by Karen Welch
It would be essential to maintain privacy without appearing to hide anything. If word began to circulate that Stani's injuries were severe enough to end his career, it could forever tarnish the reputation he had already established. Not to mention the psychological effect on Stani himself, if he believed his career might be threatened. Carefully, in the next weeks and months, Milo knew he must balance the information he made available to the press against the inevitable sensational speculation that a brilliant young talent had been tragically silenced.
Chapter Fifteen
When Jana returned to the apartment, relieved to let Peg Shannon take over the grim vigil at Stani's bedside, she wanted nothing so much as to crawl into bed and lose herself in sleep. She mentally counted the days since she and Milo had left to await Stani's arrival at the hospital. That had been the night before Christmas Eve, and it was now December twenty-eighth. Only four days, yet it seemed an eternity. While Stani remained unconscious, the doctor assured them he was progressing, healing, and the heavy sedation was only aiding in that process. But she longed for him to wake up. He was so unlike himself, lying there still and unresponsive, and she ached to see some sign of his usual vitality. To make matters worse, Stani, always so meticulously groomed, so elegant, even in casual dress, was now unpleasantly unkempt. The sight of him, his magnificent hair a tangled mass, a growth of rusty beard covering his face, the disfiguring bruises on his forehead and cheek, somehow made her uncomfortable. Worst of all, she was sickened by the tubes draining golden urine and bright red blood from his shoulder into bags attached to the side of the bed; even the IV needle in his forearm repulsed her.
She had failed him. She was in no way cut out to act as a nurse to Stani. Of course there were plenty of nurses on hand, but she had expected to be able to do more for him herself. As it was, when they came in to bathe him, she excused herself; and she left it up to the nurses to turn him and adjust his bed, finding herself reluctant to touch him. When Peg had arrived, with her air of quiet authority, Jana had been thankful to surrender her place by his bed. Let Peg take charge; she had experience nursing her father, and she seemed undaunted by Stani's condition. She had even gone to the bedside and kissed his cheek, murmuring words of greeting as she smoothed the wild curls above the bandages. She insisted that Jana go home and rest. She would take the night shift from now on, she said, since she was such a night owl anyway.
The apartment was a welcoming cocoon after Stani's stark, colorless room. Or maybe it had just been the exhausted state of her mind, after so many hours there, that drained all the color from her surroundings. Settling on the cool leather of the couch, she let herself sink into the cushions. There were things to be done, calls to make; but for just a few minutes, she wanted to let herself drift. Time enough, after a shower in her own bathroom and a nap, to go down the list of people she would have to call, canceling lunches and meetings, postponing appointments. Milo might be able to go back to the routine at his office in the name of safeguarding Stani's career, as well as those of his other clients; but she would not be able to continue rebuilding her own career until Stani was well. She might not be giving him the hands-on care she had hoped to, but she was still the one in charge of seeing to his needs.
It suddenly occurred to her that there remained the unresolved issue of contacting Stani's mother. Milo had talked about it while they waited during the surgery; she should be called, not read about it in the papers. Whether he had followed up or not, she had no idea. Nothing more had been said; and when she had seen Stani, so lifeless after he was brought from the recovery room, the reality of his condition had overshadowed everything else in her mind. Until he woke up and spoke to her again, all she could think to do was watch him, and watching him had paralyzed her with the fear that he might not wake up at all.
The grate of a key in the door startled her. “Mrs. Scheider? Don't get up, now. I just went out for a few things. I didn't expect to see you today.” Mamie, her long-time housekeeper, was struggling through the doorway with a grocery cart. “How is Young Stani today, ma'am?”
Jana watched as Mamie shed her coat and hat, hanging them carefully on the peg in the pantry, and proceeded to unpack the sacks. How was she to answer that question? She had not tried to quantify his condition. He was not worse, he was not better, certainly; in fact he was not at all. But with a sincere smile, she said now, “Doing as well as can be expected, Mamie. It's early days yet to see any change, the doctor says.”
“Yes, ma'am. There've been calls. I took messages for you.” She nodded toward the little stack of notes on the table by the phone. “And the mail is on Mr. Scheider's desk there. I think he must have been home last night.”
Going to the phone messages first, she leafed through them. Sure enough, there was one from Eileen Moss. “When did this one call, Mamie? Mrs. Moss?”
“Earlier this morning, ma'am. Is that his mother?” There was nothing in her voice, but Jana thought the way her brows arched spoke volumes. Mamie had been with them from the time they arrived in New York, referred to them by Milo's chauffeur, Robert. She had a particular fondness for Stani, which she demonstrated by gently scolding him for his absentmindedness and making sure that his favorite foods were always in the refrigerator.
“Yes. This is all she said?” Scanning the message, Jana wasn't sure what to make of it. Eileen had said merely that she heard on the radio that Stani had been in an accident. Please let him know she had called.
“Yes, ma'am.” Mamie seemed to consider for a moment, then added, “I didn't think I should be the one to tell her anything more. But I guess she should know, shouldn't she?”
“Of course. We'll get in touch with her.” The thought of trying to describe Stani's condition to his mother was too much just now. Later, Milo would have to take care of it.
“I gave his bedroom a good, deep cleaning yesterday. It should be about as clean as a hospital room, now. It's all ready for him, when he comes home.” The question in her sharp eyes was undeniable. Would he be coming home?
“Thank you, Mamie. It may be some time, yet. The doctor said two or three weeks. He has to wake up first.” Without any warning, her breath caught in a sob and she dissolved into tears, covering her face with her hands.
They stood together, the tall, strong Mamie gathering the tiny, sobbing Jana to her breast, holding her like a child. “There, there,” she muttered over and over again, almost singing in her low, rich voice, “the good Lord would never take him yet. He still has work to do. You're just overtired, now. Come on, I'll run a bath for you and then you need some nourishment. I threw out everything in the icebox this morning and got in fresh. Can't have the two of you getting food poisoning on top of everything else. I'll fix you something to eat, and then you're going to bed. Who's with Young Stani at the hospital now?”
Sniffing and wiping at her eyes with the tissue Mamie produced, Jana told her that Peg Shannon would be staying with him at night now.
“Well, that just goes to show you. There's always help when we need it.” Turning toward the master bedroom, Mamie paused. “Speaking of help, Robert brought that Mr. Kimble to look around in Young Stani's room. He seems like a real nice man. Is he going to stay long?”
With a weak smile, Jana replied, “Oh, I hope so, Mamie. I hope so.”
Chapter Sixteen
At the beginning of the week after Christmas, Jack took Emily into town. If she was serious about taking charge of her affairs, she needed to get started, he said. “No time like the present, before you start making too many plans. You're smart enough to know it won't be as simple as packing your things and moving back to the farm.”
He had arranged a meeting at the bank, where she sat down with her father's lawyer, Tom Jeffers, and the bank's trust officer, Emory Harris. Both men had been instructed to speak frankly with regard to the arrangements her father had made and the details of the financial trust. While Jack was now Emily's guardian, that would end when she turned twenty-one. At that time,
she would be a woman of means, with a choice of options for both her own and the farm's futures.
Emily listened closely, as both men talked to her with gentle respect. At first she feared that she would find herself impoverished or worse, in debt. Growing up, money had never been a topic of conversation at home, but she had always believed her parents lived frugally out of necessity. Economy had been practiced in the house, with an emphasis on preserving the treasures her mother had inherited from her family; and rarely had anything been purchased without a lengthy debate over value and cost. Her father had always insisted on farming without costly chemicals or fertilizers, instead following time-honored organic methods. The garden had more than paid for itself each year, but there had been little concern about making a profit anyway. It was his passion, rather than a means of supporting his family.
Now it was explained to her that in fact her parents had been very comfortably fixed, if not precisely wealthy. They had each made substantial investments during the years before their marriage, and those made up the bulk of her trust fund. Her father had inherited the farm, and it remained free from debt. Emily's college and personal expenses, as well as her father's care, were provided for out of money her mother had inherited from her parents, invested many years earlier.
In answer to her questions, she was assured that while she was far from rich, there was no danger of running out of money and having to dip into the principal of the trust before she could begin to earn a living for herself. There were adequate funds to provide for her father's nursing home care for years to come, and enough capital on hand to meet any repair needs at the farm.
With a timid smile, she asked Mr. Harris if there might be enough for the purchase of a new washing machine. The old one had put up great resistance when she tried to do her laundry, producing a huge puddle of water on the pantry floor.
Returning her smile, he leaned on his desk and met her eyes. “Emily, you can buy as many washers as you need. I'll set up accounts in the stores here in town for you, so you can shop whenever you like. Is your allowance still adequate for your needs in Williamsburg?”
Her allowance, she assured him, was more than adequate. “I opened a savings account at the bank there, too. I've been putting away what was left each month, so it could draw interest. I hope that was all right?”
Jack snorted. “That's J.D.'s daughter for you, gentlemen. 'A penny saved is a penny I won't have to earn again.' But seriously, Em, you don't have to pinch every penny. A girl your age should be buying clothes and stuff. If I'm not mistaken, that coat is the one you left for college with.”
She blushed. “I wasn't sure how much I could spend without finding out I was broke. You should have told me, Jack, that I'm practically an heiress.”
All three men chuckled and her blush deepened. Tom Jeffers spoke up. “Emily, if there's one thing your parents were set on, it was raising you to appreciate the value of what you have. I guess they just never gave you that value in dollars and cents. Now you'll learn that a place like yours is worth a lot, but at the same time costs a good bit to own. Being an heiress in your case means you've inherited a lot of responsibility.”
Later she thought about what had been said, as she walked the blocks around the courthouse. Her parents had already provided so much for her, a home, land and money. While the idea of taking on the management of all that was daunting, it was also exciting. Passing the hardware store window, she eyed her reflection in the glass. Emily Haynes, she told herself, you look like a girl with a future. Going inside beneath the tinkling bell above the door, she greeted the welcoming face behind the counter. “Good morning, Mr. Gibbons. I need some paint. That sign by my gate is in serious need of some attention.”
By the time Emily was due to meet Jack at the Town Square Cafe, she had walked the four blocks of shops and offices surrounding the white brick courthouse. From the hardware store she went to the drugstore, buying a roll of her favorite mints from one of her former high school classmates. Was she home for Christmas? Oh, yes, but she'd be back again this summer for good. Had she finished school already? No, but she was planning to transfer to the University next fall, so she could come home more often until she finished. The look of mild envy in the girl's eyes surprised her. Did her life sound as promising to this old friend as it did to her?
Her next stop was the new flower shop, opened only recently by a returning native—a middle-aged widow who had run a successful business in Richmond, before deciding to come back to small-town life. Emily introduced herself, explaining that she was away at school but would eventually be returning for good. She admired the gift selection, higher-end merchandise than had previously been sold anywhere in town, and the lady seemed pleased that here was someone who appreciated her taste. When Emily left, selecting a small enameled box to take back to Penny as a way of saying she was sorry for lying to her, the shopkeeper wished her a happy new year and said she looked forward to seeing her in the spring.
With an increasingly light step, she went into the post office. Just telling Myrtice Green, the postmistress, that she planned to come home again would ensure that all her neighbors and indeed the entire community would soon be informed of her return. Myrtice didn't gossip, Emily's mother had always pointed out, she merely shared. It was her civic duty to pass on any news along with the stamps and the mail. After enjoying a nice long chat through the metal window grate, Emily left feeling pleasantly confident that the details would have spread before she left to return to Williamsburg.
Her final stop was Martha Jean's Boutique, where the welcome was enthusiastic. Martha Jean Clark, a transplant from Asheville, North Carolina, was a vivacious, talkative little woman with springy graying curls and a sharp mind. It was said in the ladies church circles that if a thing needed doing, just let Martha Jean know. She would see that it got done, not necessarily with her own hands, but done none the less. The merchandise in her shop had brought new fashion sense to the sleepy little village. She religiously took buying trips to New York each season, riding the train from Washington and coming back with a taste of the outside world and a supply of amusing stories to entertain her customers as she sold them on styles their husbands might consider extravagant, but never dared question, since every other wife in the village was equally well turned out.
“Emily, I have a pile of things here for you to try on. Jack told me he was bringing you into town. I've missed having you here to dress, honey. Nobody can wear clothes like you can. But have you lost weight? You look a tad boney to me.” As she rattled on, she went to a dressing room, where Emily could see the hooks were already loaded with garments.
“Maybe just a little. But don't worry, there's nothing wrong with my appetite. Oh, Martha Jean, these are beautiful. All my favorite colors. But where on earth would I wear all this? My uniform seems to be jeans and sweaters these days.” She peered at the skirts, dresses and even lingerie, feeling suddenly very tempted to play dress-up.
“Shame on you. Oh, you look great in jeans, but with those legs, you ought to be showing them off. Did you like the dress we picked out for Christmas Eve?”
“Loved it! And those boots are wonderful, even though they make me tower over everybody.” Setting down her parcel, she shrugged out of her coat. When Martha Jean took it from her, she clicked her tongue in dismay.
“Emily Haynes. You're not leaving in this old thing. What did you do, roll around in the snow in it? Let me see what I have out here on the rack.” Eying her reflection, Emily smiled. Not exactly rolling in the snow; but if Martha Jean could only have seen her dragging Stani Moss across the yard, she'd understand the sad state of her coat.
Jack was just crossing the street from his office at the rear of the courthouse when Emily reached the entrance to the cafe. Standing in the warmth of the winter sunlight, she watched him coming toward her, feeling her face stretch into a smile. It was so good to be home, to see all the old familiar places and faces, and most of all to see Jack grinning at her again.
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Pointing to her little bag from the flower shop, he asked, “Is that all you could find to spend your money on? I expected you to buy out the town after Harris gave you carte blanche.”
Emily’s smile turned sheepish. “There's more, at the hardware store and at Martha Jean's. I hoped we could pick it up on the way out.”
Holding the door for her, he chuckled. “Will it all fit in one load?”
After they’d ordered, he asked about her morning.
“I hit all the shops, just to say hello. Even the post office.”
“Ah, so the word is out. Emily Haynes is back in town.”
“Right. Pop used to say Myrtice was better than any newspaper. I stopped in at the church, too, but Pastor Mike was out.”
“He's over at the hospital seeing Horace Bradley. He had a stroke last week. Pretty bad, from what I hear.” Emily flinched at the news. Stroke, that silent, merciless thief, had taken another of the church's most faithful members. Mr. Bradley had been a deacon for as long as she could remember, a kind, soft-spoken man who kept careful watch over the needs of his neighbors. He had been a regular visitor to the farm after her mother's death, talking with her father as one widower to another.
Jack took a deep breath, and she knew he had something more to tell her, something he would rather not have to say. “Em, I need to warn you,” he began, “there've been some newspaper types snooping around, asking questions about the accident. They seem to be mostly interested in the man who died. Turns out his father's a politician of some kind. Pretty high profile. If anyone shows up at the farm, you call me.”