“The Jon Bradstreet Stables.” Her chin quivered as she ran a finger across the name of her son, their son. She nodded, overcome, tears welling, then spilling. She pictured Jon as he’d been, snugged onto the saddle, helmet in place, his beautiful brown eyes full of trust. “I love it.”
Reggie offered a wad of tissues from the never-ending box that understandably lived in the waiting room of the ICU. “Good. And Conor would approve?”
“Yes.” She nodded, grabbed more tissues, mopped her eyes and blew her nose, not caring that this rich man watched. “Conor will approve.”
“And, about the bookstore...”
Alicia stiffened. “Yes?”
Reggie contemplated her a long moment as though searching for words. “Your proposal should have gone through the first time. Both the presentation and the location were fine as offered. Unfortunately there are times when outside variables take on too much weight. That was the case with your project. I’m glad we had the opportunity to look at it again, reassess our decision.”
“Because Conor made a hefty contribution?” Should she hate the man she’d called her husband for years for engineering things in typical style or love him to pieces, glad to have a champion on her side again?
Reggie shook his head. “While his contribution in both advice and dollars proved stellar for procurement of our camp land, Conor wasn’t the causative factor in the vote change. Sometimes government officials trip over themselves to make certain people happy at the expense of others.”
“Shipton Books.”
He smiled but wouldn’t commit. “Once we realized our mistake, we backtracked. Princeton is a community that stands by its own. We forgot that for a minute.”
Alicia gave him a watery smile. “Thank you.”
He stood. Winked. “Of course, seven-figure checks aren’t exactly chicken feed, you know.”
“Should have held out for eight,” Alicia told him. She stuck out her hand. “I appreciate your efforts and your candor.”
He nodded, then indicated the ICU doors. “And we’ll keep you in our prayers. I think the good father had tears in his eyes when they prayed for Conor during Mass today.”
“I saw that too.” Alicia’s smile grew. “I think it’s because he fears getting wet.”
Reggie cocked a brow.
Alicia grinned. “A little wager they had going. Father lost.”
“And Conor won.”
She nodded. “So typical. Now he just needs to live long enough to enjoy his victory.”
“Amen.”
“I think I’ve got him, Leash,” Conor muttered, eyeing the scrawny dog in need of medical help. “Yes, look, he’s right there, behind the bush. No, not over there, Leash, to the left. My left. Yes, right there, you’ve almost got him, great job. Leash? Alicia? Leash, where are you?”
The weights yanked again, pulling him back, disallowing movement and speech. With a quick twist and a yell he disengaged whatever blocked his airway, croaking the dog’s direction to Alicia, sure she could find the bedraggled mutt if given the chance.
The waiting room intercom buzzed the next evening. Addie hit the button, looking fairly good for someone who spent the last three days sleeping on chairs. Youth factor, Alicia reasoned. “Yes?”
“Mr. Bradstreet’s family, please.”
Addie’s face drained at the frantic note in the nurse’s voice. “Speaking.”
“Mr. Bradstreet has pulled out his vent tube and is calling for someone named Lisa, or Alyssa, something like that. Is there a person with that name here? He’s quite distraught.”
Alicia growled. “Tell them to open the door.”
She cruised through the opening before the automatic doors swung wide, banging her elbow on the hard, polished metal, but felt nothing. She raced down the hall, banked a right and practically flew into Conor’s room. “I’m here, Conor. It’s me. Alicia.” She pulled a breath, wanting and needing to calm her nerves so she could present a brave front. The guy had been through plenty the last seventy-two hours. Her job was to make things better, not worse. She picked up Conor’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. “I’m here, Conor. Right here.”
“Leash.”
A sigh whooshed out of her at the sound of her name on his lips. “Yes, Conor.”
“I saw him, Leash.”
The nurse met Alicia’s gaze across the bed and cocked a brow while someone else tried to make sense out of the equipment Conor had pulled free. Alicia leaned close. “Saw who, Conor?”
“Jon.”
The name came out a valiant whisper over roughed up vocal chords, as if Conor himself couldn’t quite believe his words. Alicia laid her second hand to his forehead, definitely cooler. “Rest, Conor.”
The fingers in hers wiggled impatience, a not unfamiliar Conor trait. “He was bigger, Leash, not like when he—”
“Conor.”
“—died.”
The nurse’s expression turned to one of comfort. She nodded to Alicia to let him go, let him talk.
“Oh?” Alicia clung to his hand, not wanting to have this conversation, not now, not ever.
“Tall, like me.” Conor’s air pushed out as he struggled to speak, the effort costing him. “And still blond. But your face, Leash. My brown eyes. I’d have known him anywhere.”
Alicia closed her eyes and sank into the chair. “Did he look good?”
“Wonderful.”
A peaceful expression stole across Conor’s features. Alicia dropped her head to his arm, her tears wetting his sheets. “I’m glad, Conor.”
“Hey.”
His left arm struggled to move. Alicia lifted her head to accommodate him. He brought the hand to her face, touching the skin, feeling the tears, his eyes closed tight like a newborn pup. “You’re crying.”
“A little.”
Conor frowned. “Don’t.”
His order made her smile. “Yes, sir. That better?”
His breathing tightened as he groped her face, his hands clumsy. “Some. I’m tired, Leash.”
“I bet. Rest. I’m here. The girls are here. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
She smiled against the skin of his hand. “Promise.”
“Leash.”
“Conor. Shh... You should be sleeping.”
“Been sleeping. Over-rated. Leash...I’m sorry.” The words had slowed to a half-croak.
“Conor...”
“I’m trying, Leash...” His air broke. He pulled for breath. The nurse stood nearby with an oxygen mask, watching him, ready to intervene, but allowing him to say what he seemed so determined to say. “Can’t die...”
Alicia’s heart spiked, then dipped. She raised her head. Palmed his face. “You’re not going to die, Conor. Too much to do.”
“...without telling you.”
Sudden insight offered Alicia means to help. She leaned closer, her lips against his cheek. “That you love me?”
He sighed and relaxed into the pillow. “Yes.”
Oh, man. She studied his face, the familiar lines, the planes of his cheeks, hollowed and gaunt from his ordeal. “You’ve been telling me, Conor, in so many ways. Your work. Your charity. Your kindness.” Alicia gnawed her lower lip, watching his muted reactions. “I was too mad to listen.”
An understatement if ever there was one. Conor’s face flexed, then relaxed. “And now?”
Hmm. A loaded question. One she might need a little time on. She moved forward and laid her lips against his face again, the kiss whisper soft. “Now you need to rest. Let the medicine and the staff do their jobs. Get better. We’ve got lots of time as long as you don’t decide to check out on me, leaving me with a wedding to plan, a store to open and a dog to take care of all on my own. Then I’ll be ticked off all over again. We don’t want that, do we?”
Conor shuddered as if calling to mind the last eight years. “No.” His expression shifted to confusion. “Dog?”
“Mm hmm. The one we found, remember?”
Hi
s eyes blinked open, then closed. He twitched his nose as though smelling something foul. “Oh, yes.”
Alicia smiled. “Well, he’s doing much better and smells good now.”
“Sarge.”
“You do remember. Good.”
“Leash.”
“Yes, Conor?” The nurse made a quieting motion. Alicia nodded agreement. “One more thing and then you need to sleep, okay? We can talk more later. What?”
“I killed... the fleas... for you.”
Fever ramblings. Alicia smiled and batted eyelashes against his cheek. “You did, and I thank you. Go to sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“You’re sure?”
She grasped his hand and gave it a light squeeze. “I’m positive, Conor.”
Chapter Sixteen
Alicia strode into the private room on the fifth floor of the hospital and whistled softly. “Holy flowers, Batman.”
Conor snorted. “Get me out of this place.”
“Um...How, exactly?” She let her gaze rest on the PIC line, then re-directed her attention to the dozens of floral arrangements. “Does anyone on earth need this many flowers?”
“The nurses will shift them to other patients just as soon as we take out the cards so we can send thank-you notes.”
“We?” Alicia perched on the edge of his bed and gave him an arch glance. “No one sent me flowers, Conor.”
“No?”
“Uh uh. Not one single blossom has come to my door in too many years to count. Be grateful.”
He reached out a hand to her cheek, IV tubing draped along his arm. “Oh, I am.”
His smile inspired hers. She raised a hand to his forehead and nodded at the distinct drop in temperature. “Much better. And I have to say I’m glad to have you out of that stupid—”
“Bad word, remember?”
She grinned and made a quick substitution. “Goofy ICU where they wouldn’t let me come in to see you until Kim put me on the list of approved visitors.”
“Really?” Conor’s smile deepened. “Held you at bay, did they?”
“It wasn’t one bit funny at the time.”
Conor made a phony attempt at a serious face. “Of course not.”
“Conor.” She poked him, then felt almost bad when he winced, but not quite. “You deserved that. Being shut out of your room was demoralizing. Degrading.”
“Deserved?” He hiked one brow and for a moment looked like the Conor of old, cocky and quite self-assured, although pale.
“You—”
Conor leaned forward and placed two fingers against her mouth, successfully preventing the bad word at the edge of her tongue. “I have a distinct feeling that anything you’re about to call me goes well beyond the realm of stupid, so I’m going to save you from yourself.”
She sputtered.
Her sputter inspired a deeper smile from him. The fingers against her mouth turned into a gentle caress of her cheek, then her hair. He leaned even closer. “I’m sorry they have goofy rules downstairs about ex-wives in the ICU. I’ll sue them for you. How does that sound?”
To Alicia’s surprise and ultimate mortification, her eyes filled with tears.
“Hey, hey.” Conor reached for her with his other arm. “Leash, what’s up? What’s wrong? Why the tears? Don’t do that, okay? You know they make me crazy.”
“I...” sniff, “was...” sniff, sniff, “so...” sniff, “scared.”
“Really?”
The hint of humor in his tone comforted her, and she had no idea why. Maybe because it boded well for his full recovery? Or maybe because she’d been afraid to lose him before she got to know this new and improved Conor Bradstreet, the one who befriended tired old men and had parks named for his deceased son, the one who headed up a huge foundation that offered a life with a semblance of dignity for those down on their luck.
“So...” He played with a lock of her hair, twisting it around his finger, then watching the curl fall back into a ringlet along her neckline when he released it. “You’d miss me?”
Alicia sucked in a breath and tried to gain control of her roller-coasting emotions, first up, then down, then up again on a sliding scale of one to at least a cool hundred. Whether the mix of emotions was spurred by age-related hormone fluctuations or Conor’s influence, she didn’t know, but most likely the hikes and dips came from the sudden meeting of the two dissimilar and opposing forces clashing together, kind of like Gulf air moisture meeting an Arctic clipper over Nebraska. At that point, someone better be praying for Nebraska, ‘cause the storm of the century was about to dump snow, freezing rain and the occasional tornado on the unsuspecting state.
Conor tweaked her chin. “So. Would you miss me, Alicia? A little?” He tipped her chin with one finger, his voice soft and low, his look shifting from her eyes to her mouth as he angled his head and moved forward.
A light knock at the door interrupted the moment. Part of her wanted to lean into him and taste the kiss he’d offered, but he’d already straightened, his look to her apologetic.
“Conor, you had us worried, old man.” George Bleu stepped into the room, scarcely giving Alicia a glance. “How are you doing? You’ve looked better. And how soon can we expect you back? I’m covering your list, but you know there’s no one that does it quite like Conor Bradstreet.”
Alicia eased off the bed and started to step away. Conor grasped her hand, tugging her back. “George, you remember Alicia, don’t you?”
George turned full benefit of his ultra New York smile on her. “Of course, of course. How are you, Ms. Bradstreet? Glad to see our boy here getting better?”
“Very much.” She squeezed Conor’s hand and wiggled her fingers from his, a move that wouldn’t have worked had he been healthier.
A second man strode in the door, waving a folder, his face creased in smiles. “Heard you were out of ICU so I thought I’d bring you a little work on Ehrmentraut to pass the time.”
Conor groaned. “I hope that’s a joke, at least for a day or two.”
Anger bubbled inside Alicia. Didn’t these two present day Neanderthals understand what Conor had been through? How sick he really was? How capricious this turn around could be if the Legionella bacteria got the best of the antibiotic? She stepped forward to save Conor from himself when a woman strode into the room, long and leggy, wearing a power suit, power shoes and hair that flowed soft, silky and blonde across her shoulders. Total class act, New York prime, smart, sophisticated and slim as a reed.
Obviously Alicia’s cue to go. While Conor was distracted greeting the newcomer, Alicia moved toward the door.
“Leash?” His voice held question and concern. “Where are you going?”
She turned at the door in full “zone” mode, emotions buried, face shielded. “Got a bookstore to open. You take care, Conor.”
The confused look on his face nearly broke her resolve, but even as she contemplated that, another member of Conor’s elite New York tribe moved past her, as if she were nothing. A non-entity.
Pushing Conor’s hurt expression aside, she left the room, realizing the accuracy of the assessment. She was a non-entity in Conor’s life. The mother of his children, but no longer a person with a vested interest in the man himself. Hadn’t the ICU made that abundantly clear?
Yes. Better she realize this now, while Conor’s room filled with New York money movers whose pictures graced CNBC on a regular basis. Conor is, was, and always would be a man whose destiny brought him untold millions, proximity to some of the swankest and toniest parts of the world, two beautiful daughters, an amazing array of available women and one cranky ex-wife.
So be it.
*
Conor looked up when Kim came through the door of his hospital room the next evening. He frowned and growled, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “Where’s your mother?”
“I have no idea.” Kim met his scowl with one of her own. “And stop frowning. You’ll get wrinkles. And then I’ll get them bec
ause I frown back at you.”
His glare deepened. He waved a hand. “I tried her cell. She won’t answer my calls.”
“What did you do?”
“Not a thing,” he exploded, pushing up, out of the chair alongside the bed, grabbing the tails of his hospital gown as he climbed back into bed. “She was here yesterday, all nice and sweet, then some other people showed up and she took off without even saying goodbye.”
Kim gave him one of those special, The-Doctor-Is-In looks made famous in Peanuts’ cartoons. “And you can’t add that up? Put two and two together?”
“She left because they came?”
“Got it in one. Good job, Dad.”
“But that makes no sense,” Conor complained. His throat hurt from talking, his back ached from his inability to find anything remotely close to a comfortable position, his body yearned for food, but his weakened digestive system wouldn’t allow solids as yet, and Alicia wouldn’t return his calls, leaving him crabby, sore, starved and frustrated.
“To you or her?”
Conor glowered. “Your mother has enough chutzpah to hold her own with a room full of my co-workers.”
“Does she know that?”
“Of course she does,” Conor blustered. “She...” A dawn of realization came over him.
Kim met his look and nodded. “Exactly. She’s doing better with you when you guys are on her turf. Yours? Might take a while on that one.”
Conor bit his lip to keep from swearing out loud. Kim was right. He understood that now, but it wasn’t like he had the strength or the option to go to Alicia, wear her down. Or maybe in this case, build her up.
“The nurse’s station says you’ve had a steady stream of hob nobbers the past two days.”
“Some good, some bad.” Conor nodded. “I need to get out of this place, Kim. I have stuff to do.” Like find my ex-wife, pull her close, and kiss her senseless. Right before I take on the ills of corporate America. After my next nap, that is. Piece of cake.
“I believe the requirements for that are a solid diet, clear lungs and movable bowels, sir.” Foster came into the room looking very New York British, a look only the Fosters of the world could pull off. He set his bowler hat aside and eyed his employer. “At the moment, sir, you are batting zero.”
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