“Hello,” she whispered, hoping not to wake Savannah. She rose from her chair beside the hospital bed that swallowed her daughter and crept quietly to the hall to take the call.
After a brief silence, a man asked, “Ms. Kent?”
“Speaking.”
“This is...uh, Sam Orlean with Tri-State Insurance.” His voice had a funny nasal pitch to it as though he had a bad cold or something.
“Yes, Mr. Orlean, what can I do for you?”
“I’m...calling about your recent claims.”
She didn’t like the hesitation in his voice. A knot tightened her gut. “Is there a problem?”
“It’s standard procedure to do a policy review when claims reach a certain level. The company needs to verify the claims so that your daughter’s treatments can be covered.”
A nervous sweat rose on Darby’s top lip. “What kind of concerns do you have?”
She tried to keep the note of panic out of her voice, but even the suggestion that the insurance company would deny her claim made her lunch churn and threaten to come up. If her claim for Savannah’s treatments was turned down, the expense of chemotherapy, the hospital stay, the CT scans, blood tests, doctors’ appointments... She’d go bankrupt paying for it all. She couldn’t possibly afford—
“Can you tell me when Savannah—” his voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat “—first showed signs of illness?”
Darby frowned, wondering what had the man so anxious, but also wary of his questions. She poked her head back into Savannah’s room to check on her. Still sleeping, if fitfully. “She had been acting droopy, tired and cranky for a few weeks back in February. I assumed she was catching a cold or maybe had an ear infection. You should have a receipt for the trip to her pediatrician in her file for around the sixth.”
“Yes, I see it.” He had her recount other trips to the doctor, tests that were run and details of the treatment regimen that was started once Savannah’s leukemia was confirmed. “And how far into the chemo treatments are you?”
“She’ll be finished with her first round by the end of the week.” Darby drew a deep breath and switched the phone from one hand to the other. “What is it exactly that you want to know, Mr. Orlean? What is it the company is taking issue with?”
He sighed heavily, and something about the world-weary sound tickled a memory, triggered a gut-level response. She knew it was ridiculous, that she’d never met the insurance man who worked in the company’s Dallas office, but she knew that sigh...somehow.
“We’re simply verifying the charges filed with us, cross-checking with standard treatment expenses, double-checking that your policy covers—”
“You’re looking for fraud.” Even the hint that the company might try to deny her claims or cancel her insurance, take away her ability to pay for Savannah’s treatments, made her knees buckle, and she slid to the cold tile floor.
“Well, we do have to be alert to the possibility of fraud, yes, but—”
A buzzing rang in her ears, and she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, fighting to keep her breathing measured and even.
Stay calm. Stay strong. I have nothing to hide, nothing to worry about...
“But as I said, this is simply a policy review—”
Darby groaned and dropped her head to her hands.
“Ms. Kent, are you all right?” One of the nurse’s assistants squatted beside her in the corridor, laying a cool hand on her arm.
Darby shook her head, searched for her voice. “No,” she rasped, wanting to deny everything about her current circumstances. “No, no, no.”
No, her daughter couldn’t be sick, couldn’t be dying. No, she didn’t have the will, the strength left to fight an insurance company for the medical coverage they’d promised. No, she wasn’t all right. She hadn’t been truly right in almost five years, since Connor died.
Tears prickled her sinuses and dripped on her cheeks. She waved the nurse’s assistant off with a tremulous smile, then wiped her face with a thumb. “I swear to you, Mr. Orlean. If something about the claims filed by the doctors or hospital is off, I’ll do my best to get things straightened out.” She heard the rustling of papers on the other end of the phone line. “To be honest, I haven’t paid close attention to what’s been filed and where claims stood. I’ve had my hands full just taking care of my daughter. Thank God I work for family, so I can get the time off—”
“You changed jobs?” he interrupted, his tone not quite so nasal this time.
“Uh...yes. Last January. Just before I bought the policy. But I am employed, if that is part of your concern. I won’t miss any premium payments.”
“I—um, no. That’s not... You’re working for Mansfield Construction? But your art...um, your file says you are an artist.”
She wrinkled her brow. If the company wasn’t concerned about her ability to pay her premiums, then what business was it of his where she was working?
“Yes, I do the billing and clerical duties for Mansfield Construction. They’re a small company a friend owns.” While she’d much rather be doing something with her art for a living, working for Mansfield Construction gave her a steady income, health insurance and, because the owners were her daughter’s grandparents, understanding and job security when she needed time off to take care of Savannah—a benefit that had been particularly welcome since Savannah’s diagnosis a couple months ago.
Mr. Orlean sighed again, and another hint of the familiar whispered down her neck. She shoved to her feet, feeling a bit stronger now, past the initial shock and dread of impending doom. She peeked in the room to check on Savannah, then pulled the door closed and resumed her position in the hospital’s corridor. “If that’s all, sir, I need to get back to my child—”
“Wait! I...” He cleared his throat again. “I still need to verify some things to satisfy the company’s questions about your policy.”
She straightened her spine, suddenly exhausted by the man’s endless questions. “Look, Mr. Orlean, I’ve paid my premiums on time, and if your company has questions about charges filed by the hospital, you should talk to the billing department. Not me. And if you try to deny my claims based on a clerical error or technical glitch and put my daughter’s health in jeopardy, so help me, I’ll sue your company ten ways to Sunday!” All her pent-up frustrations with Savannah’s illness, her helplessness to ease her daughter’s pain, her sense of being alone in the most important battle of her life boiled over. “If you think I’m going to lie down and let you walk all over me, you’ve got another think coming!”
A chuckle filtered through the line.
Darby saw red. “This isn’t funny! Do you think I’m kidding?”
“I know. I’m sorry, Darby. I...”
She stiffened hearing him use her first name, as if they were best friends. Hearing the way his Southern accent softened the hard ar in her name to Dahr-by. The way Connor used to say her name.
Pain clutched at her chest as Connor’s face flickered in her memory.
In the pause of the conversation, Mr. Orlean had apparently sobered. His tone was darkly serious when he asked, “What is Savannah’s prognosis? What are the doctors telling you about her treatment options, about her...chances—”
Darby felt the blood drain from her face. The best way she had of dealing with Savannah’s illness, the only way she had of not going stark raving mad with worry and grief and fear for her daughter, was to take things one day at a time. She couldn’t think about the long term, the odds of Savannah surviving her cancer, or she’d become so burdened with despair that she couldn’t be the mom Savannah needed now.
“I’m not sure why that matters to you at this point. Whatever the doctors feel is necessary and best for Savannah should be covered, regardless of how long it takes or whether she—” Her voice broke, an
d she paused for a reinforcing breath. “Or whether she responds to the treatments.”
“Of course. If Tri-State clears your policy after our review, we will cover—”
“If?” Darby shrieked then, clenching her teeth, she growled, “Listen here, buster. Don’t you screw around with me! I need that coverage to save my daughter’s life!” Just saying the words brought a rush of unwanted emotion, and moisture filled her eyes again. “Don’t take away my only means to give my baby the medical care she needs!” So much for the tough-cookie act. She was begging now, tears in her voice and the words. Pitiful.
Her shoulders slumped as she gave in to the tears, surrendering to the roller-coaster emotions that had her head spinning these past several weeks. She was a mess, and she had to pull herself together in order to be the rock, the comfort, the mother Savannah needed.
“Please, Ms. Kent, don’t cry. I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” The man’s nasally voice softened with compassion. She almost believed his sympathy was real. “This is all standard company procedure. I promise. Please know that I will do everything I can to see that all of your claims are processed in a timely manner. I want your daughter to recover. Truly I do.”
Darby couldn’t answer. Her throat was too clogged with emotion to breathe, much less speak.
“I’m sorry for upsetting you. I know you’re dealing with a lot.” He sighed again. “Alone.”
She frowned. How did he know she was alone?
“I wish...” he continued in a low voice, the nasal twang gone again. “I wish I could do...something to help. I—”
Darby stilled. Her heartbeat slowed. Without the nasal affectation, his voice sounded so familiar. She shook her head. It was just her turbulent emotions playing with her mind. Wishing. Longing...
“Actually, there is something you can do,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Get yourself on the National Bone Marrow registry if you aren’t there already. The doctors say my baby’s best chance to beat this disease is a bone marrow transplant, but we need a donor. Her uncle was close, but not close enough.” Darby sighed. “It’s a long shot you’d be a match, but maybe you’ll be able to save some other mother’s baby.”
Silence answered her request.
“Mr. Orlean? Are you there?”
“Yes...I’m—I’ll do that. I’ll get on the registry this afternoon. I swear.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“I...have the doctors said...would her father have been a suitable match?”
A chill tripped down Darby’s spine, along with regret and fresh waves of grief. “Kind of a moot point since he died before she was born. That information should be in her file.”
“Yeah, I guess... I—”
Darby shifted her weight, uncomfortable with the personal nature of Mr. Orlean’s questions and tone. “Why do you ask?”
“I just...well, I thought, maybe...” He fumbled awkwardly, the nasal voice back. He sounded truly contrite, and Darby closed her eyes. The man sounded as if he really cared about Savannah’s plight, and she appreciated that he wanted to be more than just a cold company drone at the other end of the line.
“For what it’s worth, I bet he’d have been a match,” she blurted, not knowing why she was going down this road with a perfect stranger, other than the fact that the subject had preoccupied her mind for weeks. “She inherited so much from him. From his dark hair and light brown eyes to his stubborn streak.”
What if Connor were alive? Would his marrow have been able to save their child? She shook her head and shoved the what-if aside. She’d never know that answer. Connor was gone.
* * *
I bet he’d have been a match.
Connor rocked back in his desk chair and squeezed his eyes shut. Frustration and regret gripped his chest and twisted painfully. His daughter needed him. Needed his marrow.
“I have nothing to base this on other than my own speculation, of course,” Darby went on, the sadness in her voice almost more than he could bear.
When she’d started crying earlier, it was all he could do not to blurt out the truth and jump on the first plane back to Louisiana.
“But Savannah got so many other traits from her father, why not marrow type, too?” She paused for a humorless laugh. “And since Connor’s brother has some of the same markers and is a partial match, it seems reasonable to me that Connor would be a closer match. Right?”
Connor. He gritted his teeth, swallowing a groan of anguish. She’d unwittingly confirmed what he suspected, but hearing his name on her lips again was a sweet agony. The precious details about his daughter were like manna that he feasted on, but painful to hear, as well.
He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Sounds reasonable.” He grimaced, realizing he’d forgotten to mask his voice again.
She grunted, and he heard shuffling noises. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m boring you with all this. I need to get back to Savannah. I think I hear her waking up.”
He heard a door squeak, a muffled, “Hi, Miss Priss. Did you sleep well?”
Connor held his breath and squeezed the phone, treasuring the tiny glimpse of the life he’d left behind. The life he ached for every waking minute and dreamed of every moment he slept.
If he slept.
A tiny, distant voice answered. Sweet, plaintive, so young. “It ouches, Mommy.”
Savannah. His daughter.
His baby needed him.
But going back to Lagniappe, leaving WitSec and reclaiming his old life would be suicide. More important, he could put Darby and Savannah in jeopardy.
“I have to go,” Darby said. “I don’t know if I’ve helped you settle anything, but I hope...well, that you’ll do the right thing. Goodbye, Mr. Orlean.”
He heard the click of the call disconnecting, then sat staring at the phone in his hand for long minutes after Darby was gone.
Do the right thing. Years ago he’d done what he believed was the right thing and “died” in order to protect his family and Darby. Now, to save his daughter, would he have to come back from the dead?
Connor went to a local medical lab that same afternoon, requested his blood be analyzed for bone marrow matching and gave the lab directions to send his contact information along with the results of his test to Savannah’s doctor in Lagniappe, flagged for comparison with Savannah’s blood. Roughly thirty-six hours later, his cell phone buzzed while he was in a morning meeting. Seeing the name of Savannah’s doctor on his caller ID, he excused himself from the meeting to take the call.
“Mr. Orlean, this is Dr. Allison Reed in Lagniappe, Louisiana. I received a set of test results yesterday from a lab in Dallas that you asked be compared with a patient of mine.”
“Yes, ma’am. Darby Kent’s daughter, Savannah. Am I a match for a bone marrow transplant?”
“As a matter of fact, you are a fairly good preliminary match.”
Connor gave a silent fist pump, and his heart rate leaped. “That’s great!”
“I have to ask, how did you know you might be a match?” Dr. Reed asked. “What prompted you to send us your results?”
“I...” He hesitated, knowing he couldn’t tell the doctor he was Savannah’s father without blowing his cover. “I didn’t know. More like hoped I’d be a match, I guess. So what’s the next step? What do I need to do?”
“I understand that you are in Dallas, but if there was any way you could come to Lagniappe, I’d like to have a face-to-face consult with you and do a few more blood tests.”
“Go to Lagniappe?” His heart sank. Returning to his hometown, even for a little while, meant risking someone recognizing him. Meant putting his new identity on the line. Meant putting his life—and potentially Darby’s and his family’s lives—in danger if one of the
Gales’ henchmen spotted him. “Can’t I have the blood tests here? Can’t I make the marrow donation here, should it come to it?”
“Well, yes. Technically you can, but I really prefer to have at least one face-to-face consult. And if we are able to go ahead with a transplant, I’d much rather have my team harvest your marrow here. I take a very hands-on approach.” She chuckled. “My husband has other names for it. But I work best when I can oversee every phase of a transplant.”
“Oh.” Connor pinched the bridge of his nose. Hell.
“Is there a problem? Is there a reason you can’t come to Lagniappe, Mr. Orlean?” Dr. Reed asked. “Because if you’re not fully committed to the possibility of being Savannah’s donor, it would be better that we not raise the family’s hopes—”
“I’m committed,” he interrupted. “I’m absolutely committed.” He’d figure out a way to get to Lagniappe, whatever it took. Maybe the U.S. Marshals, who’d set him up with his new identity, could provide him a cover or a disguise to get him in and out of Lagniappe when needed. “When do you need me there?”
“Can you be here Friday?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“Good,” the doctor said. “In that case, I’d like you to get more blood drawn tomorrow. I’ll send you the address of the center where you should go. They’ll start a more detailed DNA study and send me the results in time for your consultation here Friday.”
Connor clenched his teeth, dreading the meeting with the U.S. Marshals, fearing what might happen if his cover was blown. But he had a daughter. A sick little girl who needed him. He would go to Lagniappe—hell, he’d eat glass or take a bullet to the gut in order to save his daughter’s life.
Chapter 2
“I need to go back to Lagniappe.” Connor cast a side glance to the men on his couch as he paced his small living room in Dallas. “Just for a day or so.”
The Return of Connor Mansfield Page 2