The Still of Night

by Kristen Heitzmann

  He closed the album. At this rate he’d have to find one of those quick picture booths and send Kelsey a mug shot. He stood up and slid the album back into place, then noticed the stiff paper standing along the side of the shelf. He pulled out the watercolor Noelle had painted of him. It had a roguish quality to the expression but was a remarkable likeness. Especially considering she’d painted from memory and some few sketches she’d made.

  He held it a long moment, recalling Noelle’s face when she’d presented it at Christmas with his family. He had brought her perfume from Paris. Extravagant. Yet this picture had gone straight to his heart. If he gave it to Kelsey …

  He sighed. Noelle was Rick’s wife. It was time to let go. He carried the painting to his office, found a padded envelope large enough, and slipped it inside. Then he took a sheet of letterhead and wrote:

  Dear Kelsey,

  This painting was done by my sister-in-law. It’s a close likeness but if you prefer a photo, just ask. I hope you’re doing well.

  He held his pen poised, then added Love, Morgan.

  He slipped the note into the envelope and sealed it, put that inside a FedEx same-day mailer with an extra prepaid mailer for Jill to send it on to Kelsey, then took out his wallet and the card that held Jill’s phone number and address. He could probably send it directly to the cancer treatment center, but that might get tricky with the Bensons. He addressed the envelope to Jill and put it in the tray for outgoing mail. Then he picked up the phone.

  Jill ran breathlessly inside from the tag football game with her neighbors. “Hello?”

  “Hi.”

  His voice stroked her heart, and it lay still a moment too long.

  “Morgan.”

  “I just got your message.”

  She’d sent it almost two weeks ago and been disappointed when no reply came. “Were you gone?”

  “Consulting in New York.”

  “Oh.” So he hadn’t been offended or simply blown her off. She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm and leaned against the kitchen counter.

  “Were you running?”

  “Football with the neighbors. You started it.”

  “I recall a sound trouncing.” She heard his smile.

  “One touchdown difference is not a trouncing.”

  “All it takes is one.”

  “To win. A trounce requires at least three.” She pulled out the stool and sat, hoping he’d stay on long enough to warrant it. “I hope you don’t mind that I wrote. I just thought since you were so instrumental …”

  “I don’t mind. But next time why don’t you call? I’m easier to reach that way.”

  And far more devastating.

  “You have my cell?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She reached for her phone pad, and he gave her the number. “Morgan, did you send Kelsey a picture? She hadn’t gotten one when—”

  “I have it on my desk to send. It’s a painting Noelle did a year ago last Christmas. Do you think she’ll mind?”

  “I think she’ll love it. From what I saw of Noelle’s work, I’m sure it’s wonderful.” And if Morgan was the subject, she could envy Kelsey.

  “There’s a rakish cast to the expression, but she might miss it.”

  Jill laughed. “I doubt it. Your daughter is very astute, especially about human nature.” Your daughter. It had come so naturally, as though they were a happy couple teasing and preening over their offspring. Yet they were anything but.

  “I miss you.”

  Her heart staggered, and she could not go there. “Have you talked to your parents? Do they know?”

  “That I miss you?”

  “That you helped Kelsey.” Her fingers shook as she forked them through her hair.

  “What is it with you and that question?”

  She filled and cleared her lungs. “They ought to know.”

  “Do yours?”

  “That’s different.” She stood and walked the length of the kitchen.

  “Why?”

  “Because I wasn’t the one who matched.”

  “So you’re telling me if you had done the harvest, they’d have the play by play?”

  She could not begin to imagine it. She had come home to a concerned message from her mother and blithely explained that she’d taken a brief sojourn to California, but she was sorry she’d forgotten to tell them she’d be gone. A play by play on Kelsey and Morgan was not reality. “I guess not.”

  “Then let it go.”

  “Okay.” But it wasn’t the same for his family. They knew part of it already, certainly wanted to know more.

  Morgan said, “There are three dolphins leaping just past the breaking surf. And the sun on the water is dazzling.”

  The image leaped to her mind. “Are you on your balcony?”

  “No. Under it by the orange tree. A gull is pecking the life out of some poor sand crab it carried to my yard.”

  She could almost smell the salt air, hear the rhythm of the waves. Tears stung her eyes. “What color is the sky?”

  “Pale blue with a smattering of thin, wispy clouds.”

  She had touted Beauview the last time they compared environments, but now that she was back, she found little to commend. “I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

  “It’s nicer with someone to share it.”

  “Morgan …”

  “I should have stuck to the original gate idea.” Why was he doing this, when he’d all but shoved her out the door?

  “I should go.”

  “All right.”

  “Bye.” She hung up the phone and caught the sobs before they took hold. Tenaciously she fended off the emotion and grabbed the phone again while she flipped open the directory and found the number she needed.

  “Hello, Celia? This is Jill Runyan.”

  When she hung up that time, she felt as though a weight was lifted from her heart. Morgan’s family knew now what he’d done for Kelsey, and she’d been invited for supper tomorrow night. Longing and trepidation warred inside her, but she had accepted.

  Morgan stood alone in the warm air and watched the gull demolish the tiny white crab. The scent of lilies lent peace to the brutal scene. The songbirds in the orange tree ignored the death below, one crab among millions. The waves washed them up, the birds carried them away, cracked their shells, devoured their meat. The cycle of life.

  He slipped his cell phone into his pocket, crossed the yard, and descended to the beach. His two weeks in New York City had been invigorating. In addition to the whirlwind hours of his initial attack on the project, he’d taken in a show with Marlina. He had even spent a few moments with Noelle’s father, William St. Claire, just to connect.

  But even though he’d told Jill it was just a place, this was home. He had adopted it completely. There was energy here, the sound of the waves, the grit of the sand, the heat of the sun. No smothering humidity, just balmy, living air. The palette of the sky above him grew interesting. What color is the sky? Why wasn’t Jill there to see it herself? He imagined her on the beach with him, hand in hand.

  “Hello, Morgan. Home again?”

  He turned at the greeting to meet the wide, sophisticated smile of his neighbor. “For a while.”

  “You work too hard.” She brushed the long red hair from her shoulder with melon-colored fingernails cut square and sporting white palm trees and a jeweled sun on each. “Just like Eric.”

  “Where is he this time?”

  “Japan.” She shrugged. “Home of the geisha.” Her gaze intensified. From conversations with Eric, he knew her suspicions were well founded. And from conversations with her, she didn’t waste time suffering.

  “Want to come over for a drink?”

  He tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “No, thanks, Suzanne.”

  She raised her brows. “He’ll be gone all week.” She stepped close and touched his arm. “I see you out here all the time. Why do you want to be lonely?”

  “What makes you think I�
�m lonely?” He stepped back half a pace.

  “You have the look.” She studied his face. “No one as attractive as you should ever be alone.”

  He crooked a smile. “Thank you. But in fact, I’m not lonely, just pensive. My mind’s been on overdrive and it’s gearing down.”

  “Forget your mind.” Her eyes traveled him brazenly, and he realized how a woman must feel under his own scrutiny. Another incriminating thought about actions he’d scarcely considered suddenly spotlighted.

  Discomfort seeped in. Women came on to him all the time. It had never bothered him before. What was this attack of conscience? But he wanted out of there, away from her, from everyone. He raised a hand. “I’ll see you.”

  “You know where to find me. I’m the girl next door.”

  The wife next door. He took the path up to his house and got a bottle of gin from the bar. He poured it into a martini glass with a splash of Rose’s lime. All of his neighbors were married, except for one. Alex was living with the fifth long-legged blonde he’d brought there since Morgan moved in. Several of the other marriages were second or third efforts. It was natural that he, the lone bachelor, would be Suzanne’s mark, though truth be told, marriage hadn’t stopped some of the others.

  He drank the gin and lime and circled his game room restlessly. He was just so tired of it all, and talking to Jill had awakened the pain. Why not join Suzanne, wrangle all night, and have no remorse in the morning? He drained the glass and refilled it. Because he would have remorse and it changed nothing. He’d hardly slept or eaten for two weeks, thoughts of all his bad choices troubling him every moment he let down. It was an assault, his soul in rebellion.

  He gripped his head with splayed fingers. His stomach churned. He went to the bathroom and emptied the booze from his belly. Another symptom of late. He’d switched from bourbon, thinking the last overdose when Jill was there had caused some kind of allergic reaction. Now it seemed the gin was doing the same. If he didn’t know better, he’d think something conspired against him, something large and ruthless like the gull with the crab. He washed his mouth and face at the sink, staggered to the wall. This was not good.

  It had to be a bug, some virus. He’d tell Consuela to forget supper. Her expression clouded the moment she saw him. “Señor Morgan …”

  “I’ve got a virus or something. Don’t make me food.” He waved her off and went to his room, collapsed on his bed, and stayed there. Sweat leaked from his pores. A very good thing he had not accepted Suzanne’s offer. His stomach turned at the thought.

  “God …” The word was out like a prayer. Did he mean it that way? Morgan swallowed, his chest heaving painfully. He jerked back the coverlet. Hot. At the tap on his door, he said, “I don’t want anything.”

  He closed his eyes. Maybe his immunity had been compromised from the loss of bone marrow. Fine. He’d caught something. It would pass. He pressed his face to the pillow. In the meantime he was miserable. “God …”

  CHAPTER

  29

  Astockier, grayer Hank was in the yard when Jill drove up the next night. He set down the trimmer he was using on the front bushes and pulled off his work gloves to greet her. Drawing a deep breath, Jill climbed out of the car and met him halfway across the walk. How warm his smile, deep in the eyes so blue like Morgan’s.

  He held out his hand, and she took it faintly, then found herself curled into his arm. “How are you, Jill?”

  She expelled her breath. “A little nervous.”

  He squeezed her hand and let her go. “I’m glad you accepted Celia’s offer.”

  “I was too surprised to refuse.”

  He laughed. “Good.” Then he stood a moment looking at her.

  “We appreciate your call. Of course, we assumed Morgan would do what he could, but when we never heard …” He spread his hands. “We wondered if there’d been anything he could do.”

  “It’s too early to tell for sure. Engraftment can take weeks, but—”

  “Save that, if you don’t mind. Celia will want to hear it, too.”

  Jill looked at the door, bracing herself to go inside and face Celia again.

  The girl she’d seen before opened the door. “Hi. I’m Tara, if you don’t remember.”

  Jill smiled, recalling Morgan’s assessment of his youngest sister. “I remember.”

  “And you’re Jill. Unless you want me to call you Ms. Runyan. Mom said I had to ask, but it makes me feel like a little kid to say it.”

  “Just call me Jill.” She laughed softly. No wallflower this one.

  They ushered her inside and Celia met her at the entrance to the living room. Her smile did not embrace her as Hank’s had, but it was there. “Hi, Jill. I’m glad you could come. We’re waiting for Therese, but you remember Stephanie and Tiffany.” She motioned to the girls coming in behind her.

  Yes, she remembered them but as little girls. They would have been four or five? She couldn’t remember, and she must have looked confused, because the nearest one said, “I’m Tiffany. That’s Steph.” Stephanie had Hank’s firm jaw. Tiffany’s hair was as dark as Morgan’s. Both were lovely young women.

  Jill smiled. “You were pretty little when I knew you before.”

  “I remember you,” Stephanie said. “But you had long hair and wore it in a ponytail.”

  Jill raised her eyebrows, surprised. “You’re right. I just cut it this summer.”

  Steph flipped her thick braid over her shoulder. “I’d seriously like to cut this, but I’d look dreadful with it short.”

  “My hairdresser has a gift for finding the right cut for the face. I’ll give you her name if you want.”

  “Great.”

  Celia said, “Why don’t you sit down? Would you like some tea or lemonade?”

  Jill smiled. “Lemonade sounds great.”

  Tara plunked down beside her on the couch. “Well, I think it’s really cool I’m an aunt.”

  The thought startled her. Of course, each of Morgan’s sisters would be Kelsey’s aunts. Oh, how the ripples spread. “I’m not sure how that works with adoption, Tara.”

  “I know.”

  “And Kelsey’s almost your age. Are you sixteen?”

  “Yep.”

  Jill reached for the lemonade Celia handed her. “Thank you.”

  The front door opened and a tall, slender brunette came in. Therese. Jill recognized her, but then she’d been six at least. A young man followed, about the same height with a triangular face and arched brows over gray eyes.

  Hank stood up. “Jill, this is Therese and her fiancé, Steve.”

  “Don’t get up,” Therese said, coming in. “We’re just family.”

  Hank gave Steve a side hug and patted his back. “Long classes?” “My mind is mush.”

  Therese sat down on Jill’s other side. “It’s been a long time.” Jill nodded. A lifetime.

  “Mom filled us all in, so we know about Kelsey. I’m glad you had the baby.”

  And here she’d worried about being careful what she said. “I couldn’t do anything else.”

  “How’s Morgan?” Again right to the point.

  “Do you mean from the bone marrow harvest?”

  Therese shrugged. “Everything.”

  Jill settled back in the couch, gripping the glass between her palms. “Well, he handled the harvest well. It’s not an easy procedure. But I spoke with him last night and he sounded good.” I miss you. Why had he said that? His actions had spoken quite the opposite.

  “Tell us how all this works,” Hank said.

  “I’m no expert, but I think I’ve read every Web site and quite a few books since I learned Kelsey had leukemia.” She started by explaining the sort of disease that threatened Kelsey’s life, then the treatments they’d already tried. Last she described the marrow harvest and rescue.

  Tara hunched forward. “Is it for sure? The transplant will cure it?”

  Heart sinking, Jill shook her head. “Because Kelsey got leukemia at an older
age, the prognosis is not as good. Also, the disease is tenacious. They had hoped to do a minitransplant. That means they administer lower doses of chemotherapy and sometimes avoid total body irradiation to destroy most but not all of Kelsey’s own marrow. Her cells and Morgan’s would coexist, and his cells should combat the cancer in a graft-versus-tumor effect. But the cancer was too resistant and she needed standard myeloablative therapy, which wipes out her immune system completely.”

  “So could Morgan just give more bone marrow if she needs it?”

  “It’s part of the protocol for the donor to agree to successive transplants if necessary. I know he’ll do whatever it takes.” Jill pressed her hands together. “But it’s a difficult and involved process. So many things can go wrong.”

  “I think we should pray.” Celia’s voice was calm but warm. She reached a hand to Hank, who joined with Steve, and as one, they formed a circle with their hands. Jill’s were clasped in Tara’s and Therese’s as they bowed their heads and prayed for Kelsey’s healing, for her adoptive parents, and for Jill and Morgan, as well.

  Warmth and hope seized her as she joined them in prayer. Maybe this evening would not be so difficult after all. In fact, it was boisterously pleasant. Jill talked about her work—though not the current situation, which she had yet to confront—the others about their plans and activities. There were no lulls in the conversation, and by the time she left she felt thoroughly filled up.

  She got home and found a FedEx same-day envelope on her door. The return address was Morgan’s and she scooped it up eagerly. Letting herself in, she set her purse on the couch and studied the envelope. She probably could readdress it and send it on, the way it was packaged.

  Jill pressed it to her breast. Was it wrong to just take a look? She turned on the lamp and gripped the tab of the envelope. The phone rang. She went to the kitchen and answered, “Hi, Shelly.”

  “No, Jill, it’s Mom.”

  Jill’s heart made a guilty thump, having just left the Spencers. “How are you? Is everything okay?” Her breath came too quickly, but that was ridiculous! She was thirty-one years old. She could visit anyone she wanted.