by Irene Hannon
“No ma’am.” Luis entered the room and knelt on her other side. “I have only been in Hope Harbor four months.”
“He’s been an excellent addition to my crew, Eleanor.” Better jump in before the woman began asking questions Luis might not want to answer. “And he knows a lot about . . . first aid. He may be able to evaluate whether you need medical attention. I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving without someone checking you out—but I could call the paramedics if you’d rather.”
As she’d hoped, that subtle threat did the trick.
“No, no. I don’t want them to come. Let’s see what this young man has to say.”
He indicated her hand. “May I hear your heart?”
“Yes.” She held it out. “But my ticker’s fine. The knees are the problem. And my eyes and ears aren’t what they used to be, either.”
Luis acknowledged her comment with a small smile and pressed his fingers to the inside of her wrist.
Fifteen seconds later, he removed them. “You were right. Your heart is strong and steady. Does anything hurt?”
“Only my pride.”
“Did you hit your head or go black?”
“No.”
“We will do a few checks anyway, yes?”
BJ edged back as Luis put Eleanor through some easy physical drills. He watched her carefully, asking questions as they progressed—including ones about her prescription medications. The simple chitchat he interspersed with the medical queries sounded conversational . . . but BJ had a feeling he was using those exchanges to assess her mental function.
The man had a great bedside manner.
As far as she could tell, Eleanor passed all the tests with flying colors. None of the areas Luis examined exhibited swelling or tenderness, the older woman was as sharp as always, and she seemed calm and comfortable.
Finally, Luis sat back on his heels. “I would like to see the pressure of your blood, but . . .”
“It’s always 130/80—or thereabouts.” Eleanor stroked Methuselah, who was glued to her side.
“That is very good. And I do not see any problem. Are you ready to get up?”
“More than.” After one more pat, she eased the cat away. “You can sit on my lap after I get back in my chair, Methuselah.”
The tabby gave the two interlopers a skeptical once-over but moved aside.
“You will help me, yes?”
As Luis directed that query her way, BJ scooted closer to the woman. “Yes. Tell me what to do.”
“Eleanor . . . I may call you that?” Luis touched her arm.
“Merciful heavens, yes. I’m very grateful to you, young man.”
“I am happy to help. Please to bend your knees as much as you can and put your feet flat on the floor. I will go behind and lift from under your arms. BJ, if you will hold her feet so they do not slip, that will smooth the lifting. After she is up, we will help her to her chair.”
She followed his instructions, and on a count of three Eleanor was on her feet. BJ rose, and with their assistance, the older woman was able to use her walker to get to her chair and sit.
“My. That was enough excitement for a month of Sundays.” She leaned down toward Methuselah, who was meowing at her feet, but Luis bent and picked up the cat, gently depositing him in her lap.
“You have not fall before, have you?” Luis dropped down on his haunches beside her chair.
“Never.”
“Do you ever get . . .” He faltered, then circled his finger in the air.
“Dizzy? No. Methuselah is 100 percent to blame for this unfortunate incident.” He meowed loudly, and she stroked his fur. “All right, I’ll take some of the blame too. I should have been paying more attention to where you were.” She directed her next comment to Luis. “Don’t worry about me, young man. I’m not a faller. This won’t happen again. But I’m very grateful for your assistance.”
“I did not do much.”
“You saved me from a trip to the hospital. I know how those paramedics work. They’ll trundle you off to the ER at the slightest opportunity—and I do not need to be in a hospital. BJ, I baked a chocolate fudge cake yesterday. Please cut a nice, big piece for yourself and Luis. It’s not much of a thank-you, but I hope you’ll both enjoy it.”
“That’s a given.” BJ smiled at Luis. “Eleanor’s fudge cake is the best in the world.” She touched the older woman’s shoulder. “Can I bring you anything from the kitchen while I’m out there?”
“A glass of water would be nice, dear. Thank you.”
“I will help.” Luis stood and followed her to the sunny room at the back of the house.
Once out of the older woman’s earshot, she turned to him. “Is she really all right?”
“I think so—but without tools it is hard to be sure.”
“Should we try to convince her to go to the ER?”
“She does not want to do that.”
“I know . . . but do you think it’s safe for her to stay here alone?”
“Could someone be with her for a few hours?”
“A friend, maybe. I could ask her to call Rose.”
“That would be good.”
“Let’s see if we can convince her of that.”
BJ cut the cake while Luis filled a glass with water, but when they returned, Eleanor shook her head at their suggestion.
“I’m fine. I wouldn’t think of asking anyone to come babysit an old woman on a fine day like this.” She waved a hand toward the sunny window, then tapped the cell phone on the table beside her. “I’ll keep this within reaching distance and call for help if I begin to feel poorly—but that’s not going to happen.”
The stubborn tilt of the woman’s chin told BJ that winning this argument was a lost cause. She looked over at Luis and lifted her shoulder in a what-can-you-do shrug.
“In that case, I’ll stop in after work.” She held up her hand as Eleanor started to protest. “You’re on my route, it’s not an imposition, and I’ll only stay three minutes.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“The health of my cake supplier is a top priority.” She winked and hefted the fudgy treat.
“Don’t worry. I expect a lot more cakes will be coming out of that kitchen. But if you want to stop, that’s fine. I do appreciate your concern, BJ. And yours too, young man.”
Luis gave a slight bow.
“You’re quite knowledgeable about medicine.” Eleanor regarded him. “How did you learn so much?”
BJ telegraphed her employee an apology—but he handled the question with diplomatic aplomb and brevity.
“Since I am a boy, I am always wanting to learn many things—how to build houses, how to take care of sickness, how to fish in the sea. It is important to never stop learning, yes? But now we must get back to work.”
“Yes, Stone will be waiting for us.” BJ took his cue and walked toward the door. “I’ll put the key back in its place.”
“Thank you, my dear. I’ll look forward to your quick visit later.”
Luis followed her out, waiting while she slipped the key back under the wicker planter of geraniums.
“Since our mission of mercy ate up a big chunk of the lunch hour, I’ll pick up the supplies later—but I want to swing by Charley’s and grab some food.” She led the way back to the truck. “Can I tempt you with a taco? My treat for helping with Eleanor. I’d have had no clue how to evaluate her and would’ve resorted to 911—which she would not have appreciated.” If she positioned the food as a thank-you rather than charity, he’d be less inclined to say no.
“It was very easy for me, this kind of care. You do not have to buy me lunch.”
She pointed the truck toward the wharf. “But I hate to eat alone.”
“Yes. I understand.” He sighed . . . and nodded. “I will eat some tacos with you.”
Mission accomplished—as long as Charley was cooking today.
She rounded the corner to Dockside Drive . . . homed in on the white truck . . . yes
! The window was up.
“We’re in luck.” She swung into a parking place.
As they approached the counter, Charley smiled at them. “Two orders?”
“Yes.” BJ sniffed. “Mmm. That smells wonderful—as usual.”
Charley opened a styrofoam container, pulled out some fish, and gave Luis his full attention. “How are you doing, my friend?”
Some curious vibe passed between the two of them, and Luis sent the man a cautious look. “I am okay.”
“Glad to hear that. It’s hard being a stranger in a new town. But Hope Harbor is a fine place to put down roots. People here take care of each other.” He held Luis’s gaze for a couple of beats before turning to her. “You, for example, have become Eleanor’s guardian angel.”
BJ stared at him. How could he know about the helping hand she often lent the older woman?
The painter flashed his white teeth. “People talk, I listen. You learn much more by opening your ears rather than your mouth. How is she doing these days?”
“Funny you should ask that.”
Or was it?
The man always seemed to have a sixth sense about unusual activities in the town.
“Is there a problem?” He swiped at a speck of sauce on the counter.
BJ gave him a topline recap of the emergency run to the woman’s house.
“That’s too bad. She’s a nice lady.” Charley tossed some red peppers on the sizzling griddle. “It’s a shame there aren’t any children in the picture who could help care for her.”
Except having children—or grandchildren—was no guarantee of assistance, as she well knew.
Her appetite faded. “That would be ideal—but I do what I can.”
“I know.” Charley spread out some corn tortillas on the counter and flipped the fish. “That’s what I mean about Hope Harbor. You may be new in town, but you fit right in to the one-for-all mind-set.” He transferred his attention to Luis and began assembling the tacos. “You do too. I’m sure Eleanor was grateful for your expertise.”
“I did not do much.” The Cuban immigrant gave him another wary appraisal.
“Providing someone with peace of mind is a priceless gift.” Charley deftly assembled the tacos despite the bandage on his wrist, wrapped them in white paper, and fitted them into a brown bag. “Between you and me, the secret ingredient today is homemade mango salsa. Enjoy.”
BJ counted out the cash and pushed it across the counter. “That goes without saying. See you soon.”
“I’ll be here.”
Luis didn’t speak until they were back in the truck, the aroma of the tacos filling the cab. “Did you tell Charley I was a doctor?”
“No.” BJ passed him the bag and buckled up. “I thought maybe you had.”
“I have told no one except you and John and Stone. How does Charley know about my medical skill?”
“Maybe Stone or John mentioned it.” She pulled into traffic and aimed the truck toward the B&B-in-the-making. “Then again, Charley’s always had uncanny intuition. It’s like he can sense things about people. Don’t ask me to explain it, because I haven’t a clue how he does it—and from what I’ve heard, he’s always been like that.”
“It is a special gift.”
Mysterious was more like it, as far as she was concerned. But every town had a few eccentric characters—and if Charley was Hope Harbor’s, his quirkiness was more than offset by a heart of gold.
They finished the short drive in silence and found Stone still soaking up rays in the side yard.
He rose as they walked toward him, but BJ waved him back down. “We’ll join you for a few minutes. We just grabbed these and ran. I’ll get us some water.”
“I can do that,” Luis offered.
“No. I’ve already usurped too much of your lunch hour. Go ahead and dig in.” She gave him the bag and escaped to the house.
Once inside, she leaned a shoulder against the wall and took a slow, deep breath—but it didn’t produce the hoped-for calm. The incident with Eleanor had hit far too close to home. How many times during her final months in the house had Gram needed help, as Eleanor had today? And who had she called?
BJ’s throat thickened, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. It was fruitless to keep asking those kinds of questions. What was done was done. It was too late to help Gram, and she needed to accept that.
It wasn’t too late to help people like Eleanor, however—and she didn’t have to accept the Helping Hands board’s decision as final. Michael had left the door open, and he was on her side. So was Eric.
She straightened up. Today’s incident might have been distressing for Eleanor, but the episode had served an important purpose.
It had given BJ’s resolve to keep fighting a much-needed boost.
13
I don’t understand why I’m still here, God.
Methuselah meowed, and Eleanor gave him a pat. Had she spoken out loud? It was possible. Some old people did that. She never had, as far as she knew. But things were changing—and not for the better.
She shifted in her recliner, wincing at the tenderness in her . . . ahem . . . hindquarters. There must be a doozy of a bruise back there. Nothing was broken, though. All the parts moved, even if they were creaky and slow. She was just sore from that stupid tumble.
Thank heaven she hadn’t been injured and carted off to the hospital—and then to one of those rehab places, never to emerge again.
That day, however, might be coming.
A suffocating dread filled her, and she sucked in air, trying to fill her lungs. Lucky that young man who’d come with BJ wasn’t here now—and able to monitor her blood pressure. It had to be well over 130 . . . and climbing.
She stroked the cat’s soft fur. Usually the rhythmic motion calmed and soothed—but today it was working better for Methuselah than for her, based on his contented purr.
At least one living creature was glad she was around.
But cat-petter wasn’t exactly a vital job. It didn’t contribute to the world . . . or even to Hope Harbor. Neither did baking an occasional cake, much as BJ might enjoy them.
Why, oh why, didn’t the good Lord call her home to join Stan in heaven? What was he thinking, letting her languish here, serving no useful purpose?
For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord. As high as the heavens are above the earth, so high are my ways above your ways and my thoughts above your thoughts.
As the verse from Isaiah echoed in her mind, she sighed. Scripture had an answer for most every question. Whatever God’s reason for leaving her alone in this quiet house with only a cat for a companion and no worthwhile role to play was beyond her—and always would be, as far as she could see.
Giving up her attempt to understand the mind of the Almighty, she leaned over and grasped her walker. Nothing much in the fridge appealed to her, but it was past lunchtime and she needed to eat. Maybe she’d warm up that leftover mac-and-cheese casserole—
The phone beside her rang, and she hesitated. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation—but it could be that sweet BJ checking up on her, and she’d caused the girl enough worry and trouble for one day.
Resigned, she picked up her phone and peered at the unfamiliar number on the screen. Not BJ.
A solicitation, perhaps?
No. The exchange was local.
Expelling a breath, she pushed the talk button, put the cell to her ear, and said hello.
“Greetings, Eleanor. This is your favorite taco man.”
She blinked. “Charley?”
“Bingo.”
Her eyebrows rose. Although the two of them had enjoyed many a chat back in the day when she’d been more mobile and had frequented the taco stand, he’d never called her before.
“What can I do for you?” She continued to stroke Methuselah.
“Not a thing. Just the opposite. I have an order of tacos no one’s claimed, and rather than have my excellent cooking go to wast
e, I thought you might enjoy them. I could drop them off in a few minutes, on my way to the studio. Otherwise they’re going to end up in the garbage.”
Charley’s tacos relegated to the garbage?
Sacrilege!
“Are you certain no one wants them?”
“One hundred percent. I’ve closed the stand for the day and the wharf is deserted.”
“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind a slight detour . . .”
“Not at all.”
“Let me give you my address. It’s—”
“No need. I know where you live. It’s a small town, remember? Is there a key outside I could use to let myself in?”
“Yes.” She told him about the geranium pot.
But how had he known she wasn’t up to answering the . . .
“I’ll be there in five.”
A click sounded on the other end of the line.
As she set the phone down, Methuselah sent her a quizzical look.
“This has been a day filled with surprises, hasn’t it, big guy?” She scratched behind his ear.
He meowed his agreement.
“However, I’m not going to complain about a delivery of Charley’s tacos. I can almost taste them already.”
By the time the key turned in the lock four minutes later, her appetite had come roaring back. A fresh fish taco was much more enticing than reheated mac and cheese.
“It’s me, Eleanor.” His voice sounded muffled.
“I’m in the living room, Charley. On your right.”
The man appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, brown bag in one hand, a tall cup in the other.
He hefted the beverage as he moved toward her, illuminating the room with one of his wide smiles. “The lemonade you always used to order. And the tacos today—one of my better batches, if I do say so myself.”
“I’ve never had a bad taco from your place.” She inhaled. “They smell wonderful.”
Even Methuselah had perked up and was sniffing the savory aroma wafting across the room.
He set the bag on the table beside her and pulled out a handful of napkins.
“My word, what did you do to your arm?” She inspected the gauze dressing that covered the upper part of his hand and continued halfway to his elbow.