Her phone buzzed, rudely breaking the spell, and Grace lunged for it, her heart thudding in her ears. There was time when she’d keep her phone off for days, lost in the worlds of her own creation, but now the phone was never far from her hand and every buzz made her cringe and jump. A knot formed in her stomach when she saw who was calling, the dread and fear and worry making her physically ill. She slid the bar across the screen and braced herself for whatever bad news the voice on the other end would deliver. “Hello?”
“Ms. Betancourt?” a coolly professional female voice asked.
Grace closed her eyes. Please don’t be bad. “Yes?”
“This is Andrea Wilcox from Westview Gardens. Your father has had a very minor accident.”
Her stomach lurched, and she clenched her teeth. This could be the nightmare she was always dreading. “Is he hurt?”
“No, not badly. He bumped his head on the way to the bathroom, and he is understandably upset. I’m sure he’d like to see you.” The woman paused. “Of course we were concerned by this incident and we ran some tests. Before you visit him, we’d like to spe
ak with you about altering his level of care. Would you mind stopping by the administrative building when you arrive?”
Grace knew all too well that “altering his level of care” was fancy code for upping the bill. This was the second time since her father had been admitted to the long-term care facility that they’d needed to alter his level of care. Alzheimer's had taken his memory and now it seemed to be taking his basic motor skills as well. When she’d admitted him, she’d wanted to believe they would be able to perform some kind of miracle, maybe help slow down the progression of the disease. Westview Gardens was famous for their recuperative therapies, their brochures boasting they were voted the best residential care facility in the country for five years in a row. If there was any hope for him, it was to be found there. Of course, everything had a price, and in this case, a price no health insurance plan was ever going to pay.
She took a deep breath and rubbed her hand over her forehead in an attempt to soothe away some of the tension. It didn’t work, but it was a nice try. Nowadays, she was made of tension. She glanced at the clock on her computer. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“That’s excellent,” Andrea Wilcox said. “We’ll look forward to your arrival.”
Grace ended the call and instantly went online to the largest car sharing site to see if they had a vehicle free. If not, she’d try somewhere else. She had memberships with all the services and rental agencies. This was not the first phone call she’d received, and she’d learned the hard way that relying on mass transit to get out to Long Island on a moment’s notice was not the way to go. With delays and transfers, it had taken her three hours one day to get to her father’s side. That was totally unacceptable.
She had luck on her first try and found there was a car available about two blocks away on Riverside Drive. Grace quickly reserved it, grabbed her house keys, and left her apartment. She didn’t have time to mess around with makeup or change into better clothing. Appearances did not matter.
It was a beautiful summer afternoon, bright sunny skies, a warm breeze, no clouds, low humidity. The scent of damp earth carried on the wind from Riverside Park, the trees verdant in her peripheral vision. She marched toward the garage, her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. All around her, people were smiling and strolling, enjoying the day and one another. It was the perfect day for a walk, a picnic, a bottle of wine. Sadly, that was not her day.
She got the car—something small and foreign and blue that hadn’t been cleaned out by the previous renter. It even lacked a GPS unit, but that hardly mattered. She didn’t need one. She knew where she was going. All too well. She brushed ashes off the seat, climbed in, and put the car in drive.
The trip out of the city was uneventful, the traffic sparse. In under an hour, she was pulling into the tree-lined drive of the Westview Gardens Guest Homes and selecting a spot in the visitors’ area of the parking lot. A gentle breeze stirred the leafy trees on the campus, birds sang, and elderly people in hospital gowns and robes strolled the winding paths with partners and staff. It was a peaceful place, tranquil, and despite his difficulties, she still felt it was the right place for her father to be. Along with the beautiful setting, they had a nurse practitioner on premises twenty-four hours a day. The staff to patient ratio was outstanding. Everyone had private rooms. If there was a place where he could get better, it would have been here. But despite all the perks, he’d shown no signs of improvement. In fact, everything pointed the opposite way. A lump formed in her throat, and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth to get herself under control. She could not walk in there on the verge of tears. She had to get it together.
She took a deep breath, exited her car, and entered the administrative building. A puff of air conditioning chilled the sweat she didn’t realize she’d had on her brow. Her shoes squeaked on the waxed linoleum floor as she walked down the short, wood-paneled corridor. She told the young woman at the reception desk her name and then sat on one of the plush, floral-printed sofas to wait for Andrea Wilcox to retrieve her.
She picked up a random women’s magazine and had barely gotten through a thought-provoking article on the proper way to apply eye shadow when a familiar voice interrupted her reading.
“Hello, Ms. Betancourt,” Andrea Wilcox said, standing over her. She was an efficient woman in a sensible pants suit, her light-brown hair pulled back in a tight, non-nonsense bun. She looked exactly the same as she had the first time Grace met her, almost two years ago when she’d admitted her father.
Grace stood up and took her hand. “Hello, Ms. Wilcox. How is he doing?”
“He’s fine. Of course, we’re monitoring him closely, but there’s no need for concern. It was just a minor bump.” The woman smiled. “Let’s go to my office and we’ll discuss some of the changes we’d like to implement for your father in the future.”
Grace nodded, and Ms. Wilcox led the way past reception, into the right wing of the building. They entered an office at the end of the hallway, featuring a view of the grounds. Certificates and commendations lined one wall, family photos on the other. Grace did not look at any of them closely, her gaze was focused on the center of the large wooden desk, and her father’s chart sitting in the middle.
Ms. Wilcox sat in her executive leather chair, put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and opened the folder. She studied whatever was written in there for a few seconds and then looked up at Grace. “I’m afraid your father’s condition is deteriorating faster than we’d hoped. We are concerned, but optimistic. However, some aspects of his care will have to change.”
“How did he fall?” Condition. Deteriorating. She couldn’t process the words, didn’t want to. It was easier to focus on something small, something she could handle.
“Unfortunately, he is showing signs of apraxia. He was on his way to the bathroom, and it appears he momentarily forgot how to walk.” She glanced at the file again. “Your father is going to require additional assistance in his daily living. His bathing routine for instance must change drastically in order to fit his current needs.”
Grace’s heart hurt. This disease was the worst thing ever—far worse than even death. “What do you need me to do?”
Ms. Wilcox met Grace’s gaze, her expression sympathetic. “I know this is disheartening, but have hope. Your father is in the best care possible, Ms. Betancourt. We will do everything we can to keep him comfortable and safe.” She removed a stapled pile of papers from the file and placed them on the desk in front of Grace. “Here are our revised plans. Look them over. We just need your signature to begin implementation.” She stood up and walked to Grace’s side. “I’ll give you a few minutes to review them. Would you like coffee or anything?”
“No, thank you,” Grace said, looking at all the small print typed on the stack of papers.
Ms. Wilcox nodded and then left the room.
Grace rubbed her fingers over her eyebrows and then pulled the pile of papers into her lap. Thank God for her new contract. She had his pension and the sale of the house, but that money was only going to last so long. How long would he need this kind of care? Five years? Ten? What if he got worse? Of course he was going to get worse. That’s what Ms. Wilcox was telling her. He was only seventy-four. It wasn’t inconceivable that he could live for another fifteen years or more. Her new set of advances were nice, but nowhere near enough to support that kind of timeline. She needed to earn more. She was a midlist author at best. She needed to be a bestseller. She had to. Because she was going to need more than just four books now. And the only way that was going to happen was if she sold.
The weight of everything sat on her shoulders, crushed her chest, made it difficult to breathe. One thing at a time, she told herself, trying to hold back the rising panic. It was going to be all right. She would make it work. Write the books, promote the books. Make some money. Easy. You can do this.
She lifted the pen Ms. Wilcox left her and began reading the documents. Every place she initialed and signed hurt her heart a little more. This
was what her father’s life had become, needing his daughter’s permission and income to be fed scrambled eggs like an infant.
Ms. Wilcox returned a few minutes later, and Grace handed her the paperwork. “May I see him now?”
“Of course,” Ms. Wilcox said. “This way.”
Ms. Wilcox escorted her out of the administration building and across the lush grounds to the resident’s quarters. Just like in the city, it was a beautiful summer day, but there was no joy in it for Grace.
They entered the cozy brick structure that housed the residents with severe memory impairment, and the smell of old people and hospitals, antiseptics and stewed food, hit Grace all at once, overwhelming her like it always did.
Ms. Wilcox paused in front of her father’s room. “We will take good care of him.”
“Thank you,” Grace said, and the other woman left.
Grace placed her fingertips on the smooth wood door and let out a long breath. It was difficult to see her dad on the best days and today was going to be so much worse. She always wanted to show him a happy face though. He didn’t need to worry about her on top of everything else. She made a promise to herself when she admitted him that she would always be positive around him. Lately, it took some real effort to get into the right mind frame.
Once she was ready, she pushed the door open. The old, grey man in the hospital bed bore almost no resemblance to the man she had once known, the strapping fireman who played ball with the neighborhood kids on his nights off. This was not the man who she dreamed was going to give her away at her wedding to the boy next door and visit with his grandchildren on the weekends while she lived her happily ever after.
He looked up and Grace plastered a smile on her face. “Hey, Dad,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.
He smiled back, and she immediately knew that this was one of his bad days. His eyes were clouded, distant, his jaw leaning toward slack. She hoped she wouldn’t have to explain to him today that he was no longer living in the house in Vermont where she grew up, or that his wife was gone, or who she was.