by Susan Fox
Dave felt for her, and knew this was only the first of many times she’d have to say those words. It was good that Ms. Haldenby had forced her to do it here, in friendly company.
The elderly woman nodded. “I’m very sorry, Cassidy. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”
“I hate to ask for help.”
“Refusing to ask for help has become a habit for you,” she said. “Some habits are unproductive, even a hindrance, and one should break them.” Peering intently at Cassidy through her thick lenses, she said, “I found Irene and contacted her.”
Irene? Dave remembered the “P.S.” to Cassidy’s note.
Cassidy’s face brightened and she looked like her old self, not the pale, downcast version he’d seen for the past day. “You did? What did she say?”
“We’ll discuss it later. But I thought you should know.” She busied herself pouring two more cups of tea, handed one to Dave, then sat beside him on the couch. To him, she said, “Irene was very close to me when I was much younger. For reasons that made sense at the time, we lost touch. Because of one of my own bad habits—cowardice—I never tracked her down.”
Until Cassidy had prompted her to. “Ms. Haldenby,” he said, “I think you and Cassidy are going to be very good for each other.”
“Dave, I am no longer your teacher. Please call me Daphne.”
Daphne. He tasted it on his tongue. A nice name, but . . . “I don’t think I can,” he confessed. “Maybe we could settle on Ms. H? It has a nice ring.”
“I can live with that.” She sipped her tea. “Now, what’s the plan?”
“We’ll call Dr. Young and make an appointment as soon as possible,” he said. “And then—”
“Actually,” she broke in, “I was asking Cassidy.”
“Sorry. Of course.”
Cassidy sighed, the animation gone from her face. “Yes, we’ll see the doctor. Before that, I have pamphlets to read. Dave brought them for me, but I haven’t . . . well, I’ll read them tonight.”
“I found two or three websites that appear useful, too,” Ms. H said. “The more informed you are before you see the doctor, the more you’ll be able to take in what she says.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” Cassidy’s tone was reluctant.
“Avoidance won’t make the problem go away,” the older woman said.
Cassidy shot her a glance of wry humor. “You’re not going to let me curl up in a fetal ball and just feel sorry for myself, are you?”
Dave smiled, encouraged by that flash of humor and spirit.
“No, I certainly am not,” Ms. H retorted.
He drained the rest of his tea. “I think this is my cue to bow out. I need to get back to the Wild Rose and find out what’s been happening in my absence.” He’d left Sam in charge. “And I know you two are dying to talk about Irene.” He rose and held out his hand to Ms. Haldenby. “Thank you for everything.”
“And you, Dave.” Her grip was firm.
Then he walked over to Cassidy and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Do you want to come to work tomorrow, or take the day off?”
“Come to work. It’ll keep my mind off . . . things. Though I don’t know what I’m going to say to people about why I left and why I came back. I don’t want to spread the news about . . . you know. Not until . . .”
Until what? Until she felt ready, or until physical symptoms forced her to do it? He wondered how long she would—or could—cling to her secret.
“Keep it simple,” Ms. H advised. “You missed Caribou Crossing so you came back.”
“Simple is good.” She gave the other woman a forced smile, then turned back to Dave. “We can call Dr. Young in the morning and arrange a time that works for you.”
“Any time works.”
She put her hand on top of his and squeezed. “Thank you. For being you.”
Being someone else might be easier, but it wasn’t like he got to choose. And the warmth of her hand, the appreciation in her voice, were a very nice reward.
Late Monday afternoon, Dave held Cassidy’s hand as they walked from Dr. Young’s office in silence. She had been quiet for most of the appointment, not asking many questions as the doctor went through a lot of the same information he’d heard a few days ago.
A police car slowed and Karen waved. Dave waved back, trying to smile. Cassidy didn’t even notice. Her gaze was on the sidewalk in front of her. When she was feeling good, she had a bounce to her step, rather like Merlin, but today the tooled cinnamon-colored cowboy boots she wore for work barely lifted from the ground.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Fine.”
He bumped his shoulder against hers, which was clad in a Western shirt, black with turquoise embroidery. “No, you don’t. This won’t work if you lie to me.”
She heaved a sigh. “Okay. I feel overwhelmed, exhausted, and depressed.”
“Yeah, I bet.” What was the best way to help her? “Let’s take it one step at a time.” Organization was his forté. “How about we buy that notebook, and start with a list of things to do?” Carlene Young had advised Cassidy to start a notebook where she could record information, questions, and her thoughts and feelings. The doctor recommended daily journaling.
“I suppose,” Cassidy said listlessly.
He murmured greetings to a couple of passing townspeople, then told her, “The bookstore has some nice ones.” For years, he’d been giving Robin an annual diary for Christmas, always with horses on the cover.
“Fine. But I don’t want to buy those books there, the ones Dr. Young recommended.” Books on MS and on dealing with chronic illness, she meant.
“No, we’ll order them online. As the doctor said, it’s up to you to decide when to tell people.” Obviously, the store salesclerk shouldn’t be the first to know.
They went into the bookstore and he led her to the stationery section, where she stared at the couple dozen journals, everything from mellow Zen-type designs to vivid cartoony covers. She chose one with brightly colored hot-air balloons against a blue sky. Symbolic of what? he wondered. Freedom, the ability to fly away? If there’d been one with a wild goose, he’d bet she’d have chosen that.
As they walked through the store, he said, “Have you been hot-air ballooning?”
“Yes, in Sonoma. It was so much fun, and we had the craziest pilot.” A smile flickered. “He reminded me of Indiana Jones. He had the hat and the attitude—kind of daredevil, though I’m pretty sure that was calculated. You know, to give us a thrill.”
She stopped and looked him in the eyes for the first time since they’d left the doctor. “Imagine this. He takes us up into a cloud. It’s misty, cooler, kind of magical. I mean, we’re standing in the middle of a freaking cloud. It’s touching our skin with cloud breath.”
He saw the wonder in her eyes as she remembered.
“It’s scary, though,” she said. “We’re flying totally blind. Trusting that this crazy pilot knows what he’s doing. And then we burst out of the cloud, and the sky is this brilliant, blazing blue. The sun’s shining and it’s amazingly beautiful. We have distant views of the ocean and of San Francisco. He takes us low again and we drift over hills and vineyards, with deer and rabbits scattering below us, scared by our shadow. We even scoot down to dip our toes—well, the basket’s toes—in a lake, and then we float up again.”
“Sounds incredible.”
She smiled. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”
Something happy to think about, he figured. To cheer her up when she wrote in the notebook. Maybe to give her hope that after the year she’d committed to she could slip her tether and find new adventures.
He had missed her when she left. Yes, he’d been pissed, worried, overworked. But he’d missed her smile, her sassy comments, the warm tingle when she touched him. A year from now . . . Well, who knew? Maybe he’d miss her like crazy, or maybe by then they’d barely tolerate each other. No point worrying about it; he’d already committed.
>
As they approached the cashier, he pulled out his wallet.
Cassidy said, “Thanks, but no. My book, my thoughts. My money.”
“Okay.” He stepped back while she paid.
They left the store and walked across the town square toward the Wild Rose. The roses on the gazebo had faded and the bandstand was deserted. A few people hurried past the wire-framed caribou, on their way toward whatever evening plans awaited.
“How about coming back to my place?” he said. “You can call Ms. H and let her know where you are, so she doesn’t worry. I’ll cook you dinner and—”
“You don’t have Robin tonight?”
“No. It’d just be us. We could start that list, then have an early night.” He could make sure she started the list, and he could look after her.
She hesitated.
Trying not to be too controlling, he said, “But if you’d rather be alone or spend the evening with Ms. H, that’s fine too.”
“It’s not that. It’s, uh, the idea of me spending the night with you.” Again, she wasn’t looking at him.
Guessing where her thoughts had gone, he said quickly, “Look, just because I’m being a support person for you, that doesn’t mean you should feel obligated to sleep with me.” Oh man, how could he handle being close to her but not being able to touch her like a lover, to hold her naked in his arms at night?
She cocked her head to stare at him. “And you shouldn’t feel obligated to sleep with me because you feel sorry for me.”
His jaw dropped and he stopped walking. “Jesus, Cassidy, I don’t feel sorry for you.” He stopped, reconsidered. “Well, I guess I do, actually. And for me, and everyone else who’s going to be affected. It’s sure not what anyone would want.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Her mouth twisted. “Like the Stones said, you can’t always get what you want.”
The next line was something about getting what you need, which sure wasn’t true in this case either. “I’m just saying, the fact that I’m sorry you have this disease has nothing to do with me wanting to be your lover.”
Her forehead pinched. “Before, everything was different. I was sexy and fun, and even if I had a bum leg every now and then, I was healthy, active, strong.”
“Cassidy.” He leaned down to rest his forehead against her frowning one. “You’re all of those things now, and you don’t even have a bum leg right now.” Though God knew what might happen to her with future attacks. He straightened and managed a wink. “Though I’d still be happy to massage you.”
“On the outside, I look healthy. But inside, I’m flawed.”
“Is this the time to tell you that I never thought you were perfect?” He tossed it out, hoping to lighten the mood.
She didn’t take the bait. “You know what I mean. Now I’m sick. There’s this invisible thing inside me, like some kind of time bomb, and there’s no telling when it’s going to strike or what it’s going to do.”
A time bomb didn’t strike; it exploded. But he understood her point. All too well. If he mentioned Anita, would it upset her? For three years he’d avoided even speaking Anita’s name, but now, increasingly, he found himself wanting to talk about her.
Tentatively, he said, “That’s kind of how Anita felt about her cancer.” He shook his head, remembering. “Her cancer,” he repeated. “At first she called it ‘the cancer,’ like she was trying to disown it”—her form of denial, less dramatic than Cassidy’s attempt to run away from her diagnosis—“but then she had to accept that it was part of her. So she claimed it, but she hated it. She waged war with it every waking minute.”
Cassidy’s frown had disappeared as she tilted her head, listening to him.
“Sorry,” he said. “I got sidetracked. What I was going to say was that she felt like her cancer contaminated her.”
Her eyes widened and he wondered if he’d offended her, but then she nodded. That encouraged him to continue. “She said she felt invaded, contaminated. She knew some people were wary of her. Most of the time it was just because they were uncomfortable and sad and didn’t know what to say, but it meant that they avoided her. She felt like a leper. She said people looked at her and didn’t see Anita, but this diseased creature. Having the disease inside her, and having people avoid her, she said it made her feel”—crap, this was probably a really bad idea, but he finished anyway—“ugly.”
The word, such an ugly sound in itself, dropped into the air between them.
Cassidy’s face was still, her eyes huge. Then she breathed, “Yes.”
He reached for her hands and clasped them. “But she wasn’t. She was still Anita, still beautiful. And so are you, Cassidy. I’m still attracted to you, I still want to have sex with you.” He added on a note of discovery, “Actually, you’re maybe even more attractive, because now I’ve seen how gutsy you are.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I don’t feel gutsy,” Cassidy said. She tried for a smile but it wobbled. What Dave had said about Anita rang so true, and it sure didn’t make her feel brave.
“Of course you’re gutsy.” His voice was full of conviction, as were his hazel eyes, staring intently into hers. “You’re not running. You’re facing this thing head-on.”
Hah. She had done her best to run, but he wouldn’t let her. “This thing.” She swallowed. Tried out the words. “My MS.” A part of her and her life, from now until the day she died or a cure was found.
His fiancée had faced a terminal illness and remained strong, a fighter. Which was worse: to be told you were dying and had a limited time to live, or to be told you’d have a normal life span but you were diseased and your future was completely unpredictable? And what did it matter? Anita had been given her diagnosis and she’d dealt with it. Now it was Cassidy’s turn.
Anita’d had the man she loved at her side every step of the way. Dave didn’t love Cassidy, but he’d been generous enough to offer her his support, at least until she pulled herself together and had a treatment plan in place. “I’m used to feeling like an equal in relationships,” she said quietly. “Not the weak partner.”
He frowned. “Of course you’re an equal.”
“But I’m doing all the taking and you’re doing the giving.”
“Tonight, you’re tired and in shock. I want to look after you. Just like you’ve cooked dinner and rubbed my shoulders when I’ve had a rough day.”
He was such a good guy and he was trying so hard. She imagined what it would have been like if she’d gone to the doctor on her own today, and come home alone afterward. “Tonight,” she admitted, “I would love to be looked after. But remember, Dave, I’m perfectly healthy right now. So after tonight I’ll do my share of looking after, and I’ll work, ride, and do all that normal stuff too.”
“Deal. Now let’s go home. I could use some food.”
And later, they’d have sex. She hoped that he’d told the truth when he said that he still found her attractive. She felt like such a mess. How could any man, much less a handsome, smart, almost perfect one like Dave, find her desirable? Well, he wouldn’t if she acted like a mess. He thought she was gutsy, so that’s what she’d try to be. “Food sounds great,” she lied. “Let’s go.”
When they walked into Dave’s suite, Merlin greeted them.
Dave said, “I’ll take him out, then start dinner.”
“I’ll call Ms. H.” She sat on the couch and dialed her landlady’s number.
“I just wanted to tell you,” Cassidy said to her, “that I’m staying at Dave’s tonight.”
“Thank you for letting me know. Are you all right? How did the doctor appointment go?”
“It was, uh, informative, I guess.” If she could ever make sense of all that she’d heard.
“I’d like to hear about it.”
“Hang on a minute, Ms. H.” Dave, with Merlin on his leash, was about to leave and she stopped him. “Do you have Robin tomorrow night?”
“In theory. I was supposed to have her for the weekend a
nd tonight, but, well, you know. We’ll all be flexible. She can stay at her mom’s a while longer.”
“No, that’s not fair on her or on you. I want to talk to Ms. H anyhow. Why don’t you take Robin for the next few days? I’ll have dinner with both of you one night. Just not tomorrow.” His daughter was too bright, too inquisitive. Cassidy needed to build a tougher façade if she was going to keep her secret, and that would take a little time.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” She couldn’t cling to Dave. That wouldn’t be healthy for either of them. Besides, she didn’t want to shut out Ms. H, and she valued the older woman’s opinion. She waved Dave and the dog away, then said into the phone, “I’ll be home tomorrow after work. Perhaps we could get together in the evening?”
“Let’s have dinner. I hate cooking for one.”
Cassidy’s lips twitched. “That might not be a problem much longer. Maybe you’ll have a houseguest.” Yesterday, her landlady had told her that she’d tracked down Irene via the Internet and they’d exchanged a couple of e-mails.
“Don’t count your chickens, Cassidy. Or, rather, my chickens.”
“We’ll talk about that over dinner. And I’m helping cook.” She closed the phone. And speaking of helping cook . . . She went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared inside. What did Dave have in mind? Nothing appealed to her, yet she had to eat. Dr. Young had stressed the importance of a proper diet, regular exercise, and lots of sleep.
“Hey.” Dave came up behind her. “I’m doing the cooking.”
How long had she been staring into the fridge? “Thanks. I guess I should start that list.”
He opened a bottle of red wine. “Or sit and relax. We could work on the list after dinner.”
Like she could relax, with all the things jumbled around in her mind? “I’d rather get the list out of the way so we can take the rest of the evening off.”
He handed her a glass of wine. “Now there’s a plan.”
A plan. How about that? She sort of had a plan.
She sat at the kitchen table and Merlin came to lie at her feet. She scratched behind his ears, had a swallow of wine, then took the notebook and a pen out of her purse. Gazing at the hot-air balloons, she wished she could fly up into the sky and escape her problems. Yet the picture did remind her that she’d had great adventures in the past, and would have many more.