by Irene Hannon
When it clicked shut, he turned to his sisters. “Mom just called. She’s worried about Dad.”
Fighting down her own rising panic, Amy gripped the edge of her desk, as if bracing for a blow. “What happened?”
“He didn’t want to get up this morning. Said he was too tired. And he has a low-grade fever.”
“Did Mom call Dr. Strickland?”
“Yes. He ordered some blood work. And he’s prescribed antibiotics. There’s more, too. Dad knows that Jeremy left town and is looking for the Andersons.”
Dismay flooded Heather’s face. “How did he find out?”
After a brief explanation, Tim planted his fists on his hips. Anger flashed in his eyes, and his lips grew taut. “It seems Jeremy is continuing to wreak havoc on the family.”
“You can’t blame this on him, Tim,” Amy protested.
“No?” Fury nipped at his voice. “Don’t you think it’s just a little too coincidental that Dad starts to have health problems right after he hears about Jeremy? He was doing fine up until now. Stress isn’t good for him.”
“He did seem fine at dinner last Sunday. And that was only four days ago.” It was clear that Heather was struggling to hold on to her composure.
“Now look, both of you.” Amy’s voice was firm. “This may be nothing. Let’s try not to fall apart. And we can’t blame Jeremy. He did what he felt he had to do. Everyone’s upset, and we’re all coping as best we can. We’re just going to have to put the situation in God’s hand and trust that He’ll get us through this.”
Tim made a dismissive gesture. “I haven’t seen much evidence of God’s benevolence or mercy in the past few months.”
Their brother’s lack of faith was troubling to both Heather and Amy, and the sisters exchanged a look. But now wasn’t the time to try to convert him, Amy knew. She just prayed that someday he’d see the light.
“Well, let’s try to stay calm until the test results are back. In the meantime, I think I’ll run out to the house at lunchtime and check on Dad myself,” Amy said.
“Tell him I’ll be out tonight,” Tim instructed.
“Me, too,” Heather added.
After consulting his watch, Tim headed toward the door, speaking over his shoulder. “I have work to do. Let me know how Dad is when you get back.” He exited without waiting for a response.
Turning to Heather, Amy could tell that her sister was ready to cry. She had always worn her tender heart on her sleeve. “Why don’t you take a quick walk around the block? Or over to the park?” Amy suggested in a gentle tone. “You’ll feel better if you get some fresh air and sunshine.”
Sniffing, Heather rose. “Yeah. I think I will.” She hesitated at the door, turning to look back at Amy. “Do you really think Dad will be okay?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Amy managed to sound confident, and her response seemed to satisfy Heather. In truth, though, she wasn’t as certain. Her father’s color hadn’t been good on Sunday, even before he knew about Jeremy. At the time, she’d attributed it to the shock his body had been through. Perhaps, though, it had been more than that. And perhaps not. Maybe after she saw him at lunchtime she’d feel better.
Unfortunately, Amy felt worse after her visit. Her father was up, but he seemed listless and drawn, the white bandage on his arm, where blood had been drawn a couple of hours before, a stark reminder that all might not be right. When she’d reported her visit to Heather and Tim, she’d tried to downplay her fears, deciding to let them draw their own conclusions after they went out to the house later in the day.
As for her, she sensed danger lurking close by, like the distant rumble of thunder that announces an approaching storm even before the clouds appear. But she could do nothing except pray. And hope that her unease wasn’t a premonition of more problems to come.
Focus had never been a problem for Amy. At least, not until the past few weeks. However, as she stared at her computer screen, trying to compose what should have been a simple response letter to a reader, she couldn’t concentrate. Though the weekend had passed without incident, she still felt unsettled and exhausted. Unlike Tim, who seemed able to function on a few hours’ sleep a night, Amy needed more rest. Rest she hadn’t been getting. Perhaps the good news they’d had this morning about Wallace would help. The blood cultures had come back negative, and his fever had dropped, although his energy level was still very low.
A knock on her door startled her and she jumped, yet more evidence that her nerves were on edge, she realized. Turning, she found Bryan in the doorway. In the midst of the turmoil in her life, she found his calm, solid, in-control presence somehow reassuring.
“Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, but Heather’s out. I have a bit of a problem. The school just phoned to tell me Dylan’s sick. It doesn’t sound like anything serious, but they think he should go home. Dad’s on an overnight fishing trip, or I’d call him.”
“Go pick him up,” Amy said without hesitation.
“I would, except I have an interview scheduled with Dan Marconi in Nashville in forty-five minutes. He’s only in town today, and I worked every angle I could to set this up. I don’t want to see all that effort wasted. And I’m sure you don’t want to lose the story.”
Now Amy understood his dilemma. She, too, wanted this interview to come off. Heather had mentioned the upcoming visit of the reclusive hometown boy turned Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist at the last staff meeting, remarking that it would be quite a coup if the magazine could do a profile of him. When Bryan had offered to take on the challenge, no one had held out much hope that he’d manage to wrangle an audience. Yet he’d found a way.
“Could someone else do the interview?” Amy asked.
“I tried that already. I called his publicist, but was told it’s either me or no one. It seems Mr. Marconi doesn’t like surprises or last-minute changes.”
The solution seemed obvious. At least to her. She wasn’t sure how Bryan would feel about it, though. “Then why don’t I pick up Dylan? If you called and authorized the school to release him to me, I could take him to your dad’s house, then stay with him until you get back.”
Startled, Bryan stared at her. She must want this story even more than he’d thought if she was willing to leave her office and babysit a young child for several hours. It did solve the problem, though. And even if Bryan had personal issues with the woman across from him, he knew he could trust her with his son. Besides, there didn’t seem to be any other option.
“Okay. I guess that will work.” The lack of enthusiasm in his voice was apparent even to him. When he continued, he tried to sound a bit more upbeat. “I’ll call the school now, and I’ll be back as fast I can. I already called the doctor, and I can pick up anything he might prescribe on the way home. Are you sure you don’t mind interrupting your day like this?”
“No. I don’t want to lose this story. And I like Dylan.”
The losing-the-story part he could understand. Amy had always been single-minded and focused about her projects in school. It was logical that that commitment would carry over to her career. But the comment about Dylan surprised him. Yet the two had seemed to click when they’d been together. And Dylan liked her, too.
“All right. Just call my cell if you need me.” He fished around in the pocket of his khaki slacks and withdrew a key ring, slipping off a key and handing it across the desk. “This is for the back door.”
As his hand brushed hers, Amy felt an unnerving jolt of electricity. Bryan, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the contact. But that shouldn’t surprise her, based on his tepid response to her offer. Trying to ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, she checked her watch. “You’re already cutting it close.”
“Yeah.” Still, for several seconds he didn’t move. Then he jammed the key ring back into his pocket and headed for the door. “Thanks,” he said as he exited.
After cleaning up a few loose ends, Amy grabbed her purse and left he
r office. It wasn’t until she pulled up in front of the school that her nerves kicked in. What on earth had she gotten herself into? She didn’t know a thing about children, especially sick children! What if Dylan was more ill than anyone thought? What if he balked at leaving with her?
As it turned out, he wasn’t and he didn’t. The school nurse told her that he’d thrown up and was running a slight temperature, but she also said that a number of children were out with a mild case of the flu. For his part, Dylan seemed delighted to see her. His flushed face brightened when she appeared in the doorway of the infirmary, and when he trustingly placed his small hand in hers, Amy’s throat tightened with emotion. For the first time in her life, she realized just how dependent children were on the adults in their lives to see to their needs, both physical and emotional. And she had a sudden, clear understanding of the awesome responsibility of parenthood. No wonder Melissa felt unprepared to be a mother.
By the time they arrived at the house, Dylan had nodded off, his head lolling against the seat-belt strap. His usual animation and chatter were absent, leading Amy to conclude that he was, indeed, one sick puppy. It was bed for him, and then she’d see if she could round up any soup or Jell-O or toast.
As she inserted the key in the lock and stepped inside the kitchen, a drowsy Dylan close by her side, memories came flooding back, and for just a second she was eighteen again. Eighteen and carefree and in love, with a bright, shining future before her. She’d known happy times in this place. In this very room, in fact. During the spring and summer she and Bryan were dating, she’d visited often, many times sharing a meal at the worn oak table that was still the centerpiece of the kitchen. James and Catherine Healey had always welcomed her with open arms, and she’d felt at home in the modest frame bungalow. Though she’d grown up in much grander surroundings, she’d recognized at once that the Healey and Hamilton households shared the most essential ingredient in the recipe for a home—love.
“Can I have a drink of water, Ms. Hamilton?”
Dylan’s sleepy voice interrupted her thoughts, and she blinked back the moisture that had misted her vision. “Of course, honey. And why don’t you call me Amy? It’s much shorter than Ms. Hamilton.”
He gave her a toothy grin. “Okay.”
She filled a glass with water, then took his hand. “Show me where your bedroom is, and we’ll get you into your pajamas.”
Leading the way through the living room, he turned down a short hall and headed toward the last room. “This is where Dad and me sleep,” he informed her.
For a second, Amy hesitated on the threshold. The room was furnished with twin beds, both neatly made, and matching bureaus stood against the wall across from each footboard. Several stuffed animals, along with a familiar-looking remote-controlled boat, were strewn across the top of one. The other was bare except for an eight-by-ten-inch framed wedding picture.
Without even thinking, Amy moved toward the photo and stared at the fleeting moment in time captured by the image. Bryan, handsome and elegant in a tux, wore an expression of deep contentment. The face of the woman beside him—pretty in a quiet, unassuming way—was joyful and radiant, her long brown hair falling in soft waves beneath a wisp of veil. They looked like a nice couple. Like they were meant for each other, Amy was forced to acknowledge. Her throat constricted, and she drew in an unsteady breath.
“That’s my mom and dad on the day they got married,” Dylan offered.
With an effort, Amy composed her face. “Your mom was very pretty.”
After giving the photo serious consideration, Dylan nodded. “Yeah. But I don’t remember her. She went to heaven right after I was borned. Dad says she loved me a whole lot, though.”
“I’m sure she did. And she still loves you, from heaven.”
A wistful look stole over his face. “I wish she was here, though. Heaven is a long way away. You forget how much someone loves you if you never see them.”
Yes, Amy supposed, you do. Whether they’re in heaven or on earth. Her thoughts strayed to Bryan, and her youthful insistence that they needed space, and time apart. But she quickly cut off that line of thought. Right now, she had a sick little boy to take care of.
“Okay, where are your pajamas?”
After rummaging in a drawer, Dylan produced them. But as he held them up, his face suddenly grew pale. “I—I don’t feel so good,” he stammered.
Sensing what was about to happen, Amy reached down and urged him toward the bathroom. They almost made it, too. But just as she lifted the lid of the toilet, whatever was left in Dylan’s stomach spewed out, splattering onto the tile floor, the toilet seat—and the front of her linen jacket. When the eruption subsided, Dylan was left shaky and tearful.
“I—I don’t l-like throwing u-up.” His words were choked by sobs as he clung to Amy.
“Oh, honey, nobody does.” Amy reached up and pushed his hair back from his damp face. “But you feel better now, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then that’s a good thing. Come on, let’s get you changed and into bed, then I’ll find something cool for you to drink.”
Ignoring her stained jacket, she helped Dylan into his pajamas, then searched through the kitchen until she found some ginger ale to settle his stomach. While he sat on a stool in his room and sipped the soda, she headed back to the bathroom and swiped at the front of her jacket with a damp towel. However, her efforts did little to mitigate the damage or even render the garment wearable, she realized in dismay. The fabric was clinging to her uncomfortably, and she pulled it away from her skin in distaste as she headed back to the bedroom and looked around for something—anything—that could serve as a makeshift top.
“Dad has lots of shirts in the closet,” Dylan offered, surprising Amy with his perceptiveness. “He wouldn’t mind if you borrowed one.”
The sliding door for the closet was within arm’s reach, but Amy hesitated. She had a feeling Bryan wouldn’t appreciate her rummaging around among his clothes. But she couldn’t leave this jacket on, either. Only a trip to the dry cleaner would restore it to wearable condition. Realizing there was no other option, she reached over and slid back the closet door, determined to do this as quickly as possible. Going through someone’s closet was way too…personal. And it became even more so as Bryan’s unique scent enveloped her while she rifled through his shirts. When her heart tripped into double time and a surge of longing swept over her, she grabbed the next shirt she came to and shoved the closet door closed with more force than necessary. She turned to find Dylan regarding her with interest.
“You banged the door.”
A flush rose on her cheeks. “I know. It just kind of…slipped.”
“That happens to me sometimes, too. But Dad says it’s not good to bang doors.”
“He’s right. I’ll be more careful the next time.” Not that there would ever be a next time. “I’m going to put on this shirt and clean up the bathroom, okay? You just call me if you need anything.”
Wearing Bryan’s shirt was even harder than looking at it in the closet, Amy discovered, as she slipped her arms through the sleeves and inhaled the scent that was uniquely his. For a second she closed her eyes and breathed in the essence of the man she had once loved. Then she forced herself to consider more practical matters. The shirt was way too big, for one thing. It would get in her way while she tried to clean the bathroom. To solve the problem, she rolled up the sleeves to the elbows, then knotted the shirttails around her waist. Better. It looked less like a man’s shirt now. Though the oxford-blue cloth wasn’t the best match with her pencil-slim peach-colored skirt, she noted with a wry smile. She’d win no fashion awards today.
In short order, she’d restored the bathroom to pristine condition. By the time she returned to Dylan’s room, he had finished the soda and was clutching a worn teddy bear.
“All right. It’s into bed for you, young man.” She headed over to turn back the covers.
“That’s Dad’s bed.�
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She pulled her hand back as if she’d just received an electric shock.
“Anyway, can I lay on the sofa in the living room?” Dylan continued. “That’s what Dad always lets me do when I’m sick.”
Anxious to be out of the bedroom, Amy agreed to the request at once. “Sure. Let me grab your pillow.” Turning to the other bed, she reached for it, along with a throw that lay at the foot, then followed him into the living room. She plumped the pillow and he climbed up.
“Will you sit with me?”
“Of course.” She settled onto the couch. Instead of laying his head on the pillow she’d tucked into the corner, however, Dylan stretched out and nuzzled onto her lap, still clutching his teddy bear. For a second Amy was taken aback. Then she reached for the throw and draped it over him, brushing the hair off his forehead with a gentle hand. In minutes, his even breathing told her that he was asleep.
Kicking off her shoes, Amy sat for a long time, stroking Dylan’s hair in a comforting, repetitive gesture. The afternoon shadows lengthened, and she realized that Bryan’s reluctant subject must have granted him more time than he’d expected. Not that she was surprised. Bryan was an easy person to talk with. Or had been, she corrected herself. Since his return, she’d found their conversations awkward. But no one else seemed to have that problem, including the man he was now interviewing. And that was promising. If it resulted in a better story, she didn’t mind if he was a little later than planned. As long as she was on her way by five-thirty, she’d be fine. And that was still—she checked her watch—an hour and a half away. She ought to just take this opportunity to let her tense nerves unwind.
As the minutes ticked by, the silence of the house and the small warm body pressed close to hers did help her relax. She snuggled lower on the sofa, careful not to disturb Dylan, then let her head rest against the upholstered back. After a few minutes, her eyelids grew heavy, and when they drifted shut, she didn’t even try to keep them open. She had never been able to sleep in the middle of the day. The best she could hope for was a light doze. But that was better than nothing. Anything that helped her get some much-needed rest would be welcome.