Act of Contrition

by Linda Rettstatt

  She sat up and then stumbled out into the hall. “Patrick?”

  He held up two paper sacks. “Shelly sent me on a mercy mission. She got held up at the diner.”

  “Oh…uh…I’ll be right out. Just put those things in the kitchen.” She ducked back into her bedroom and located her bathrobe.

  When she entered the kitchen, Patrick stared at her and his eyes widened. “You look miserable.”

  “I think I have the flu. You might want to keep your distance.” She dropped into a chair. “My throat feels like sandpaper.”

  Patrick removed a carton of orange juice from one of the bags. “This should help. Where are your glasses?”

  Jenny pointed to the cabinet at the right of the sink. She watched while he poured the juice and served it to her. “Thank you.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  She hesitated. When had she eaten last? She and Ashley skipped lunch, and she had forgone breakfast. “Yesterday.”

  “Shelly sent chicken soup. I’ll warm up a cup for you.” He moved efficiently around the kitchen, finding what he needed without further question.

  Jenny bit her lower lip. He was being kind, and she could stand almost anything but kindness. “You don’t have to do that. I can manage.” She pushed herself to her feet and was met with a wave of dizziness.

  “Whoa. Sit down.” Patrick eased her back into the chair. “It’s no trouble.” The microwave buzzed and he set the steaming mug of soup in front of her. “You want crackers with that?”

  The thought of trying to swallow crackers made her grimace. She shook her head and scooped up a spoonful of egg noodles and broth. The warm, salty soup caressed her throat on the way down and warmed her stomach. “Oh, this is good.”

  Patrick continued to unpack the grocery bags. He set a bag of honey and lemon throat drops and a three-pack box of tissues on the counter. “Thought you might need these, too. And this.” He produced a dark green bottle labeled Nyquil.

  “You’re a godsend.” Her head pounded and her eyes burned. “Could you turn off the overhead light?”

  “Sure.” He flipped the light switch, leaving only the soft light above the kitchen sink burning. “Do you need anything else?”

  “No. Thank you. I’m sorry Shelly recruited you. I’m sure you have other things to do.”

  “I’m on my way to see Dad and take him some soup, then I’ll stop back here and check on you before I go home.”

  “You don’t have to.” She knew she should say those words, but the gratitude she felt at his presence overwhelmed her.

  He ignored her. “It’s snowing, so I won’t be gone long.” He held up the key. “I’m taking this with me and locking the door behind me. You should try to get some sleep.” He shrugged into his jacket. “Leave those dishes there, and I’ll take care of them when I get back.”

  When she finished the soup, she pushed up from the table, this time waiting a moment to gain her balance. She shuffled through the living room and down the hall to her bedroom where she fell blessedly into a deep sleep—compliments of the Nyquil.

  ****

  Jenny’s eyes burned as she forced them open. Moonlight gave the dark room a blue-white glow. She swallowed, wondering who had fed her ground glass. She attempted to reach for the water on the nightstand, but something held her down. An arm. A warm, heavy, male arm. Her heart quickened. She lifted the arm and slid from beneath, looking over at the body to which it belonged. Patrick.

  He lay atop the blankets, covered only with the afghan. Light danced on his face, defining chiseled features.

  She sat up, but the pounding in her head leveled her again, sending her back onto the pillow.

  “Jenny?”

  “Uh-huh.” Someone was tap dancing inside her skull. She laid an arm across her eyes.

  The bed squeaked when he sat up. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Like road kill.”

  He chuckled. “Good description. You should see yourself.”

  She slid her arm from one eye and looked up at him. “Why are you here?”

  “I was afraid to leave you alone. You were shaking and mumbling, out of your head. Don’t worry. I slept on top of the blankets, fully clothed.”

  “Oh, I’m certain I’m irresistible right now. What time is it?”

  “A little past ten p.m.”

  She turned her face, her nose meeting her armpit. “God, what’s that smell?”

  “It’s you. Your fever broke. And you’re soaked. You need a shower.”

  “I don’t care. I can’t move.”

  “I’m filling the tub, and I’ll change the sheets while you take a hot bath. You’ll feel much better. Besides, you shouldn’t stay in those damp clothes.”

  She groaned. “I appreciate you staying, but I’m fine now.”

  “Okay. But the storm dumped five inches of snow, then ice. I’m not going anywhere tonight.” He stood and the bed rocked.

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “Help you?”

  “No. Rock the bed. My stomach…”

  “There’s a waste basket next to the bed. I’m drawing a bath. You have two choices—get into on your own, or I can carry you in there and help you into the tub.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll get up. God, it’s cold in this room.”

  “That’s because you’re clothing is soaked. Stay under the blankets until I get your bath ready.”

  Water splashed into the tub across the hall. Jenny lay and listened to him opening and closing the linen closet.

  “Do you have a robe?” he called.

  “Hanging behind the door.”

  He delivered her thick terry cloth bathrobe to her. “Get out of those damp sweats and put this on.”

  She wrapped her fingers around the bottom hem of her sweatshirt. He stood across the bed from her, waiting.

  “Could you at least turn around?”

  “Oh, sorry.” He turned his back while she ripped off her moist clothing and wrapped herself in the robe.

  “Okay.” She slid her feet into a pair of fleece-lined moccasins and padded to the bathroom.

  Steam rose from the water. She dropped her robe and dipped her toes into the tub, checking the temperature. Rolling a small towel to brace her neck, she eased into the hot bath and lay back. Her body gave a shudder as muscles relaxed in the steaming warmth. She massaged her scratchy throat.

  Patrick’s footsteps sounded in the hall. She smiled, thinking of him making up her bed. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she felt hungry, not nauseated.

  Patrick tapped on the door. “You okay in there?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she croaked. “I feel much better.”

  “I’ll be in the kitchen, making tea. I hope you don’t mind, but I looked in your drawer and found another pair of sweats. I left them on the bed.”

  “Okay.” She opened the drain to release some of the cooling water and turned on the hot tap to warm the bath, relishing the warmth.

  Once dressed, she stumbled to the kitchen, the robe tied over her sweats. She sat at the table, and Patrick poured hot water into a mug, setting it in front of her with a tea bag. “You need something to eat?”

  “Yeah, I think I’m actually hungry.”

  “Soup and crackers? Or something more substantial?”

  “More soup will be fine. My throat feels like it’s on fire.”

  “Honey.”

  “Huh?”

  “Honey in your tea. It’ll soothe your throat.” He pointed to the jar on the table.

  “That was always Grandma’s remedy.” She opened the jar and added a generous spoonful into the hot liquid. She watched him move confidently around the kitchen.

  He set a bowl into the microwave. “You feeling better?”

  “I am. You were right, the bath helped. I haven’t been this sick in a long time.”

  “You’ve been under stress. Your resistance is down.”

  She stared at him, considering his last words. Her resistance. Yes
, her resistance was down.

  Patrick sat across from her, blowing on the steam pluming from his mug of tea. He glanced up. “How’s the soup?”

  “Good. You should have some.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “How’s your dad?”

  He shook his head. “No better. No worse.”

  She swallowed the hot soup and her throat loosened. “How can something feel good and hurt at the same time?”

  He stared at her. “Funny how that can happen.”

  She set the spoon down and sat back in her chair. “Patrick… I never wanted to hurt you.”

  He broke from her gaze. “This isn’t the time.”

  “Maybe it is. Maybe it finally is the time.” She shoved the soup bowl back and leaned on the table. “I only left to try to get you to listen to me, to what I wanted. And, then, when you didn’t come to Boston, I just… I thought it was over between us.”

  Patrick glared at her. “It was never over.”

  “I had decided to come home, but…”

  “But instead you married Matthew.”

  She buried her face in her hands. “I had to.”

  “Yeah, right. You had no choice.”

  She glanced at him then looked away. “I was pregnant.”

  He stood and walked to the sink, depositing his empty mug inside.

  “Patrick? I’m so sorry.”

  He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “Look, we can’t change the past. We both need to move on.”

  The chair scraped as she stood. “But you haven’t. And it seems I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. You’ve done it before.” He turned and faced her. “And, for the record, just because I didn’t marry doesn’t mean I haven’t moved on.”

  She stared at him. “If you’d moved on, you wouldn’t be standing in my kitchen, throwing barbs at me. I’m sorry. Okay? I’m…so…damned…sorry.” She crossed her arms over her chest and hunched over in a coughing fit.

  His hands balled into fists. He brushed past her and slammed out the front door.

  Outside, he paced back and forth in front of the window. He had to be freezing out there without a jacket. Jenny watched his silhouette for a moment then returned to her bedroom. He would come back inside when he was ready.

  ****

  Jenny tiptoed through the living room and past Patrick sleeping on the sofa. She filled the kettle and set it to boil. The shrill whistle cut through her brain like a dull knife. She sat at the small dining table in the kitchen, her forehead resting in the palm of her hand.

  Patrick appeared in the doorway. “How are you feeling?”

  She replied with a rumbling cough.

  “That good, huh?” He removed the kettle from the stove and poured water into her waiting mug. He set the drink in front of her and sat down opposite.

  She glanced at him and wheezed, “Thank you.”

  “Lost your voice?”

  Nodding, she gave a weak smile.

  Patrick crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Good, then maybe you’ll have to listen. First of all, I apologize for getting angry with you and making that snide comment last night. Truth is I was angry with myself. Secondly, I think we owe it to ourselves to figure out what could be between us, if anything.”

  Jenny opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  Patrick shook his head. “Just listen. I’ve been living in the Cayman Islands for the past five years. I came back here when Dad had the stroke. Circumstances brought both of us home. So, here we are, having to face one another again. I’m not complaining.” He grinned. “Though I’ll admit, you’ve looked better.” He reached out and covered her hand with his. “Maybe we’re being offered a second chance.”

  When she tried to respond, a fit of coughing wracked her. She regained control and rasped, “It’s not that simple.”

  “True. Nothing worth doing is simple. I’ve never known Jenny O’Connell to back down from a challenge.”

  “Jenny O’Con—” Her voice broke. “Shit.”

  Patrick squeezed her hand. “Here’s the truth, Jenny. I loved you. I was an ass and let pride get between us, and I lost you. I’ve been with other women, but never settled down because none of them were you. I know you have a lot to wade through right now, but I’m not going anywhere. At least not for a while. We need to get to know one another again. So, if you’ll let me, I’d like to be your friend.”

  “I—”

  “Just say okay, and then I’ll make breakfast.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. In the moment, feeling vulnerable and alone, she told herself it was possible to put the past to rest.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jenny stood at the window, tugged the robe over her chest and crossed her arms. Patrick scraped the last of the ice from the windshield of his truck. A blast of cold air preceded him through the door. “I’m going to check on Dad, and then I have to work on the books and pay some bills. And I’d better check in on my business back at home.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You are to rest. I’ll come by around six with dinner. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she croaked at a whisper.

  He grinned. “I kind of like the fact that you can’t talk back. You need anything?”

  She shook her head. She wondered about his life in the Caymans, but that would have to wait until she could verbalize a question again.

  Jenny watched until his truck made the turn from the drive onto the highway. Guilt nudged at her when she smiled. She nudged back: He’ll always be my best friend, if nothing else.

  She went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. While she undressed, steam began to billow behind the plastic curtain. Hot water soothed her muscles, and the steam relaxed the tightness in her lungs. She emerged feeling almost human once again.

  The front doorbell rang and she dressed hastily and ran to answer.

  The postman handed her an envelope. “Certified mail. You need to sign for this.”

  She accepted the envelope and pen, scratching her signature on the form. “Thanks, Harvey.”

  “Here’s the rest of your mail. So, are you doing okay, Jenny?”

  “Fine. Just a touch of the flu,” she replied, distracted by the return address on the certified envelope.

  “You take care.” Harvey lumbered down the steps and around the side of the cottage.

  Jenny stared at the envelope from Mason and Ryker, a Boston law firm. She tore open the seal and extracted the contents.

  Dear Mrs. Barnes:

  Please be advised that this letter is to inform you that a petition has been filed on behalf of William and Susan Barnes to freeze all assets in the Estate of Matthew A. Barnes and his heir, Cooper W. Barnes, pending further investigation. We ask that you contact us at your earliest convenience, with counsel, to arrange a meeting to discuss the matter of Matthew Barnes’ Will and disposition of property.

  Thank you.

  Sincerely,

  August Ryker, Attorney-at-Law

  “What the hell?” Her hands shook as she picked up her cell phone and scanned the contact list for Milton Sachs. She was put through to him immediately. Her voice cracked and rasped as she explained the letter.

  “Wait. I can barely understand you. Can you fax a copy of the letter to me?”

  “I’ll find a place to send a fax.”

  “Good. I’ll look it over and I’ll call you. Jenny, try not to worry about this. I don’t see any legal standing in this petition.”

  “I’m not concerned about the property or the money. But I don’t know why the Barnes’ would do this.”

  “Send me the letter. As soon as I have it, I’ll contact the lawyer and get to the bottom of the issue and I’ll call you. You sound awful. Take care of yourself.”

  “Thanks, Milton. I’ll get this to you within the hour.” She dried her hair and bundled up in three layers of clothing.

  In the car, her breath escaped in puffs in the cold air. The blast of dry heat from the SUV’s
air vents sent her into a coughing spasm. She turned off the heater and backed from the driveway. Office Depot occupied the corner of a strip mall on the opposite end of town. Jenny parked and rushed inside to the printing counter.

  “Can I help you?” a clerk asked.

  “I need to send a fax.”

  He slid a paper toward her. “Fill this out. I’ll be right back with you.”

  She removed the letter from the envelope and sifted through her contact list on her cell phone to locate her attorney’s fax number. She drummed her fingers on the counter while the clerk chatted with another customer.

  He looked her way, then excused himself and walked toward her. “All set?”

  “Yes. Here.” She shoved the papers to him.

  “This’ll just take one minute.” He glanced at the form, punched in the numbers, and set the papers into the fax machine. The tone indicated the call had connected. The cover sheet and letter each ran through the machine, which then printed out a confirmation.

  The clerk returned the papers to her, with an invoice. “You can pay this at the front register, if you have more shopping.”

  She pulled her wallet from her purse. “Can I just pay here?”

  “Of course.”

  She glanced at the bill, then handed him a twenty. Stuffing her change into her pocket, she ran from the store. Maybe she should just drive to Boston. The heaviness in her chest and the hot ache behind her eyes told her that was a bad idea.

  Back at the cottage, she sat and stared at her cell phone as if expecting it to explode. When it rang, she lifted out of the chair. “Hello. Milton?”

  “Who’s Milton?” Patrick asked.

  “Patrick? Milton’s my attorney. I was expecting…I’m expecting his call. Look, I can’t tie up the phone.”

  “Sorry. Just checking on you. Everything okay?”

  “I don’t know. I have to hang up.” She ended the call. The phone rang a second time moments later.

  “Hello?”

  “Jenny, it’s Milton Sachs.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Apparently, the Barnes’ have decided to pursue a wrongful death suit against you, claiming it was your negligence that killed Matthew and Cooper.”

  “What?” Her heart pounded.

  “They want the reports of the accident to be reviewed, and until that’s done, they’ve asked the court to freeze all assets. I don’t think they have a chance of proving anything. This is how they’re dealing with their grief. It’ll play itself out.”