by Sonja Gunter
An older woman wearing a volunteer badge stood in the doorway. “Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was in here. Would you like the lights turned off?”
He stared at her volunteer badge, vaguely noting her name was Alice. The night and early morning came back to him and he stood to stretch and ease his sore and stiff muscles. He rubbed his hands over his face, the growth of whiskers scratching his palms.
“You can leave them on. What time is it?”
“Six o’clock. Are you okay? Do you want me to check on someone for you?”
“Yes, I’m fine. No, I’ll get out your way. The nurse said I could use this room. Thank you, though.”
A wonderful aroma of coffee reached Allan. His sleep deprived mind and body instantly sharpened. With widened eyes, and his mouth watering, he turned his head, forgetting his disheveled state. The woman held a coveted cup of coffee.
“Coffee? Where can I get some?”
“Before you get to the cafeteria, there’s a coffee bar.”
“Thank you. Three hours of sleep—need coffee,” Allan rambled.
I need coffee. Real coffee.
Caffeine cravings would have to wait though, until he checked on Rosalind. He stepped out into the hallway.
The corridors were active with nurses, doctors, and patients. He pushed the door button for ICU doors and found her still asleep in a chair at the foot of Sam’s bed. Someone had covered her with a blanket, but it had fallen off her shoulders, exposing her lace bra. The rise and fall of her breasts teased him with a tantalizing peek-a-boo show of her rose tattoo. Desire rippled through him.
What’s wrong with me? A man is dying and I can’t control myself around my wife!
An unexpected answer came. Because I love her.
How and when it happened was unclear, except now his plans were changing. Allan left her and Sam and strode to the nurses’ station.
“Excuse me, can I have an update on Mr. Hughs?”
The nurse eyed him. “Are you family?”
“No. Yes. I’m Rosalind’s husband.”
“His condition hasn’t changed. We’ve increased his morphine levels for the pain.”
“Thank you.” Allan turned back to the doorway and looked in. Not seeing any movement, he headed to the cafeteria for a morning cup of coffee. To his delight he found a Starbucks station and ordered a French Vanilla Latte and regular dark roast.
His mouth watered as the smell engulfed him. The first swallow was pure heaven.
“Ahhhhh.” He lifted the cup for a second precious sip when his phone beeped. He dug his phone out of his pocket. A text message flashed.
Three-three-three.
With only one bar, Allan set his and Rosalind’s drink in a cup tray. Before obtaining full bars, his phone beeped two more times as he stepped outside of the hospital.
“Tiff, what could be happening at the office on Thanksgiving Day? We’re closed.”
“Mr. Smith . . . Allan, we have a problem.”
“Clearly, since you sent the emergency code. I’m standing out in the freezing cold. Now what?”
“A YouTube video has been posted. Plus, more pictures in the morning paper. The heading reads, ‘Who is the turkey on Turkey Day? Mr. Smith, or his wife Mrs. Smith?’ The words Mrs. Smith are crossed out and replaced with Miss Dunne.”
“Slow down, Tiffany. You’re not making any sense.”
“Okay, listen. The front page of today’s paper has a picture of your wife, Rosalind, leaving your hotel room in Las Vegas.”
“Who dared to shove my private life into the public’s view?”
“I spoke to the editor at the New York Times. He said it came from an unidentified source, who also claims he has proof your marriage was a huge scam. The papers want to know if your so-called marriage was a ploy to drum up business and take away pressure from the Heinz Corporation investigation.”
“Fuck,” Allan spat. He stood motionless on the sidewalk, his precious cup of coffee going cold in the tray, unable to believe what he was hearing.
Tiffany’s voice broke through his state of shock. “Paul is with me. He says the article gives a website, and has several other pictures of you and Rosalind.”
“What kind of pictures?”
“Looks like the two of you in a bar. And another, both of you leaving the courthouse.”
“Could they have been photoshopped?”
“Paul’s shaking his head, so no. The other video is of your entire ceremony at The Wedding Chapel.”
How in the hell did that happen? “What else?”
“Images of you entering the hotel, leaning on your wife.”
“Can’t you get them extracted? What am I paying you guys for?”
“I’m trying,” Tiffany huffed in his ear. “Whoever this is, they are steps ahead of me. I can’t explain it. My contacts have no idea who it is or who they’re working with to get the pictures out there.”
“Goddamn it. I want the website taken down. Now.”
“We’re trying.”
“Do whatever it takes.”
Tiffany sucked in what sounded like a fortifying breath, before adding, “There’s one more thing. A second YouTube video of you and Rosalind in a very hot and steamy kiss in the Hilton Hotel elevator along with a timeframe has been released. To rivet the audience, it shows the time she left. Seven minutes.”
With one hand holding the coffee-to-go tray and the other the phone, he couldn’t run his typical frustrated hand through his hair, so instead he kicked a snow chunk into the street. All of New York and the entire globe was about to find out they’d never consummated the marriage before the divorce papers went public.
Rosalind wouldn’t survive this kind of a scandal. He set the tray on top of the garbage can and rubbed his chilled fingers on his chin, its stubble prickling his hand.
“Mr. Smith, are you still there? Did I lose you?”
“Jesus, Tiffany, take it down. Have Paul call the lawyers to file lawsuits against the newspaper and the hotel. And I want to know who betrayed me.”
“Paul’s been working at it and says the site should be down within the hour. I wanted you to know right away.” She paused. “One last thing. The press knows you’re in Minnesota with your bride, not to have a honeymoon, but to obtain a divorce.”
“Shit. You guys need to find out who is leaking this information ASAP.”
“We are working on it,” Tiffany rebuked.
“Keep me posted.” Allan ended the call.
An ambulance with flickering lights drove by and his temper cooled, replaced by annoyance. Everything seemed out of control, his structured life in chaos.
As he stared at the hospital portico, Rosalind’s face flashed before him. Should he leave to take care of business or stay to protect her? Tiffany and Paul would do what was necessary to stop the damage at the office, but here, Rosalind might need his help. Would his Ice Queen come to love him if he remained?
He took a deep breath. Cold air filled his lungs. This rural town wouldn’t be able to take on the reporters, the paparazzi, and journalists he knew would be arriving soon. Absentmindedly, Allan lifted the coffee to his mouth and sipped.
Shit. Icy liquid hit his tongue. He threw away both cups and retraced his steps to the cafeteria.
Rosalind awoke to the sound of a nurse bustling around Sam’s bed, checking his vitals. She straightened in her chair, alert, but tired. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s hanging in there. His morphine level has been increased.”
Rosalind frowned, her worse fears gnawing at her fragile control. “That can’t be good. When will the doctors see him?”
The nurse fixed the blanket around Sam and wrote on his status board. “Dr. Haarstad will stop by sometime this morning
to see him.”
“Thank you. Where can I get a cup of . . .” Rosalind paused, glancing at the door. Allan was holding a to-go cup in each hand. She took one and brushed past him into the corridor.
“How did you know I needed coffee?”
“A guess,” he replied. “Anything new? I saw you talking with the nurse. Is Sam awake?”
“No. They’ve upped his morphine. I haven’t seen the doctors yet,” she mumbled.
“They’re making him as comfortable as possible.”
Rosalind averted her eyes while she sipped her coffee, trying to control her labored breathing. Her knees had gone weak when she’d seen him. His clothes were rumpled and her heart began to pound at his two-day beard growth.
“They want him to stay the weekend,” she added, suddenly longing for an escape route. She turned away slightly.
“That’s good and bad.” His hand settled at her waist and she was tempted to brush it off, but its warmth and strength was a comfort.
Why was he still here? She’d given him his way out.
Dipping his head slightly, his voice softened and she almost missed his question. “The cafeteria is offering a Thanksgiving Day meal of turkey and all the extras. Would you like to go down later to eat?”
“That would be nice. It’ll be kind of weird, this will be the first time in years I haven’t cooked the turkey,” she said, and moved to stare out the window.
“Is there anything I can do for you? Should I call someone?”
“I’m Sam’s only family,” she confessed, her voice thick. “Thanks for the coffee, though. Keep it coming.”
“I can do that.” He moved a step away from her, drumming his fingers on the paper cup. “Rosalind—we need to talk.”
“Later, after I have a conversation with the doctor,” she hedged, turning toward Sam’s room, not waiting for him follow.
She reached the bed first, pausing at the sight of Sam. He looked so peaceful, the thought that he might be dead crossed her mind, and she touched his hand. Then she felt Allan next to her and again, he settled his palm on her waist.
A gruff, harsh voice had her look toward the door. An unsmiling middle-aged man in a white coat walked in.
“Are you Dr. Haarstad?” Her voice caught.
The doctor held out his hand and took hers. “I am.”
“I’m Rosalind. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Sorry, there’s nothing we can do,” Dr. Haarstad pointedly declared. “He is in the last stages of his cancer.”
She raised her hand to her face as Allan took the cup from her. “What about chemo?”
“No,” the doctor stressed. “Chemo isn’t an option. All we can do is make him as comfortable as possible. Mr. Hughs has a DNR order.”
A soft cry escaped her. “I know, but—”
“It’s hard to accept. We have to honor his wishes. I’ve ordered him to stay here in the ICU,” Dr. Haarstad stated.
Rosalind folded her arms in front of her. “No, there has to be something else. Another hospital that specializes in cancer.”
“I’m sorry, there isn’t. I’ll send up counseling to discuss the events with you.”
Allan moved next to Rosalind. “Dr. Haarstad, have all avenues been tapped?”
“Yes. It’s never easy at this point,” the doctor replied. “We have all his records. As I said, we’re doing everything for him to ease the pain. I’ll check back in a couple of hours.”
Rosalind sat with her head in her hands as the doctor left. Allan joined her and wrapped his arm around her.
“Let’s go eat,” he urged gently.
“I can’t leave him. Look at him. This isn’t right,” Rosalind whispered brokenly.
“You need to eat, come on.” Allan stood and held out his hand. Even as she eyed him, ready to refuse, her stomach growled.
“See, there’s your answer.”
She grinned wryly and reluctantly followed him to the cafeteria. Neither tried to make conversation. Once seated, she picked at a cranberry muffin, all she could handle at the moment.
She couldn’t even finish it, and pushed is aside. “I’m done.”
“Should we get another cup of coffee?”
“Sounds great.” Rosalind stood. Uneasiness swept through her. She didn’t want his empathy, but his presence was becoming a comfort.
With their new dose of caffeine, they trooped back to Sam’s room. The machines beeped, but Sam slept on, undisturbed. The afternoon progressed slowly. She and Allan took turns going to the nurses’ station for updates.
“I’m going to stretch my legs,” he said. “Ready for another coffee and a Thanksgiving feast?”
For a businessman, he couldn’t hide his candid expression from her very well. Yet he hadn’t complained once, simply stayed by her side, ready to do anything for her.
“Only coffee, this one went cold some time ago,” she replied. “Make sure it’s a dark roast, no sugar or cream.”
“Gotcha. Why don’t you take a break? I’ll meet you in the waiting room.”
“I guess. I do need to stretch my legs too.”
After Allan left, Rosalind stepped to Sam’s side and took one of his large callused hands, squeezing it before she shuffled from the room.
The other rooms were quiet and the nurses smiled at her as she walked past. The waiting room was empty. The only sound came from the television. As she paced, she glanced at the screen and halted in mid-stride.
What the hell. I’m on the news?
Rosalind stood transfixed. It was like watching her wedding day from a bystander’s point of view. She observed herself give in to Allan’s kisses. Her arms went around him. They came together as if she couldn’t get enough of him.
Now everyone would see how her body had betrayed her. Allan could see she’d yielded to his charm. She’d made a fool of herself and for what reason? Her shame came full circle, as a video of their ride in the elevator played.
“Rosalind?”
She turned toward the sound of Allan’s voice. He stood next to her. Without hesitation, she raised her arm and slapped him.
The tray he held wobbled. “Ouch, what the hell!”
Seething with anger and mortification, Rosalind spat, “Why am I—are we on television?” She searched for the remote control.
“Listen to me,” Allan pleaded and set down the tray. “I’m sorry. Tiffany called to warn me—us. I haven’t . . .”
She found the remote and pushed the volume button, drowning Allan out.
“. . . Rodeo Queen, Ms. Rosalind Dunne, couldn’t keep her secret. We have learned this unknown woman has taken Allan Smith off the market. They were married in Las Vegas three months ago. As you can see from this video . . .”
Allan snatched the remote control from her hand and turned off the television. “I was about to tell you. I was. I only found out myself, this morning. I’m sorry, honey.”
“Honey?” Hands on hips, she glared at him. “How dare you. All I wanted was to buy the land to save horses. Now look what I got!”
“Rosalind, please let me explain,” he implored with open arms.
Her nostrils flared with new fury, enough to kick a hog barefooted. He’d known and hadn’t said anything to her. Seeing herself on television in his embrace dredged up feelings she didn’t want to remember. How his hands felt on her breasts. How his lips sent shivers down her spine when they touched her neck.
A new set of conflicting emotions wiped away her frustration. She wanted him to hold her and make love to her. She wanted the release he’d given her earlier. What choice did she have but to hide these feelings from him?
“I don’t want to hear your excuses. The fact I have you, a husband I never wanted, and not the land I wanted,
is worse than getting kicked by a mule,” she snapped and poked him in the chest with her finger. “To add salt to my injured ego, people will now think I’m a con artist or worse, a slut.”
His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.
Good, I’ve hurt him.
“No, it’s not how—”
She cut him off. “Why didn’t you simply sign the papers? If you had, none of this would’ve happened. All of this is your fault. We consummated our sacred so—called marriage. That’s what it is now. A real marriage. Monday morning I want the divorce papers signed and you gone. Out of here. Out of my life. Do you hear me?” Her voice rose to a screech as she raised her hand to slap him again.
The sound of beeping, echoing down the hall, had them both spinning around in unison. Nurses came from all directions. Two sprinted, pushing a crash cart, into Sam’s room.
She and Allan froze at the chaotic scene unfolding before them.
Chapter 21
“It’s so sad.”
“Can’t believe it.”
“Is that her husband?”
“Poor girl.”
Rosalind cringed at the whispers but sat stone still in the front row pew of the church, Allan at her side. She stared at each person’s shoes as they filed past Sam’s casket and avoided eye contact with everyone. Judging by the number of people who’d drifted by, it seemed the church was filled to capacity.
Her brain churned with too many thoughts to sort out.
Allan squeezed her hand. She blinked and turned to look at him.
“Breathe,” he whispered.
Nodding, Rosalind sucked air in. Pushed it out. Her tension eased. His reassuring pressure on her shoulder was a comfort too. The church organist began to play ‘Amazing Grace’ and the pastor stood at the altar.
Has an hour gone by already? It’s too soon.