by Alta Hensley
The ride up to a permanent room was uneventful, and Clay stayed in her line of vision the entire time, even crowding into the elevator and putting his hand on her elbow so that she could feel him there as well as see him. "You're going to be all right, honey."
She was learning not to nod her head. "I know." Her eyelids closed all by themselves, and the next time they opened, someone was putting a breakfast tray in front of her.
As soon as she opened her eyes, Clay was right there, standing beside her with a small smile on his face. "I took the liberty of ordering for you when they asked a couple hours ago. I hope you're hungry."
There was enough food on that tray to feed an army, and she had literally no interest in any of it. "You can eat it," she pronounced, her eyelids fluttering closed.
"I want you to eat something, Elodie. You need to feed your body in order for it to heal."
"I'm not hungry," she stated flatly.
Clay brought the tray closer to her, saying in a no nonsense tone, "I didn't ask you if you were hungry, Elodie. I want you to pick out at least three things from this tray that you're going to eat for me. I'll feed you, but you're going to eat every morsel."
She opened her eyes for the sole purpose of glaring at him, not that it did any good. It never did. Sighing in exasperation, she tried to sit up further in the bed, slow painful process that it was. The tray didn't look any better once she was sitting up than it had before. It was over laden with food: pancakes, waffles, syrup, butter, biscuits, yogurt, canned peaches, toast, orange juice, milk and coffee. "I'll have the yogurt, the juice and the milk," she croaked.
*****
It wasn't what he would have picked for her, but at least it got something into her stomach. She was on some high-powered pain relievers, and he didn't want her to have to contend with a sour stomach on top of everything else. Elodie was trying to reach for what she'd asked for, but he got there first—not that it was much of a contest—and opened everything for her, sticking a straw in the juice, then scooping up a spoonful of the creamy strawberry yogurt and holding it up to her mouth.
"You don't have to feed me you know."
Clay knew by the tone of her voice that she was trying to frown, but her face was too swollen to show it. "I know I don't. I want to." He put the spoon into her mouth as gently as he could, but firmly enough that she couldn't refuse it.
He wanted her to finish the whole thing, but she started to avoid the spoon when he was only half way through. She did finish the juice, however. Seconds later, she was back asleep.
Clay didn't want to leave her, but he did want her to have some of her own things around her. Those hospital johnnies weren't the most comfortable of things. At least he'd been able to get the hospital to give her a private room, but only by giving them his platinum card number first. He had no idea whether or not she had health insurance, but somehow he doubted it. Waitresses rarely did, in his experience.
He wanted to go to her apartment and grab her some pajamas and a robe and some slippers, her toothbrush, things she would want when she got to feeling a little better. But the hospital wouldn't give him her keys, or access to any of her personal belongings. He'd found out while he was arguing with the head nurse that he was the second name on her emergency call list, and he was dying to find out who was on it above him. It could be that she hadn't updated it and April was the first name, but in that case, they would have called the house asking for April.
Both situations were going to drive him crazy, but there was little he could do about being second in line—for now. Clay grimaced as he looked at Elodie as she slept, then made up his mind that he was going to go get her things. He slipped out of the room without waking her and flagged down the first CNA he found, asking her to tell Elodie that he'd just stepped out and would be back very shortly if she woke while he was gone and asked about him.
When he got to his pickup, he took a moment and sat behind the wheel, leaning forward to put his head against the cold leather steering wheel cover, and said a short, sharp prayer of thanks that she was, essentially, going to be fine.
Then he pulled out of the parking lot and made his way back to Harden, to the wrong side of the tracks, where Elodie's apartment was. The building was skuzzy and nondescript on the outside. He knew she lived in number twenty-one, and it was the middle of the day so there was no one around. Clay took a silver ring of keys out of his glove box and stuck it in his back pocket. It held every key to everything on his ranch from sheds to old tractors, and he was pretty certain that April had put a spare key of her sister's on that ring.
When he was facing her door, he took out the group of keys—some marked and some not—and luckily, he had her door open in less than five minutes. He took the key off the ring and put it in the front pocket of his jeans to add it to his main key ring for future use. Elodie may not like it, but he figured that, with her current condition, he would need to be visiting her place often.
Her apartment was dingy and depressing, but neat as a pin, just as he expected. There was very little furniture besides a big comfy looking chair that had seen better days, a mini stereo that he remembered he and April had given her for Christmas one year, and a tiny TV.
But what was there glued him—dumbstruck—in place for about ten minutes. Paintings. Tons of them. All around the perimeter of the room. Lighthouses, waves crashing spectacularly onto rocks—some spots he recognized from his own trips up and down the coast. The occasional, obligatory beach scene, then one set at sunset with a dad and his little one on his shoulders frolicking in ankle-deep surf. Oceanscapes and red flowers, almost all of them.
Except one.
Unlike the others, this one was framed, and hung on the wall above the television. It was April—his April. Clay could no more prevent himself from walking over to stand in front of it than he could stop the sun from setting at night. He had to. It called to him, and he called to her on a whispered breath. "April."
She had captured her sister perfectly; the light from within, the humor, the fey cast about her eyes that said you never knew what she was going to do or say next, but it was probably going to be a lot of fun... it was all April. Clay felt like he was standing in front of his wife again, for the first time in five years.
His eyes filled with tears that flowed down his cheeks as his heart nearly burst in his chest. His hand reached out, automatically, wanting to touch her, then it fell, lonely and unused to his side.
He didn't know how long he stood there, lost in intimate, soul shaking memories, but when he finally came out of it, his heart ached worse than it had since about two months after the accident had happened. When you lose someone you love abruptly, the worst isn't when you're told about it, or the funeral, or even coming home after the funeral, like a lot of people say. The worst hits a month or two later, when you've stopped looking up avidly every time someone comes in the door, or jumping for the phone because you're hoping it's them, that it's all a very, very bad mistake.
That's when the realization really hits that they're gone, and you'll never, ever see them again. Never make love, never fight, never laugh, never cry with them. Ever. And all you have left to remind you of them are your pictures and your memories, and God help you if you didn't live every second you had with them as if you knew that Godawful day would come.
Clay stumbled into Elodie's bedroom, realizing with a sad smile that it looked just as he'd expected it to look—like a nun's cell in an old Irish convent: barren and stark, the comforter old and threadbare. There were three stuffed animals on the bed, and several family photos on top of a dresser that had seen much better days. Thankfully, there were no portraits here.
Taking himself firmly in hand mentally, trying to shake off the melancholy that portrait of April had inspired in him, he rummaged in the top drawer of the dresser and came up with some perfunctory cotton briefs, deciding against a bra because he didn't want her to wear one, rather than figuring she might want one. Nightgowns—also probably older
than the hills—were in the next drawer, and he took two. Once they'd ruled out problems with the concussion, she'd probably be released.
He piled the clothes on the bed then turned to the closet, opening the bi-fold door to look for some sort of small suitcase. As luck would have it, there was one just inside the door... in front of a second, framed portrait. Of him.
Clay ignored the suitcase in favor of the painting, tugging it out of its hiding place gently to bring it out into the light. He sank down on to the protesting bed with it still in his arms.
It looked like something that belonged on the cover of one of those bodice buster romance novels. All he needed was a hook and patch. It was practically pornographic, even though he was fully clothed. The look in his eye—how had she gotten that look in his eye so right when he'd never so much as kissed her in anything but a brotherly way until a few months ago?
When had she painted this, anyway? He began searching the bottom corners of the picture, looking for her artist's signature. There it was, bottom right. She'd painted it over ten years ago.
Walking over to set it up against the wall, Clay found he couldn't take his eyes off it. That painting was as obviously a labor of love as the one of April was. Only this was mixed with a heavy dose of lust. Elodie wanted him. Had apparently wanted him for years, and had kept it completely to herself.
She'd never once, ever, let on that she had feelings for him other than that of a sister for a brother-in-law. Clay felt bowled over, and almost ambushed by the knowledge that she'd been in love with him for so long. He also felt stupid for not picking up on it somehow, in some way—not that he would ever have done anything about it. He wasn't that kind of a man. He'd loved April too much to ever hurt her in that way.
But Elodie must have slipped up somewhere along the line, and he'd missed it. Was he that stupid? Or just that oblivious to anyone's feelings but April's and his own? He had to admit that it was probably the latter rather than the former. When he was married to April, he barely saw anything around him but her and his land, in that order. She had been his life. The ranch was a means to a better life. Everyone and everything else had been secondary, including poor Elodie, who had obviously sublimated her feelings for him for decades.
No wonder she'd been so adamant about not wanting to get too close to him even after April was gone—it had become force of habit and, knowing Elodie, she must have been carrying around a thousand times more guilt about her feelings than happiness. She must have been doing penance all this time just because she loved him.
Clay stared at himself blindly. He'd found out more about Elodie in the past half hour than he'd learned in all the years he had known her combined. This was her life. This was where she lived, this dank little apartment. All alone with her paintings, and very little else.
He didn't know exactly what he'd thought about how she lived, beyond recognizing the fact that she was poor. The stark reality of her apartment hit him upside the heart like a two by four. He wasn't the type to snoop deliberately, but he did look in her kitchen, just to see what she kept around to eat. There was a shitload of Ramen in her cupboards and some cans of spaghetti sauce. And that was it. Her fridge had some hot dogs and badly shriveled celery. Other than that, it was spotless.
The phone rang just then, and Clay had to remind himself that it probably wouldn't be right for him to answer it. But as he was heading back into her bedroom to pick up the suitcase he'd packed, a voice filled the apartment from her archaic answering machine. A male voice. "Hey there, kiddo, it's Joshua. Are you up? Are you supposed to work today? I can never keep your schedule straight. I tried your cell but got no answer." The man paused there, as if waiting for her to pick up, then resumed again. "Okay, well, I guess you're not there. I might be in today for something to eat, but I might not. I don't know. Depends on how things at work go—I'm on my cell on my way home from a buying trip. I'll call you from home tonight. Kiss kiss."
The sounds of the sloppy kisses that man aimed at his Elodie made Clay want to retch. Instead, he clenched his jaw so hard that a muscle started to twitch along the side. Who the hell was Joshua? He wanted to know. And when she was feeling better, he intended to find out. And for that matter, who the hell was ahead of him on her emergency call list? Was it this joker?
Fairly seething with all of the new information he'd gleaned about Elodie, Clay carefully locked the door behind him as he left her apartment. He spent the drive back to the hospital trying to piece together what he'd seen and heard, and come to grips with how unbelievably jealous he'd gotten as soon as he heard whoever it was on her answering machine.
Clay knew that his relationship with Elodie had progressed nicely into the wonderful intimacy they had experienced before she had her accident. They were taking it slow, she wasn't balking too badly at anything... but still, he remembered how he had felt when the cop had asked him if he'd known an Elodie West, and he'd reached over to feel the cold sheets.
She'd gotten up and left him instead of sleeping all night with him. Was it that she was having a hard time dealing with what had happened between them? Did she not like the bed, or him, or was being in the house that he had shared with April too much, what? He wished he knew what had been running through her mind when she had walked out the door. But more than that, he wished she had dropped something loudly enough to wake him up, so that he could have convinced her—one way or the other, he frowned at the thought—not to leave at all.
With a start, he realized that she was important enough to him that if it was the house that bothered her, he'd be perfectly fine with selling it and building another on another piece of his land. God knew he'd had enough of it. That house had been a reflection of April's tastes, and was very much a part of them as a married couple. But if it caused problems between himself and Elodie, then he would start construction on a new house the two of them could share.
Regardless, one way or the other, he was going to get her the hell out of that apartment.
And away from that damned Joshua, whoever the hell he was.
Chapter 14
When he got back to her room, she was awake, but just barely. She came to full alertness, however, when she saw what he had in his hand.
"You—" Elodie swallowed the boulder that had suddenly lodged in her throat. "You went to my apartment?"
Clay didn't address her immediately. He stowed her things in the cabinet nearby so that she would be able to get to them if she wanted them, then tucked the suitcase into the utilitarian closet. "Yes, I did."
Elodie's heart was trying to thump its way out of her ribcage. If she was going to have a heart attack, and it looked like she was, this was the place to do it, she thought. He had been to her apartment. He must have seen her work. The picture of April.
He had her suitcase.
He had been in her closet. Chances were pretty good he had seen the portrait of himself.
Why, oh why, hadn't she burned that damned thing instead of practically praying to it every night and obsessing over it endlessly? It had become her icon, her idol—and it should have been smashed to pieces long ago. Instead, Clay had seen it, seen himself through her eyes, and her naked desire for him played out in his own features.
Eager to be deferred from the topic that was seething between them like a chasm full of hot lava, Elodie asked the first question that came into her mind. "How did you get into my apartment? I don't remember giving you a key..." Then she answered her own question. "I didn't realize you'd kept the one I gave April."
Clay's eyebrows rose automatically in surprise at that simple answer, but then he pasted a blasé look on his face, saying in an overly casual way, "Oh, yeah, I kept it."
*****
He approached her and kissed her as gently as a soft breeze, then took up his usual residence—the subtly torturous hospital chair.
Before he delved into what he wanted to talk to her about, he asked quietly, "How are you? Is there anything I can get you? When did you have your last p
ain meds?" He wasn't about to let her be a brave little soldier about being in pain, even if he had to give her the shots himself.
"They just gave it to me. I was hurting, and I asked for it."
"Good girl," he praised. "At this point, you're healing and you don't need to be in pain. If—when—they make you do P.T., then you'll have to shake hands with it."
"Yeah, I know."
A relatively comfortable silence fell between them, until Clay said, "You're a fantastic painter."
Elodie drew a deep breath. "Thank you."
"You have enough canvasses. You should have a show."
She was shaking her head, very slowly, very carefully, back and forth.
"Why not?"
"No interest. I paint for myself, not anyone else."
"No one says that has to change."
"I don't want a show."
Well, he would come back to that eventually. "Who's Joshua?"
Elodie frowned. "How do you know about Joshua?"
Clay watched her reaction carefully when he had said his name. She looked surprised and puzzled, but not alarmed in any way. If he was someone she was involved with, then she should have looked a lot more worried.
A lot more worried, because Clay was going to kill him.
"He left a message on your answering machine." Clay couldn't get his voice above an angry growl.
Elodie tried to smile, although it looked as if it pained her to do so.
Clay was bamboozled. She was smiling—or trying for a reasonable facsimile thereof. What was going on?
"Joshua Maddox is a very good friend of mine, and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't look like you want to throttle him with both hands."
"Just a friend?" he ground out.
"Just a friend. A very, very good, close friend."
"How close?"
She cleared her throat. "I don't have to justify or explain my friendships to you, Clay."