It wasn’t peace exactly, but a sense of submission. If she’d been urged to fight, she would have. But that was not her leaning. She moistened her dry lips and hoped she wasn’t making another mistake with her life. It was possible, given the simple fact that Morgan was involved.
Something moved against his legs, soft, yet prickly points on his skin. Morgan stirred, opened his eyes to the cat at his feet. It stretched with a raspy meow, and he noticed it was the claws of the cat’s back foot in his skin. He rose up on his elbow and studied the cat, puzzled.
Jill spoke from the nook. “He’s a cuddler.”
Morgan stretched and stifled a yawn, maneuvering his legs from under the cat and swinging them to the floor. He held his face and his stomach growled. “Did you say something about lunch?”
“A few hours ago. It’s closer to dinner now. But you could have the salad still.” She got up and took a salad from the refrigerator. “Greek, or blue cheese?”
“Either.” He was still foggy, but he needed food.
She set his meal on the table. He didn’t get up right away but sat still, holding his head.
“Are you all right?”
He turned. “Yeah.”
“I hope you like crab. I just grabbed what looked good at the store.”
He pressed himself up and stretched again. “Can I wash up?”
She motioned to the kitchen sink. He went to the sink, scrubbed his hands and face, and toweled dry with her dishcloth. Jill looked dazed. She couldn’t still be that disturbed by his invitation. After all, she’d started the process. He joined her at the table, studied the salad, and picked up his fork.
“If you’d rather have something else, I can—”
“This is fine.”
“I know it’s not awfully filling.”
He glanced up, then took a bite.
“Not everyone likes butter lettuce or imitation crab. I should have thought—”
He swallowed his bite. “It’s good.”
She continued, “I’m marinating a steak for dinner. Do you like cheesy corn?”
What on earth had turned her into this babbling brook? He leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Sure.” So she was assuming he’d stay that long. He took another bite, unsure himself where to take it all.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Do you have anything I’d want?”
“Just milk or juice. Or water.”
“Water. Thanks.”
She stood up and poured him a glass from the filtered pitcher. She set it before him and sat back down, fidgeting.
Rascal came and rubbed his legs, then went to her. She lifted the cat to her lap.
Morgan took a drink. “Does he have a name?”
“Rascal.”
“Doesn’t appear to have the energy to warrant that.”
She snuggled Rascal under her chin. “Not since he got neutered. But as a kitten it certainly fit.”
Morgan watched her, more unsure of his motives than before. What was he doing there talking about dinner with a woman he wanted to throttle? Or did he? Eating crab salad, watching Jill with her pet, in her home, in the town that deep inside was his home, too, it was hard to hold on to the anger. But it was harder still to understand.
He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. “Thanks for the salad.”
“If you’re still hungry—”
“I’m fine.” But he wasn’t.
“Morgan …”
Here it came, he could tell by her expression. Something she didn’t want to say but felt compelled to. What other bombs did she have in her arsenal?
“I was thinking about what you said, about being with you for the bone marrow harvest. Did you really mean it?”
He backpedaled to get there with her. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told you, Consuela’s great with a meal and a mop, but—”
“I mean really, Morgan.”
He studied her stroking the cat under the neck, an expression in her eyes of both concern and hope. “Jill, I didn’t think it through that deeply. If you want to come, come.” Definitely not the answer she wanted. He leaned back in his chair. “Can you arrange it at school?”
Something flickered in her eyes. “Yes. I have as much time as I need.”
He shrugged. “Then come.”
She stood up and walked to the front window. The stiff line of her back showed her ire. What did she expect? For him to jump for joy? He was still trying to weather the tide.
But he got up and joined her. “Since this involves both of us, we ought to see it through together.”
She turned. “I’m grateful for you doing this, Morgan. I thought I could show it by supporting you. If you don’t need that …”
He slid the ends of his fingers inside the waist of his shorts and resisted the unrealistic tug of her words. “I’m long past need, Jill.”
She gathered herself. “Good. Then I’ll come as a friend and …”
He quirked his mouth sideways. “Rub my back?”
“If you need—if you want—if that’s what …”
His grin made her squirm. “Got a football?”
“What?”
“A pointed spherical pigskin?” He made the passing motion.
She glanced at her front closet. “Yes, but I doubt it’s inflated.” She opened the door and dug it out from a box on the shelf, squeezing it a little too much.
“Air pump?”
“On my bike.”
He followed her into the garage, warm with the day’s captured heat and smelling of cat box and rubber. He took the small hand pump and the needle she scrounged and made the football firm. “Throw it around?”
“Okay.”
They had to go back inside and out her patio door to get to the long strip of property between her row of units and the next, where her friend Shelly and the cop lived. Morgan pulled back his arm and sent Jill a soft spiral. She caught it easily, and her return throw was strong and straight. She’d been a natural for the game, equally capable of throwing and catching, and a speed hound in sight of the goal line. She didn’t mind mixing it up but took it personally if she got tackled.
He sent the ball back sharper this time. She stepped to her right and caught it, sent it back. His muscles appreciated the motion after the long drive and his nap on the couch. “Go out for one.”
She started running, and he led her just enough with his throw. She drew it in to her chest, turned, and burned it back. He had to dive but caught it, then landed and rolled.
“Sorry.”
He lay on his back in the grass until she stood over him.
“Are you all right?”
He gripped her ankle. “What do you think?”
She swooped down to capture the ball and tried to tug free of his grip, ending up sitting hard on her backside. He rolled, knocked the ball free, scooped it up, and ran. She charged to her feet too late to catch him before he raised his hands and the ball high in victory.
She jutted her chin. “That was holding. Ten yards.”
“This is holding.” He clamped her waist with one arm and held the ball up higher than her reach.
“Cheater.”
Three middle school neighbor boys came into the yard. “Can we play?”
Morgan let her go. “Don’t know, can you? Let’s see your stuff.” He sent the nearest boy a spiral. It glanced off his fingers, and the next kid over caught it. “Now that’s teamwork. You two can be on Jill’s team. She needs the extra help. I’ll take you.” He pointed to the third and smallest of them.
The boy ran to his side.
“What’s your name?”
“Eric.”
“Eric, we are going to take ’em out early, and I’ll tell you how.” He drew the boy’s head close and whispered the first play. “Got it?”
Eric grinned. By the end of their possession, a tomboy girl named Alli and a balding electrician had joined in. It was no surprise when Brett stepp
ed out his patio door dressed in a Beauview PD T-shirt. They rearranged the teams to accommodate him and his wife, who had just gotten home from work. When Shelly missed the third easy pass, he put her on the line to block her husband, who knew his stuff. Marital devotion might confuse the man.
Morgan had his team running like a machine, but they were still having trouble with Jill’s speed. Mark, the electrician, had a long throw and when they connected, she easily outdistanced Morgan’s defense. He ordered Alli over farther to the left and winked at Eric to rush the passer, but Mark still got off his throw and Jill sprinted for the goal line. It was up to him. He cut the angle but had to lunge to get both hands to her hips. His momentum brought them down, rolling just before they hit, so he got the ground and she landed atop.
She held on to the ball but scowled. “Two-hand touch.”
“I did.”
She pulled onto her knees. “No, you tackled.”
Lying on his back, he could hardly argue. “It was momentum.”
“Intentional.”
He punched the ball up through her hands and caught it. “Crybaby.”
She shoved his chest. “Thug.”
He sat up and stared her down. “What are you gonna do about it?”
She ripped a handful of grass and shoved it down his shirt, then scrambled to her feet and stood hands on hips.
Morgan stood up, shaking the grass from his shirt. He did not reciprocate, just sent her a smug glance and called his team together. “Fourth down. Let’s stop them.” He read the next play as it unfolded, their electrician quarterback lacking ingenuity. Morgan intercepted the ball almost out of Jill’s hands, a rush of old memories flooding in as he did—all their competitions, the many times she came out on top, but the times he bested her as well. Football, track, academics—she’d been an essential element in his formation.
As her hands tagged his hips, he couldn’t help but miss all the challenges they could have given each other over the last fifteen years. She had sharpened him like no one else before or since, the final pass over her pumice leaving his edge too keen to touch. He set his jaw. He was treading dangerous waters. But when had that ever stopped him before?
Shelly was more proficient with the flank steak, skewered shrimp, and new potatoes on her patio grill than she’d been with the football. Jill finished grating the cheese and set it aside for the corn, then set Shelly’s table for four, a different foursome than their past norm. Morgan and Brett were in companionable conversation, though Jill suspected in Brett some defensiveness on Dan’s behalf.
She lifted the plate of tomatoes she’d sliced and peppered. “Do you want these in the fridge until we’re ready?”
“No, keep them room temp. Don’t you know that, midwestern girl that you are?”
Jill smiled. “I know that’s what they say. I just prefer them chilled.”
Shelly crossed to the sink beside Jill and rinsed her hands. She whispered, “You didn’t tell me he was Apollo.”
“He’s not.” Morgan was far too human.
“Could have fooled me.” Shelly hooked the first can of corn under the opener and whirred the lid off.
Jill took the cans from Shelly and poured the corn into the pot. She turned on the burner and put the pot’s lid on. “Shelly, I’m going with Morgan to be there when they extract the marrow.” If she was crazy, Shelly would say so in an instant.
Shelly wiped her hands on a towel. “Where?”
“The UCLA Medical Center. It’s the one nearest his home.”
“He doesn’t have to go where Kelsey is?”
Jill shook her head. “He’d like to. He wants to see her. But that’s not how it works.”
“My stomach’s growling, Shell,” Brett called from the living room. “Don’t forget the grill while you’re standing there with your heads together.”
“Last I looked you weren’t paralyzed,” Shelly called back.
Brett grinned. “Fine. I like my steak rare.” He got up and headed out the patio door.
Jill caught Morgan’s gaze. During the game he’d been playful and exuberant; Morgan did always shine in a crowd. Not that he played to an audience necessarily. He just liked people, and they liked him. Now his expression was inscrutable, though he didn’t look away when their eyes met. If ever there was a crazy mixed-up situation, this was it, and he was probably as confused as she.
Brett came in with the plate of grilled meats and browned new potatoes. Jill would have baked them with scallions, but Brett liked them from the grill a little crisp and smoky. She stirred the last of the cheese into the corn with the already melted cream cheese, peppers, and onion. They gathered and she said a silent prayer for all of them. Morgan winked at her when he took a bite of corn. That was the Morgan she remembered.
The steak was done to a perfect medium rare, thinly sliced and running juices over the plate. The shrimp was charred and lemony, and the tomatoes, bursting with crisp, fresh flavor, contrasted nicely with the creamy corn. A lingering scent of smoke drifted through the screen from the grill.
Morgan ate, but with none of Dan’s voraciousness. He did appear to appreciate the fare and said so twice, once actually making Shelly flush. This was not good. Getting Morgan out of town was gaining significance. Shelly was way too much the romantic to ever let it go. She would not understand the utter impossibility of anything developing between them again.
After dinner, Morgan walked Jill back to her townhouse and stopped outside her front door. Probably better not to go in again. He took his car keys from his pocket and bounced them in his palm. “You can be ready in the morning?”
She looked into his face. “If you’re sure you want me to come.”
“I don’t make idle offers.” He might not have thought it through completely before he threw it out to her, but once he’d said it, he wasn’t taking it back. He didn’t operate that way, even if the next few days might be close encounters of the worst kind. He’d acted on instinct, and that usually paid off.
“Then I’ll be ready. Are you going to stay with your family, or did you want to …”
He quirked his mouth. “I already sampled your couch. I’ll get a room.”
“In a motel?”
He took the house key from her hand and unlocked her door. “I spend most of my life in hotels.”
“Not the kind you’ll find here.”
Why was she pushing it?
“Good night, Jill.”
He waited until the door closed and locked behind her, then went to his car. No doubt it was absurd to stay in a roadside motel when his family was twenty minutes away. They would have a bed for him, and they would want to see him. But he had put them through enough the first time. The less they knew, especially now that Jill was going with him, the better it was for all of them. Mom would not let it go until she had probed out every nuance, and Morgan had no answers except that he intended to find his daughter and improve her situation by any means he could.
The motel bed was at least better than Jill’s couch, and he was tired enough it would do. The lack of a minibar was disappointing, but not enough for him to go find a liquor store. That would only be an invitation to traipse down memory lane, and that was one trip he’d rather skip. The football game had been enough to quicken memory and more. He needed to keep his purpose foremost. He never wanted to feel that helpless again.
CHAPTER
18
Kelsey sat in the hospital chapel, breathing hard just from walking. Like it was some major thing to move her legs! How discouraging was that? But she tried to hide it. Mom was worried enough, and Kelsey hated to make it worse. She had begged to come to the chapel, even though Mom was concerned about infection, and rightly so. But there was so much fear and sorrow in the oncology ward it had overwhelmed her spirit.
Her roommate had been taken to intensive care with fever spikes of a hundred and six. She had mumbled loudly in the middle of the night until Kelsey realized she was delirious. She’d buzzed the nurse
and they had taken Rachel away.
Kelsey lay waiting for her own fever to spike, but the antibiotics they’d started at the first sign of fever yesterday seemed to be controlling it. So far. She’d asked the nurse for pizza and eaten it at 2:20 A. M. It tasted bad, but the milk shake with it helped, and for once she’d been hungry.
Mom settled into the chair beside her in the chapel. Dad was making phone calls. There were so many people praying for her. Peace permeated the quiet chapel in the middle of the busy hospital. How many scared cries had gone up inside these walls? She closed her eyes and asked Jesus to give Rachel strength. She’d had her surgery yesterday, and from the faces of the oncologists, they were optimistic.
Jesus, don’t let this infection stop her healing.
Rachel was twelve, and her fifteen-year-old brother had been a constant visitor before the surgery. His broad face had more coppery freckles than anyone Kelsey had ever seen. Even his fingers were freckled. He’d smiled at her when he came in to see his sister. “Hi, there. Mind if I barge in on you and Rachie for a while?”
Kelsey shook her head. “Barge away.”
They’d ended up playing Scrabble on Rachel’s bed, laughing at the ridiculous letter combinations Josh tried to pass off as words. Since they didn’t have a dictionary to prove him wrong, Kelsey accessed one on her laptop and gleefully pointed out his errors. Now Rachel was in intensive care, and Kelsey once again faced her own condition.
It was dumb to think she couldn’t die. Even if she had made it to five years on her first remission and been declared cured, she wasn’t sure she’d have believed it. God had numbered her days regardless of all the Cytoxin and radiation the oncologists had to offer. Lately she felt stretched and flimsy, like a musical story she’d heard as a child where the character had become “see-through-ish.” That’s how she felt.
She smiled when Mom took her hand. “It’s a nice chapel, isn’t it?”
Mom nodded. “It’s good to have a place set aside for the Lord.”
“Besides our hearts?”
Mom smiled. “I don’t know how people are coping here without God’s grace to strengthen them.”
The Still of Night Page 22