Wish Me Tomorrow

by Karen Rock

  The woman listened for a moment then smiled up at him. Was Christie making some headway?

  “Of course, Christie. If I’d known, I would have kept the gentleman apprised. I’ll have him come back right now.” She handed him the phone and pointed to wooden double doors that separated the waiting area and the emergency room.

  A buzzer sounded and the doors opened.

  “Follow me.” She led him to a room filled with beeping machines and uniformed professionals. “Dr. Landon, when you have a moment, would you please update Mr. Roberts? He’s Mr. Vaccaro’s health proxy.”

  “What’s going on?” Christie’s faint voice sounded. He brought the phone back to his ear.

  “How did I become John’s health proxy?” he whispered. “And I’m not sure what’s going on. The doctor’s coming out soon.”

  “You take care of John, right?”

  “Right.” He dodged a gurney wheeled by a medical technician.

  “Then that’s close enough. By a stretch. But we’re desperate here.”

  He chuckled. “You are something.”

  “I might say the same of you.”

  “The doctor’s here. I’ve got to go.”

  He punched off the phone and followed a middle-aged woman in a white coat to a nearby alcove.

  “We’ve just gotten Mr. Vaccaro’s test results, so your timing is perfect.” The doctor opened a chart and perused its contents. After what felt like an eternity, she looked at him once more, her face grave. His fingers tightened around the rabbit’s foot.

  If nothing else, it prevented him from digging holes in his own palm, right?

  “I’m afraid Mr. Vaccaro has suffered a thrombotic stroke from a heart arrhythmia. It does not appear related to his cancer nor does it seem to have aggravated it. In fact, the MRI shows tumor shrinkage.”

  He rubbed his eyes. Was he hearing good news?

  “Although I can’t predict how completely he’ll recover from the stroke, he’s regained seventy percent of his mobility and all of his speech. As for his heart, a pacemaker will control the arrhythmia.” Dr. Landon’s mouth twitched in a wry smile. “It seems he’d like a glass of whiskey.”

  He could have kissed her. John was a fighter. He would recover from the stroke, and better yet, his cancer was responding to treatment. He squeezed the rabbit’s foot, for real this time, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.

  He thanked the doctor and strode to John’s room. A nurse removed a blood-pressure cuff and made space for him.

  “John. It’s Eli.” He squeezed John’s hand and was relieved to feel the pressure returned. “The doctor says your tumor shrank and the stroke is under control.”

  “James,” John murmured, his eyes opening and closing.

  “No. It’s Eli.”

  John pointed a plastic-encased finger. “Jameson.”

  Eli grinned. John’s favorite whiskey. “I’ll bring it when I visit tomorrow.” He lowered John’s hand to the sheet.

  “Put it in my IV.” John’s chuckle turned into a cough.

  A nurse rushed in. “I’m afraid it’s time to go, sir.” She steered him out of the room.

  In the hall, he spotted John’s sons and tensed. They strolled his way in no apparent hurry.

  “How’s old Pop doing?” the older son, Brian, asked.

  “See for yourself,” he called over his shoulder and sprinted outside. A taxi jerked to a halt at his raised hand.

  He had someone much more important with whom to share this good news. And once he’d done that, he told himself sternly, he’d see Christie into a cab and out of his life.

  No matter that she was the first woman to make him smile in too long to remember.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHRISTIE TOSSED ANOTHER magazine on the floor and stepped back to study the effect. She dragged a hand through her hair. Still not messy enough. Eli would know she’d organized his apartment if she’d didn’t put it back to rights—or wrongs—but still. She should have listened to Becca’s warning but hadn’t believed anyone would prefer a messy house. After speaking to Eli, though, she understood she was wrong. It was his home and the way he wanted it. She respected that. In fact, there was a lot about the gruff Mr. Roberts she was starting to admire. He was a loyal friend, protective father and considerate employer.

  If only he understood that shielding his children from his cancer did more harm than good. They needed to talk about their feelings, not bottle them up. Becca barely spoke to him. How much longer before Tommy followed suit?

  Her gran always said, “There are no unmixed blessings in life.” Eli had regained his health but was losing his family. How could she help him understand? And was it her place to? He hadn’t asked for help, though his children had.

  She tugged some books from a shelf and checked her watch—10:00. Why hadn’t Eli called? Surely he had John’s test results by now. Maybe his cell battery had quit? Or he and John were visiting? She scattered pillows on the floor. If only he’d give her a quick call and reassure her.

  Without warning, the lights went out, plunging her into complete darkness. The soft hum of the refrigerator quit along with the whirring central air conditioning. She froze, a tingle of alarm running up her spine. The building was old. Had its power failed? Her claustrophobia returned with a vengeance.

  Everything felt close, the heavy blackness pressing all around, dragging her down like... She clutched a pillow to her galloping heart, the remembered sound of thudding dirt on a lowered casket echoing faintly in her ears. She inhaled and exhaled slowly. No. She hadn’t had those nightmares in a long time. Why were so many memories resurfacing today? Perhaps John’s close call had shaken them loose.

  Christie felt her way to the glass wall and raised the shades. Light glowed softly from covered windows across the street, the overcast sky obscuring the moon. No help there. She sank into a nearby chair and focused. Laura had taught her that if she altered her thoughts they’d change her emotions and behavior. Instead of cowering like a scared mouse, she’d find candles. Yes. Hadn’t she seen some tapers in pewter holders on the mantel? There must be more.

  No sense sitting in the cloying murk. She needed to open the windows and strike some matches.

  Eli’s home was overdue for some fresh air and light.

  * * *

  “HERE WE ARE, SIR,” the cabbie announced at the Broome Street address.

  “Thanks.” Eli thrust a twenty at the driver and jumped out of the cab.

  He peered up at his dark building. What a wild night. He’d attended his first cancer-support-group meeting, met a woman who both frustrated and fascinated him, helped save his best friend’s life, and now this—a building power outage. So much for the promised update to its faulty electrical system.

  He shook his head. Christie probably had a fanciful saying about life having some sort of plan. But he knew better. Everything, every single thing, happened by chance without consideration for timing or convenience. Random events could be kind or cruel. And meeting someone who piqued his interest, at this point in his life, felt like a little bit of both.

  He unlocked the building’s leaded glass door and shut it behind him. For once he was glad the super refused to update the antiquated entrance. A key in a lock always worked, regardless of an overtaxed electric system. The thought of his children alone in the dark made him take the stairs two at a time.

  A sixth-floor penthouse was as safe as you got in a power failure. But still. His kids were all he had. And nothing bad would happen to them as long as he lived. If he lived. His chest tightened.

  Exactly how long would that be? Would he teach Tommy and Becca to parallel park? Admire them in their graduation robes? Walk Becca down the aisle and shake Tommy’s hand when each of them got married...hold his grandchildren? His eyes stung a
t the thought.

  He paused on the fourth-floor landing and rubbed his aching calf. It’d never been the same since they’d replaced his diseased fibula with titanium. In fact, nothing seemed the same. Surviving cancer felt like living in a house of cards. At any moment, everything he’d built could fall apart.

  A couple of minutes later, he found his door and fumbled for the lock, the metal key scraping against the wooden panels. After several attempts, the tip of the key slipped in. He slammed through the door in an instant.

  “Take one more step and it will be your last,” warned a voice in the dark.

  O-kay. Not exactly the homecoming he’d looked forward to. He wasn’t used to knocking on his own door.

  He peered into the dim room and saw the outline of a slender woman standing on a chair.

  “Christie?”

  “Eli?”

  She clutched something large over her head, the chair wobbling. He lunged as the object—a hefty volume from his bookshelves, he realized—fell from her grip.

  “Ouch!”

  “Oh, my goodness. Did that hit your foot?”

  “Yes,” he grunted, sliding off his shoe to rub his big toe. “Lucky you didn’t get my head.”

  She took his offered hand and stepped lightly to the floor. “Lucky you still have my rabbit’s foot.” Her white teeth flashed in the dark.

  “I would have preferred steel-toed boots.” He limped into his living room. His very tidy living room, he noticed, now that his eyes were adjusting to the dimness. Had she organized despite what he’d told her?

  “How about an ice pack instead?” she called from the kitchen. He heard the freezer door open. “It’s a little melted, but still cold.”

  “Sounds fine.” He looked around the candlelit room. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, meaning it, to his surprise.

  She’d lined up their shoes and arranged Tommy’s action figures in dramatic poses. The sewing area resembled a tailor shop with Becca’s costume materials sorted and folded. Wow. He’d never spend another hour searching for lavender sequins again. Christie’s version of order felt homey rather than sterile. Perhaps he’d been wrong to insist on the chaos.

  “Oh, about that—” She leaned close to place a cold bag across his toes. “I clean when I worry. When you asked me not to touch your things, it was too late.” She sat beside him on the couch. “But since the kids went to bed, I’ve been making it messy again.” She gestured to a few books and pillows on the floor.

  This was her version of a mess? He almost laughed until he took in her apologetic expression.

  “It’s fine.” He spread his hands, glad she hadn’t headed out the door as soon as he returned home. He was way too keyed up to sleep, and he couldn’t deny he just flat-out wanted to know more about her. “Actually, it’s great. Really.”

  Her soft sigh whispered past his ear as she settled deeper into a corner of the sectional. “That’s a relief. How’s John?”

  “Good. He’s gotten back most of his movement and all of his speech.” He inhaled her wildflower scent, the subtle aroma wreaking havoc with his senses. Stay focused. “In fact, he asked for some Jameson.”

  She laughed, the jubilant sound infectious. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed sharing a laugh with a woman. Strange. He’d won back his life, but he hadn’t really been living it, he realized. There was danger in wanting things, in dreaming of a future when you couldn’t guarantee tomorrow.

  “John will be asking to go to the White Horse Tavern, then.”

  “Have you been there?” It was a popular neighborhood pub. Did she live in SoHo?

  “My gran lives on Bleecker and I’m on Spring. I take her there every Sunday after church.”

  The contradictory nature of cities, living near people you never met, surprised him anew. What would have happened had they run into each other years ago?

  “Is she Irish?” he asked. A breeze from an open window blew her fragrant hair against his cheek.

  “To be sure,” she said with an exaggerated inflection then laughed. “Gran immigrated when she was twenty.” She pulled her hair back and began braiding. “How did you know?”

  He resisted the urge to touch the soft strands tickling his neck. “Something in your voice. And this.” He held out her lucky rabbit’s foot.

  Her fingers brushed his as she took it.

  “I wished I’d had it when your elevator trapped me.”

  He frowned. His super would get a call tomorrow. First the power, now this. That gate was a menace. “How long were you stuck?”

  Her laughter sounded again in the softly lit room. “No more than a minute. But it was enough. I’m claustrophobic. And a bit dramatic, if I’m honest. Perhaps I should have gone into acting instead of nursing—well, pediatric grief counseling now.”

  “No,” he exclaimed. Her face reflected the surprise he felt at his outburst. Well, now he’d need to explain. “You’re so good at what you do. Trust me. You’d never want to go into entertainment.”

  She cocked her head and toyed with the fringe on a pillow. “And why is that, I wonder?”

  “I’ve photographed actors and models. It’s an artificial world and you, you’re so—” He grappled with how to finish his thought.

  “It’s all right.” She looked down at her hands. “I know I’m no beauty.”

  What? He studied the adorable tilt of her nose and the curve of her generous lower lip, the shadowed light enhancing her unique looks. She had occupied his thoughts the better part of the night and didn’t have a clue.

  “You’re real,” he said, figuring it was safe to admit that much. “That’s the only difference.”

  “Oh.” Silence stretched between them. “Don’t you like working with beautiful women every day?”

  “It was a paycheck.” Makeup and hair extensions didn’t add up to beauty in his eyes.

  “Was?”

  “Now I run my own graphic-design business from home. But I used to work for Faire du Charme magazine.” He held up one of the glossy publications fanned on his coffee table. Where on earth had she found it? He thought he’d gotten rid of them all.

  Christie leafed through the pages. “Impressive. Why did you leave?”

  “My ex-wife is the assistant to the editor-in-chief...as well as his current spouse.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.” She studied a large picture on the wall beside his TV. Its simple black frame set off rows of waving corn and a red tractor beneath a hazy purple sky. “Is that what you photograph now?”

  He wished. Artistic photography was a financial gamble. To provide for Jacqueline’s expensive lifestyle, he’d put aside his dream of showing his work in a gallery. Once his illness arrived, and she left, he’d lost interest in photography altogether. That was, until he’d seen Christie. Her mobile face made him itch to capture every expression.

  “Haven’t taken a picture in over two years. I took that one seventeen years ago, the day I graduated high school. Working that farm paid for my ticket to New York.” He stood and walked toward the kitchen, his foot recovered. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “That’s okay,” she replied. “I probably should get going.”

  Eli put up a hand to forestall her rise from the couch. “Please stay. The elevator’s out and stairs are dangerous in the dark. Besides, I’m still too wired to sleep after what happened to John. I’d appreciate the company.”

  She considered him for a moment then put her purse back on the coffee table. “All right. Anything that’s still cold would be great, then, thanks.”

  He grabbed a couple of glasses from the cabinet and noticed that she’d arranged the kids’ artwork on the refrigerator door. Someone had drawn a picture of a blond-haired boy in a race car, and he guessed Tommy had put
Christie to work on the sketch. With an effort, he swallowed down old resentments at Jacqueline’s absence from the kids’ lives.

  “How does sweet tea sound?” he asked, trying to get his head back into their conversation.

  “Perfect. Where was the picture taken? It reminds me of home—Kansas.”

  Back in the living room, he wiped the condensation from the glass before handing it to Christie.

  “I’ve been to Kansas.” He sat beside her and tried to ignore the electric sensation of her arm against his as she lifted her drink.

  “Very good,” she said after a long gulp. “What part of Kansas?”

  “Hutchinson. My parents travel the state-fair circuit. They’re in charge of the games on the fair’s midway.” He winced inside at the crazy sound of that. But it had been his life...well, theirs, really.

  “And you?” She traced the rim of her glass and his eye was drawn to her slender fingers.

  “I stayed with my grandparents in Kentucky and visited my parents during school vacations. My grandma’s the one who taught me how to make sun tea.”

  “Do you use Luzianne tea bags?”

  Eli lowered his glass and nodded. “They’re the best. I put the pitcher on the windowsill every morning.”

  “Your grandma sounds great.”

  The familiar emptiness rose. “She was. But she passed the year after Becca was born, my grandfather six months later.”

  Her warm hand found his. “You miss them.”

  He jerked away, unnerved by the leap of his heart at her touch. “Every day.” He stood. “Excuse me. I should check on Becca and Tommy.”

  In the hall, he pressed his burning forehead against Tommy’s door, glad for the shadows. He was enjoying this time with Christie too much. As much as he wanted her to stay, he probably needed her to go before she got under his skin even more. The way she laughed, spoke, touched him...it made him forget the danger she posed. He had no business letting anyone into his life.

  Tommy’s door creaked as he eased it open. Scout raised his head, ears pricked forward.