Chance of Loving You

by Terri Blackstock

  “Hey, Curran!”

  Aimee turned and saw a familiar young man in scrubs cruising toward them. Beard, husky build. That rehab tech, Edward.

  “Hey there,” he said, plunking a hand on the edge of their table. He grinned at Aimee, raised a brow. “Was it you?”

  “Was what me?”

  “That cutesy olive on Mrs. Marchal’s rice.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Aimee told him, afraid she did. Why was he making a big deal out of—?

  “A black olive, cut up like some kind of decoration? I think someone got pictures of it.”

  “Really?” She hesitated. Was he flattering her? Or . . .

  “Wanda thought it was a cockroach. She screamed like a banshee and fell down on her—”

  “What?” Aimee’s heart stalled. No. This had to be a bad joke.

  “Anyway,” he said, waving at a passing student nurse, “Wanda’s probably gunning for your department. Grumbling about ‘malicious mischief’ and things like that. Thought you should know.” Edward winked, smacked his hand on the table. “But thank ’em for me, would ya? Highlight of my day.”

  Aimee closed her eyes as he sauntered away. Please . . .

  “Aimee?” Taylor leaned over the table, touched her hand. “You okay?”

  “I . . .” She met her cousin’s gaze and groaned.

  “Oh, dear.” Taylor winced. “A ‘signature Aimee touch’?”

  “It was a daisy. I snipped all those little black petals really carefully. I didn’t even know whose tray it was. But I thought it was sort of cheery. And now, when I’m still on probation, I might be accused of doing something malicious . . .” Another thought made her breath catch. “Wanda’s pretty old. Do you think she got hurt? Broke a hip or—?”

  “I doubt it,” Taylor interrupted, her expression reassuring. “Wanda is sturdier than she looks. But I do think you should go over there and explain. Apologize to her. And to the patient, too, if she was upset by it.”

  “Oh, great. I just thought of something else.” Aimee squeezed her eyes shut again. “I think Mrs. Marchal’s grandson works for the police department. Can this get any worse?”

  AIMEE CURRAN, DIETARY DEPARTMENT.

  Lucas read her name badge, noticing how very pretty this young woman was. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought that same thing each time she delivered the cart of trays to this department. She had a sort of creamy-fair complexion, an intriguing tangle of reddish hair . . . amazing eyes and full lips, along with a small but nicely curvy figure—despite that shapeless hospital uniform. Definitely attractive. Though today Aimee Curran looked every inch a guilty perp.

  She’d pulled the olive caper. It didn’t take gloves, tweezers, or a fingerprint kit to prove it. Lucas could tell by the look in her eyes—beautiful blue-green and completely guilty, though she hadn’t admitted anything yet. She must have heard about the olive cockroach incident. He tried not to enjoy her squirming, but . . .

  “Do you know when Wanda’s expected back?” Aimee asked, tugging at a wavy tendril of her shoulder-length hair. “She didn’t go home sick, did she?”

  “No. And not that I know of,” Lucas told her, answering both questions. He decided not to add that he’d seen the nurse’s aide holding an ice pack to her elbow. And probably weighing the wisdom in reporting the incident. Considering the embarrassment factor, he doubted he would if he were in her shoes. “She said something about taking her break once the food trays were gathered up.”

  “Oh.” Aimee attempted a covert glance at his sleeping grandmother’s basically untouched dinner tray. Then squared her shoulders and pasted on a smile. “How did your grandmother enjoy her meal?”

  You’re gutsy; I’ll give you that.

  “I’m afraid she hardly touched it,” Lucas reported, that reality diluting his current amusement. “She hasn’t been doing well with food. I think maybe the medications are making her drowsy. I was going to ask Wanda if we could try some of that liquid supplement. Strawberry or—”

  “I could do that,” Aimee offered in a hurry. “Any flavor she wants. Iced, warmed, or room temperature. Any way she likes it.”

  “She hates it.”

  “Oh. Then maybe I could find her something else, Mr. . . .”

  “Marchal. But Lucas is fine. And look . . .” He decided there was enough misery in this room; no need to let her stand there with that worried look on her face. “Someone scraped it off the rice. My grandmother didn’t even notice your olive thing.”

  Her teeth caught her lower lip, and her shoulders sagged a bit. “You saw it?”

  “I photographed it.” Seeing the worry come back into her eyes, he added, “I mean I had my phone out, and . . . Here, wait.” He lifted his Droid from where it lay beside the Bible, tapped the screen, and scrolled to the trio of shots he’d taken. He spread the sharpest image larger.

  Aimee glanced toward the door, then stepped closer to look.

  “See? I got a nice shot of the body and all the little legs.”

  “Those are petals—it’s a flower!”

  “Maybe that was your intent, but look at it. Check the other two shots. It looks like big black bug.”

  “Hardly.” She stepped back, hands on her hips. The blue-green eyes narrowed. “Maybe if you knew how to take a decent picture . . .”

  “I’d better know how. I’m a photographer.” He decided that, pretty pout or not, he didn’t have time or energy for a verbal joust. And he didn’t exactly like her attitude. It was the last thing he needed today. “Crime scene photographer. Which, considering everything, just might fit here.”

  Aimee’s mouth sagged open for an instant; then her lips compressed in a tight line. “I’m going to go find Wanda.”

  “Good idea. And I’d be gentle if I were you. She’s been traumatized by a cockroach.”

  Aimee stepped outside the doors of the rehab and extended care wing, met instantly by a merciful sea-scented breeze. February, sixty-four degrees, and sunny. Perfect—wasn’t that what everyone always said about San Diego?

  She leaned back against the sun-warmed pink stucco and sighed. That exchange with Lucas Marchal had been anything but perfect and did nothing to help her current situation. Maybe even made it worse. She shouldn’t have taken the bait, gotten so defensive. But he’d seemed nice at first, helpful. And good-looking, of course; she hadn’t been blind to that these past weeks. Tall, confident, with those crystal-blue eyes, curly dark hair, and incredible smile. And irritating smugness. Aimee frowned, recalling his jab: “Crime scene photographer. Which, considering everything, just might fit here.” She hadn’t committed any crime. She just . . . needed to find that nurse’s aide, Wanda. Make it all right again.

  Aimee scanned the employee parking lot. One of the other aides said Wanda liked to take her breaks out here, and—ah, there, sitting on the tailgate of an old SUV, eating her dinner from a Tupperware container.

  “Wanda, hi,” Aimee offered tentatively as she approached. If the woman had walked out here and climbed up on that tailgate, she probably didn’t have a broken hip. Lucas Marchal couldn’t add that to the crime sheet. “Such a blessing to work where we can get a little ocean air during our breaks.”

  Wanda shifted on the tailgate and stared at her.

  “Aimee Curran,” Aimee chirped, fanning her name badge like a game show hostess showing off a prize. “From the dietary department.”

  “Ah,” Wanda uttered. The look in her steely gray eyes offered a translation: “Aha. I’m not surprised.”

  Oh no. Was Wanda rubbing her elbow?

  “I came to see if you’re all right,” Aimee explained. “After . . . I mean, I heard that you were startled by my food garnish. So—”

  “What on earth were you thinking?”

  Aimee’s stomach sank. “That it would look cheery?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone being cheered by an olive.” Wanda’s lips twitched downward as she swept a wiry wisp of gray hair away from her forehead.
Her expression said cheery was a foreign concept altogether. “Did Rosalynn Marchal look like she could be cheered?”

  “I’m not sure.” What was Aimee supposed to do? Admit that she’d never even bothered to check whose tray it was? That the whole purpose of the garnish was practice for the contest?

  “I hoped it might make Mrs. Marchal smile, maybe,” she hedged.

  Wanda Clay was definitely rubbing her elbow.

  “She barely eats. Hardly talks,” the aide reported. “If you ask me, the poor woman’s trying to die. Not that I blame her. Life isn’t one lick fair. Sometimes you get tired of the battle.” She pinned Aimee with a look. “Maybe someone like you, young and all perky-happy, can’t understand that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Aimee breathed. “I shouldn’t have added the garnish. I’m sorry if you were injured because of that, Wanda.” She winced as the woman raised her arm, displaying an ugly purple bruise below her elbow. “Oh, dear. Are you going to file a complaint against the dietary department? It really wasn’t them. It was me. Only me. And I feel so bad about this. Really.” Please don’t get me fired . . .

  “I’ve been icing it. Seems to move okay. So far. I haven’t called my charge nurse or gotten all those comp forms yet, but—” Wanda stopped midsentence as a chunky little dog appeared from somewhere behind her in the car. “Hey there, little man. Finished napping?”

  Aimee was astounded by the woman’s adoring smile; it completely transformed her face.

  “He’s so cute,” Aimee said, taking in the dog’s squat stature, fox-like nose, snowy chest, and huge upright ears. “And friendly,” she added as the little dog scuttled forward, tail wagging, to greet her. “Is he a corgi?”

  “Same as Her Majesty’s favorite dogs,” Wanda confirmed, still smiling at him. “Only this fellow’s just plain and simple Potter.”

  “Like Harry?”

  “Like Colonel Potter. From M*A*S*H.” Wanda’s expression morphed into the unhappy twitch from before. “It was an old TV show. You’re probably too young to know it.”

  “But I do. My mother loved that show. She even had a M*A*S*H T-shirt.” Aimee stroked the dog’s chin, wishing Wanda’s smile would return. She had a feeling this wasn’t going well at all.

  The woman checked her watch and put the lid on her Tupperware dish.

  “I really am sorry, Wanda. If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

  “You really mean that?” The aide met Aimee’s gaze like a drone strike.

  “Of course.”

  “Your shift ends at five thirty, right? After the dinner tray delivery?”

  “That’s right. I just finished up.” Aimee had no clue where this was heading. “Why?”

  “Potter’s under a vet’s care. I have to give him meds—an injection, too—for another two weeks. Three times a day. That’s why I have him here with me. I’ve been trying to do it all on my breaks: walk him, do the meds, and feed him, give him a little love, but it’s hard to get it all done in such a short time. Especially since he’s skittish with injections. If you could help me . . .”

  Aimee grimaced. “I’m not good with needles.”

  “Not that.” Wanda looked at Aimee as if she were certifiably crazy. “I wouldn’t trust you with my dog. I meant if you could stay for an hour at dinnertime and volunteer to help feed my list of patients. Only for two weeks.”

  “I’ve asked for the day off tomorrow . . .” Aimee decided against mentioning a contest to prove her expert culinary skills. “But I could check my schedule, maybe. Give you a call?”

  “Do that. Sooner rather than later.” Wanda rubbed her elbow again. “I think this arrangement will help everyone.”

  Amy forced herself to smile, said good-bye, and then headed across the parking lot to her own car. She tried to focus on the positive: phase one of the Vegan Valentine Bake-Off would happen tomorrow. It was the first step in her new future. And despite today’s regrettable olive glitch, it seemed that she’d managed to save her hospital job. Even if she was being blackmailed by the grumpy Wanda Clay, forced to spend unpaid hours feeding the woman’s assigned patients. Which included the grandmother of . . . Aimee groaned aloud.

  Lucas Marchal.

  “YOO-HOO. MIZ MARCHAL, HELLOOOO . . . Good morning! You’re awake!” The roommate, Margie, waved from across the room, every inch of her round face scrunched with delight. She pointed at her tray. “Yay, muffins!”

  “Meaning she’d be happy to have yours, too.” Lucas chuckled, thinking he’d buy the eager cheerleader a dozen muffins if she could keep that fleeting smile on his grandmother’s face. It was encouraging to see her propped up on her pillows, face washed, and long snowy hair resting in a single braid over her shoulder, courtesy of some high school volunteers who’d helped this morning. “It is good to see you awake,” he agreed. “You’ve been missing all the excitement around here.”

  “You’re referring to . . .” His grandmother’s voice was halting and thin, an effect of the stroke, but her eyes were still skeet-shoot sharp. “The unfortunate acrobatics inspired by my dinner tray?”

  “You saw that?”

  “Certainly.” His grandmother’s brows rose. “And most of your equally unfortunate handling of things afterward. I’ve never known you to be so immune to the charms of a pretty girl.”

  Aimee Curran? Pretty, absolutely. Charming? He couldn’t see it. Clearly the only reason she’d been here was to save her skin and—

  “Did it really?” his grandmother asked.

  “Did what really what?” Lucas calculated the sips of water he’d managed to get his grandmother to take. Not nearly enough. “What do you mean?”

  The rare smile teased her lips again. “Did the garnish look like a bug?”

  “Enough to call the Orkin Man.” He smiled in spite of himself, remembering Aimee’s hands on her hips, the narrowing of those amazing eyes. “She said it was a flower. An olive flower. I thought I was going to fall over myself. Laughing.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge. After all, art . . .” His grandmother glanced down at the fingers that had accomplished so many bold brushstrokes. Too weak now to even hold his hand. “Art is very individual. A gift. We use what we are given.”

  Why in heaven’s name did she choose black beans as an ingredient? It was a huge mistake; Aimee felt it in her bones, which were at risk of melting in the stifling heat of the Vegan Valentine test kitchen. She fanned herself with a checkered dish towel, sneaking a glimpse across the other seven competitors’ cluttered workstations. Slab after slab of tofu—silken, soft, regular, firm. All boring, common, safe . . . and smart. Black bean brownies? Seriously? But it was too late now . . .

  “French silk cheesecake,” a voice shouted overhead, “be ready for your oven in four minutes. Lotus flan, you’re on deck. Chocolate heaven torte, confirm your baking time, please. Ten minutes for your assigned oven, black bean brownies.”

  Oh, please . . .

  Aimee thought she heard snickers from somewhere behind her. It was almost impossible to tell for sure among the incredible barrage of kitchen sounds: the whir of industrial-size metal mixers and half a dozen food processors, the clatter of measuring spoons and chunk-thwack of steel knives against cutting boards, the constant dinging of timers. And the concussive sound of her own heart slamming against her ribs. The air was a potpourri of melted chocolate, scalding almond milk, grated vanilla beans . . . and nervous sweat. Why am I here? Why did I think I could—?

  “Black beans,” a contest official noted, pausing beside her. His accent sounded European, German maybe. His apron, unlike Aimee’s, was still pristine white. “Eight contestants, eight unique desserts. A mystery basket of three must-include main ingredients. A trip to the pantry for basics, plus a challenge item chosen from the wild-card shelf. And you, Miss Curran, are the only one who elected to use the beans.” His eyes met Aimee’s long enough to make her stomach do a dangerous nosedive, but gave no clue as to whether or not he approved. “Interesting choice.”


  “Yes.” Aimee glanced down at the mixture she’d managed to blend into a smooth batter: Dutch cocoa, oats, maple syrup, coconut oil, vegan chocolate chips . . . and the wild-card beans. She fought a cockroach-garnish flashback. “I was just thinking of changing the name to ‘kamikaze brownies.’”

  The official laughed, then tapped a finger on her table. “Interesting can be good. Be ready for that oven, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the next forty-five minutes, she’d patted the thick brown batter into the prepared baking pan and checked the oven temperature a minimum of three times, each tick of the timer ricocheting through her head. Aimee had prayed—her first time ever to do that in oven mitts—then finally slid the hot brownies from the oven, hoping they tasted as good as they smelled. They did smell good—wonderful, even. But it still took all of her courage not to run from the room after she set the plated and chocolate-drizzled desserts in front of the assembled judges. And then waited and waited . . .

  It happened all at once, in a dizzying rush. Whoops of excitement around the room as one by one the Vegan Valentine Bake-Off finalists were called, by the contestant’s full name in addition to the recipe name, until—

  “Aimee Curran, black bean brownies.”

  Wait . . . me? Me?

  She was sure she heard it wrong, was afraid she’d slip off her kitchen stool or—

  A microphone was thrust into her face, then a TV camera, with a blonde reporter somewhere behind it all.

  “We’re here at the Vegan Valentine Bake-Off kitchen, with finalist and rising culinary star Aimee Curran, whose very creative offering of black bean brownies wowed today’s judges. Yes, I did say black beans, folks, and these surprising brownies are wonderful! Miss Curran, can you tell us how you’re feeling right now?”

  “Um . . .” Aimee stared, dazed, into the camera. “I . . .”