“Sure.”
“I know my way around hospital beds,” she said. “I spent way too much time in them. Do you want some water?” she asked, springing to her feet.
“I’m fine. Do you know me?”
She fiddled with the plastic pitcher beside the bed, picking it up, putting it down. “I knew who you were when I saw you at the festival. I . . .” She cleared her throat. “I recognized you from your picture.”
“My picture?”
“It’s in the brochure from the Mapleview Gallery. My grandmother keeps them for her customers. I’m Delaney Graye, Helen Wainright’s granddaughter. I’m sorry,” she said, turning toward the door. “I was supposed to tell the doctor as soon as you woke up.”
She thanked him again, said good-bye, and left.
Max dropped his head back against the pillow, then swore at the fresh burst of pain the movement sent through his skull. It made it tough to think, but he had to. What the hell was going on?
She hadn’t acknowledged him, she hadn’t tried to reach his mind; she was treating him like a stranger.
Yet she knew his name because she’d seen his picture . . .
Okay, now her reaction at the festival made sense. No wonder she hadn’t freaked out when she’d seen him in person. She’d seemed surprised, yes, but not as shocked as he would have expected. She had backed off when he’d refused her mental overture. She’d already known there was a John Harrison.
And considering Deedee’s habit of rationalizing away what didn’t fit her view of reality, she’d probably found some convoluted psychological explanation for his resemblance to her imaginary friend.
Lucky, wasn’t it? He’d already decided against revealing the truth. He’d reasoned it all through when he’d seen her outside his house last week. He didn’t want a flesh-and-blood relationship; he didn’t want to get close or to care. The last time he’d gone to her, she’d admitted flat out she was using him. Her dead bastard of a husband was still her priority. As long as she believed Max was imaginary, he could keep her safely out of his life and his heart.
Sure, that was what he’d told himself, but he’d followed her out of the tent anyway. There had been no logical reason for it; he simply hadn’t been able to keep away. How could he expect to maintain a grip on his logic when she was close enough to touch, really touch?
This time, it hadn’t been a broken beer bottle that had stopped him; it had been a car.
Yeah, real lucky.
“Mr. Harrison.” A woman in a white coat bustled in. “I’m Dr. Yarrow. How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a car. What’s the damage?”
She took a penlight from her breast pocket and checked his eyes. “In spite of the pain you undoubtedly are experiencing, you got off rather easily. You have extensive bruising but no broken bones, likely due to the fact you landed on grass. The laceration on your forehead was too shallow to require stitches. Unfortunately, you did sustain a concussion.”
He touched his forehead and found a wide bandage taped just below his hairline. He wiggled the fingers of his bound arm. “What about this?”
“Your wrist is only sprained. However, I’d like to keep the arm immobilized for a few days to minimize the strain on the bones while the joint heals. The X-rays showed several healed fractures in both your arm and your wrist.” She hesitated. “Were you an accident-prone child, Mr. Harrison?”
The question was thirty years too late. So was the sympathy in her eyes—no doubt she’d also seen the other souvenirs from Virgil. “My arm’s fine.”
“We can give you medication to dull the pain.”
“No drugs. I can handle it.”
It appeared as if she wanted to say more.
He hardened his jaw.
“All right, then. Let one of the nurses know if you change your mind.” She finished her brief examination and made a note on the chart at the foot of his bed.
He glanced around. “This isn’t the ER.”
“Mrs. Graye insisted on paying for a private room.”
“Not much point, since I’m not staying.”
“Your other injuries may be minor, but your concussion concerns me. You were unconscious for a significant period of time, so I’d like to keep you overnight for observation.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“Mr. Harrison,” she began.
She didn’t have the chance to finish. A man in a brown suit coat appeared in the doorway. “Is he up to answering some questions?”
A cop, Max decided. The room immediately seemed to shrink. He had to remind himself it wasn’t a cell. He knew his rights, and regardless of what the doctor had said, he was free to leave. “Did you get the driver?” he demanded.
“Not yet.”
Dr. Yarrow moved to the door. “You can have five minutes,” she told the man. “But then he needs to rest.”
“I’ll keep it brief.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket as he walked to the side of the bed. “I’m Detective Toffelmire, Mr. Harrison. Can you tell us anything about the vehicle that struck you?”
“It was a black car.”
“Make? Model?”
“Some kind of sedan. Could have been high-end, like a Caddy.”
“What about a license number? Were they New York plates?”
“I didn’t see them.”
“The driver?”
“Didn’t see that, either. The car had tinted glass, and it was raining hard.”
“Hard enough for the driver not to notice you or Mrs. Graye?”
“Only if he was blind. There must have been a dozen witnesses. Didn’t any of them get a license number?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Toffelmire consulted his notebook. “Did you observe whether or not the driver made any attempt to avoid the collision?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Was there anyone else in his path, other than Mrs. Graye?”
Max considered it. “Besides me, no. You sound as if you think it was deliberate.”
“These are routine questions.”
“Why would anyone want to hurt her?”
“Do you have reason to believe someone attempted to?”
Typical police word games, answering a question with a question. “I wouldn’t know,” Max said.
“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Graye?”
“We just met.”
Toffelmire studied his face. “What were you doing in the parking lot, Mr. Harrison?”
Max regarded him in turn. The cop seemed familiar, and not simply because of the hostile glint in his eyes. That expression was common to all cops Max had dealt with. “Going to my car.”
“You drive a ’94 Jeep TJ, is that right?”
“Did you get that from the insurance slip in my wallet?”
“The paramedics removed your wallet in order to verify your identity. They shared all the information with me.”
“So?”
“The Jeep was parked at the opposite end of the lot from where the accident occurred.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“What is your relationship to Mrs. Graye?”
“Besides shoving her out of the path of a drunk driver?”
“Why do you assume the driver was drunk?”
“Beer tent. Rainy day. You do the math.”
“It was a lucky coincidence that you happened to be there.”
The beeps from the monitor accelerated again. Max reached beneath his hospital gown and yanked the contacts off his chest, then gripped the bed rail to haul himself upright. “Don’t you think you’re getting off track here? Instead of hassling me, go find the bastard who used the park for a drag strip. There were kids there, too. He could have hit one of them.”
“Several people mentioned you appeared to be following Mrs. Graye.”
“So were they. We were all heading in the same direction. Have you got a problem with that, Detective Toffelmire?”
“Should I, Mr. Harri
son?”
“You got something to say, then say it.”
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Max scrutinized his face.
Toffelmire stroked his nose. It was mashed sideways. He’d obviously run into someone’s fist sometime in the past . . .
Shit. Now he recognized him. Toffelmire had been one of the cops who had tried to pull him off Virgil. He’d testified at the start of the trial. He’d been in uniform then. Max hadn’t made the connection at first because the man had gained weight and lost half of his hair. He also appeared a lot different without the bulky white bandages that had crisscrossed his face.
Was he expecting an apology for the nose? No way. Max had served his time. He’d more than paid for what he’d done, and he hadn’t gotten so much as a parking ticket since he’d come back to Willowbank. That made no difference in some people’s minds. “Yeah, I remember you. You haven’t changed a bit. You’re still going after the wrong guy.”
A nurse rushed in, probably alerted by the dead monitor. Max waved her away when she moved to reattach it. “Get this needle out of my arm.”
“Sir—”
“If you don’t, I will.”
Dr. Yarrow returned. She ordered Toffelmire out as well as the nurse, then came to Max’s side and laid her hand on his injured wrist. “Calm down. We can remove the IV. It was only a routine precaution.”
“Fine. Do it.”
She eased off the tape that held the needle in place, pulled it out, and pressed a cotton ball against his arm. “You need to rest, Mr. Harrison.”
“I’ll get more rest at home.”
“I can’t in good conscience discharge you.”
“I’ll sign a waiver. Whatever you want. Just give me the bill.” He slid down the bed until he was past the railing and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He sucked in his breath at the pain the movement caused, then flicked his mind away until it eased. He’d had plenty of experience handling pain. He hadn’t needed to do it for decades, but it was just like riding a bike.
“Mr. Harrison . . .”
“Where the hell are my pants?”
“DID THEY GET THE GUY YET?” PHOEBE ASKED, FOLDING the edge of a pillowcase over the clothesline.
“Not that I know.” Delaney handed her a clothespin. “Detective Toffelmire promised he’d call me if he learned anything.”
“Last year some guy got drunk enough to put his car in the lake. It was a slow-motion disaster, like a clip from one of those home video shows, and we all laughed at him, but what happened to you wasn’t funny.” She shook her finger in a gesture reminiscent of something Helen might have done. “You know what? Maybe at next year’s festival they should make people hand over their car keys before they can get a beer. They don’t get them back unless they can prove they’re sober or they have a designated driver.”
“That is an excellent suggestion.”
“Really? You think they’d go for it?”
“It’s worth a try. Willowbank could set a new trend.”
“Sure, why not? It was horrible luck, though. I mean, of all the people in the park, why you? After the car crash you’ve already gone through—” She stopped. “Sorry, that was a dumb thing to say.”
“Why? It’s true.”
Phoebe leaned across the wicker laundry basket at her feet to give Delaney a quick hug, then gasped and jumped back. “Ohmigosh. Did that hurt?”
It had, but only a little. Compared to the battering her body had taken six months ago, the few bruises on her hip and shoulder that she’d sustained yesterday were nothing. The aches were already fading. It was fortunate she hadn’t landed on her hands, though. That might have undone months of healing. She picked up another clothespin. “The hug was worth it.”
“I can’t believe how well you’re taking it all. You’re so brave.”
“Me? Hardly. It’s John Harrison who was brave.”
“I still can’t believe that part, either. He rescued you. Wow. Who would have thought?”
“People should do more thinking where he’s concerned. What he did was completely selfless. Even heroic.”
“That’s what I mean. From what I’ve heard, he’s more the type to do the hit-and-run than to push someone out of the way.”
As much as Delaney was growing to love Phoebe, she had a sudden urge to shake her. “Then you’ve heard wrong.”
“Sorry.” She twisted her lips into an exaggerated grimace. “It’s kind of hard to think of him as a good guy. My friends and I used to scare each other with stories about him when we were kids.”
“Like the boogeyman in the woods?”
She reached into the basket for a sheet. She concentrated on aligning the corners together before she spoke again. “It probably wasn’t fair, but that’s how kids are.”
“I know. You likely picked up on the attitudes of your parents.”
“Maybe. But he did go to prison for beating up his mother. We didn’t make that up.”
“People can change.”
“I guess.”
“He was very kind to my grandmother’s friend Ada.”
“Oh?”
“He also volunteered his time to help support the town’s summer festival. That doesn’t sound like boogeyman behavior to me.”
Phoebe laughed. “Okay, okay. I won’t let my little brothers soap his windows this Halloween.”
“Good.”
She clipped the sheet to the line. “But I still say he’d make a good Heathcliffe.”
Delaney rolled her eyes. “He’s just a man, Phoebe, and I owe him my gratitude.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, DELANEY STOOD ON THE EMBANKMENT behind John Harrison’s house and reminded herself of what she’d told Phoebe. John Harrison was just a man, not a figment of her imagination or the embodiment of her fantasies. He lived in a real building. There was nothing mysterious about sensing that he was at home; she could see the evidence of it: his windows were open, and a patch of daylight showed through the screen door that overlooked the deck, so the interior door must have been left open as well. Apparently, he enjoyed the warmth of sunshine and the freedom of fresh air.
Part of her couldn’t believe she was here. Less than a day ago she’d been trying to get as far away from this man as she could. He was still a veritable stranger.
Yes, but he’d saved her life, she reminded herself. She owed him some courtesy, didn’t she? If he’d been anyone else, she wouldn’t be hesitating to call on him. She wouldn’t have fled his hospital room yesterday, either. Not that she could begin to explain her behavior to him. She couldn’t very well admit it wasn’t his reputation that had bothered her, it was his resemblance to her dream lover.
Before she could change her mind, she found a path down the embankment and crossed the yard to the house, picking her way around the puddles that remained from the weekend’s rain. As she was trying to decide whether or not to go around the house to look for a front door, a large figure moved behind the screen door.
Well, there was no turning back now. He’d obviously seen her coming. She walked toward the stairs that led to the deck.
John pushed open the door and regarded her in silence.
He was dressed in blue jeans and a plain white shirt that he wore untucked. A navy blue sling supported his forearm horizontally across his waist. The bandage that was taped to his forehead was almost hidden by the lock of hair that had fallen across it.
Her steps faltered. She knew it was impossible, but he looked so much like Max, she called to him anyway. Max!
Not a flicker of reaction crossed his face. He seemed to be studying her as intently as she studied him.
“Good morning,” she said aloud. “I hope I’m not visiting too early. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Why are you here?”
His attitude was as much like Max’s as his appearance. “I phoned the hospital to see how you were, and they told me you’d left,” she said.
“Couldn’t see
the point of staying.”
“I’d be the last person who would want to spend any more time in a hospital, so I understand why you wouldn’t want to stay. I just thought I’d make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I settled the bill myself. You didn’t need to pay.”
“It doesn’t come close to what you did for me.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need your gratitude.”
“And besides, we’re neighbors.” She held out the towel-wrapped loaf that she carried. “I bake for my grandmother’s guests. I made some extra banana bread today, so I brought it over. I realize it can’t repay you for your quick thinking yesterday, but I hope it makes up for the hospital food you’re missing.”
The lines beside his mouth deepened briefly. She couldn’t tell whether he was clenching his jaw because he was annoyed or because he was suppressing a smile. A day’s growth of beard stubble bristled from his skin. Along with the bandage on his forehead, it gave him a faintly piratical appearance. “Banana bread?”
“It has fruit, eggs, and whole wheat, three major food groups, so you can call it breakfast if you want. Or have you already eaten?”
He wiggled the fingers that poked above his sling. “Haven’t gotten around to it today.”
An image stole through her mind. Max leaning against a willow tree, his fingers hooked through the handle of a coffee mug. “Then let me fix breakfast for you,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s the least I can do, since your arm’s in that sling because of me. I shouldn’t be keeping you standing around like this to talk to me, either. You should probably be in bed.”
He lifted one eyebrow, as if her suggestion had been an invitation.
That reminded her of Max, too. So did the flutter of her pulse. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I know how frustrating it is not to have the full use of your hands. Please, let me help you, Mr. Harrison.”
“Most people call me John.”
She smiled. “John.”
He focused on her mouth.
She started. She could have sworn she’d felt a touch on her lips. Max?
John held the door open and motioned her inside.
Delaney took care not to brush against him as she walked past. He had a sprained wrist, and his bruises were likely ten times more painful than hers. The compulsion she felt to lean on his chest and press her face to his shoulder was completely irrational.
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