by Beth K. Vogt
“I hadn’t even thought about it.”
“You should. JV plays at five.”
“Thanks for mentioning it. You just might see me there.”
After Zach left, I called Winston back inside, waving at Gianna and Avery in their backyard. I could step outside, do the neighborly thing and chat for a few minutes, but closed the door instead. Maybe later.
Winston followed me back upstairs, where I made the bed and then settled in the middle with my laptop, away from the mess of the barely begun renovation. I’d take Winston for a walk later, once the workers showed up. If they showed up. For now, I’d check Facebook and Instagram.
But instead, I found myself typing the word adoption into the search engine and waiting for the page to load, holding my breath as if anticipating something mystical and magical would be revealed.
“I don’t want to adopt. So there’s no sense in talking about it.”
Geoff’s words whispered in my head. My hands hovered over the keyboard. I almost closed the tab. Almost.
But I didn’t.
It was as if I was mentally squaring off with my husband.
I’m not talking about adoption.
I’m just doing research.
No harm in that.
All of that was true. Maybe if I gathered information, I could soften Geoff’s adamant attitude and he’d be willing to look at what I’d found. His no didn’t mean we couldn’t talk about adopting a child ever, ever again.
I scanned the page. There were so many things to consider. American adoption. International adoption. Foster adoption.
No . . . I wasn’t interested in adopting a puppy from a puppy mill. A laugh slipped past my lips, and I scratched behind Winston’s ears.
Comic relief and a chance for my heart rate to calm down.
I’d take it slow. This wasn’t a job. There wasn’t a deadline. No one was waiting on me to organize and finalize this information and get it to them by a certain time. I could stop when I got confused. Reread things when the paragraphs got garbled. Walk away from my laptop if I needed to.
And I’d take notes. Lots and lots of notes.
I had the skills to do this. Researching adoption was not unlike gathering the different parts of a mortgage package. I just needed to take my time—and I had plenty of that.
But I’d also make sure I took care of myself and things around the house, too. I’d rest so that I’d be awake when Geoff got home at night. Maybe figure out some meals that worked well in a Crock-Pot. Keep up on things like the laundry and paying the bills. All the things Geoff and I struggled to stay on top of when we both worked full-time and that were compounded by my fatigue. It was time to make my first list. Title it Things to Do Now That I’m Home Full-Time.
Winston snuggled close. Even he was happy to have me home. Maybe . . . maybe unemployment was going to end up being a very good thing after all.
I’d keep telling myself that.
THERE WAS NO RUNNING in the hospital hallways when she was wearing three-inch heels.
Besides being dangerous and decidedly unprofessional, it would spread through Mount Columbia like a rampant case of influenza if people saw Dr. Johanna Thatcher running, her white lab coat unbuttoned and flapping open behind her.
She’d walk, the model of decorum, nod and even smile at people she knew, and act as if being summoned to the CEO’s office hadn’t wrecked her schedule for the day.
She couldn’t even remember what her schedule was anymore.
This call could mean only one thing . . . the long-awaited one thing. That after over six months of interviewing applicants, the administration had made a decision about the pharmacy director position. After proving herself more than qualified for the job, she was the best candidate and could drop the invisible-to-her word interim from her title. Own the position.
And yes, she’d handle the addition of the chemo site, too. She didn’t have the experience like Dr. Axton Miller, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do it. She’d already started reading up on the process. And once she’d negotiated her salary and signed on the dotted line, she’d focus on hiring an assistant so she could devote more time to the project.
The past months had been like waiting for the orchestra to tune up on the rare occasions she attended the symphony. And today, this moment, was almost like the first few magical notes that allowed her to relax deep within.
With this promotion, she could stop thinking when and focus fully on the now when she came to work every day—and she could also begin to discuss her plans for the medical center’s future.
And plan her wedding.
Johanna stopped. She knew the hospital so well she’d arrived at the CEO’s office without realizing it. She smoothed down the front of her lab coat, waiting for a ripple of excitement to overtake her. But today was almost anticlimactic. Her boss had groomed her for this position, all but promising her the job when he retired.
The last person she expected to see in Dr. Lerner’s office was Axton Miller. He rose to meet her, hand outstretched, his smile creating crow’s-feet around his eyes, as the CEO came around from behind her desk.
“Hello, Dr. Thatcher.”
“Dr. Miller? I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Her words hung in the air like an exposed electrical wire as she took his hand.
“I can understand why you’re surprised to see Dr. Miller, so I’ll get right to the point.” Dr. Lerner positioned herself between them. “Based on his expertise, we’ve offered Dr. Miller the pharmacy director’s position, and he’s accepted.”
No one spoke as Johanna struggled to process Dr. Lerner’s words. This man, who stood smiling at her as if they were friends, had stolen her job. She licked her lips. Pressed her hand to her throat, letting it slide down to grip the lapel of her coat. “I see.”
The CEO’s smile was gracious. “Johanna, I know you expected the promotion—and rightly so, given your qualifications. Dr. Miller is hoping—we’re all hoping—that you’ll stay on as assistant director.”
“I’d value you as a member of my team, Dr. Thatcher.” The man nodded.
“A member of . . . your team.”
“Yes. I’ll be busy with quite a few things, so your corporate knowledge will greatly help my transition.”
But apparently her corporate knowledge wasn’t enough to secure her the promotion.
Instead of hearing the welcome strains of a familiar symphony, the words were off-key. Discordant.
She should have known better than to dream.
Johanna fisted her hands inside the pockets of her lab coat. “Congratulations, Dr. Miller. Of course I’ll do what’s best for the hospital to make the transition as smooth as possible.”
“Thank you, Johanna.”
“When will Dr. Miller be starting?” Johanna turned to the hospital CEO.
Dr. Miller—her new boss—answered her question. “Next week. My family will be joining me as soon as the house in Tucson sells.”
“Of course.”
“I’m planning to meet with the team next week—seven o’clock, before things get too busy. I’ll let you know what morning. And you’ll hold down the fort—”
Meet with the team. Hold down the fort. Did this guy always talk in buzzwords?
Dr. Miller had stopped talking. Johanna could only hope he’d spouted off more “team” type rhetoric.
Dr. Lerner spoke up. “I’ll send out an e-mail with the announcement later today—ward off rumors.”
“Of course.” Time for another smile and an exit. She was overlooking something . . . what was it? Johanna swallowed hard. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
Dr. Miller’s handshake was firm, his smile open and genuine. Didn’t he have the least bit of guilt that he’d taken her job? Or was he one of those “all’s fair in love and war and promotions” kind of people? Did he believe that the best applicant had gotten the job?
Her eyes and the back of her throat burned. She blinked. S
niffled.
She was not a crier.
Johanna veered left into the nearest women’s restroom, not stopping until she’d entered a handicap-accessible stall all the way in the farthest corner. Locked the door. Turned, leaning her back against it.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and out of habit, she looked at it.
Beckett.
How’s your day going?
Ha. The man’s timing was a bit off. How was her day? Maybe he would like to withdraw the question.
The time in Dr. Lerner’s office had been like attending the symphony and watching the conductor walk up to the podium, take the sheets of music, tear them up, and toss them into the air before exiting the stage.
Nothing. No music.
A sob rose in her throat and she choked it down just as the door to the restroom swished open, someone invading what little privacy she’d found. Her desire to cry turned into a crazy urge to laugh, and she pressed both hands over her mouth.
She was going to lose it in the ladies’ room—either that, or she was going to march back into the CEO’s office, interrupt Dr. Lerner and Dr. Miller, and demand that promotion.
Her resolve disappeared with the flush of the toilet. The unseen woman had no idea Johanna was having a career crisis, standing in an oversize stall.
She could just as well face facts here as anywhere else.
Alone once again, she typed the truth in a text to Beckett.
I didn’t get the promotion. Dr. Axton Miller got the job. He has expertise I don’t have. He assures me that I’m an asset to his team. He and the CEO hope I stay on. And that’s my Monday.
She sent the text. Put her phone in her lab coat pocket without waiting for Beckett to answer. Smoothed her lapels, her fingers brushing the place where her name and the words Mount Columbia Medical Center were embroidered in green thread.
This wasn’t the first time she’d had to let go of a dream. She’d just forgotten how the pain sheared off a piece of her heart . . . and yet, somehow, her heart kept beating.
She kept breathing.
She didn’t go backward. Didn’t cry over spilled milk or broken melodies. And she didn’t waste a workday hiding in the bathroom brooding over a lost promotion.
Johanna needed to stand up on her high heels and act like the professional woman she was.
She was an adult, not a ten-year-old.
If she played this right, she’d score a spot in the fifteen-item checkout line.
Hurrah.
Johanna tossed a prewashed bag of brussels sprouts into her green metal cart, planning to sauté them in balsamic vinegar, brown sugar, and honey. The dish would be a nice accompaniment to the sweet potatoes. Beckett’s rib eye. Her salmon.
Now to find a crusty loaf of bread. And then maybe browse the pastry section.
She refused to classify tonight’s meal as a pity party. The closest she’d come to crying over her lost promotion had happened in the ladies’ restroom. No tears and wadded-up tissues would appear at the table. But there also wouldn’t be the anticipated lavish dinner celebration at one of her favorite restaurants—The Peppertree, perhaps?
So she wouldn’t be indulging in the pepper steak prepared tableside by a tuxedoed waiter, discussing all she could do now that she was the pharmacy director—no interim to impede her plans.
She’d eat comfort food instead—her kind of comfort food.
Johanna wandered past a display of high-end chocolates. Paused. There had been years when she’d been in the habit of buying several packages of these. Stashed them high on a shelf, indulging in them as needed as if stuffing her face might fill any ache in her heart.
She knew better now.
Besides, admiring glances were better than the short-lasting taste of chocolate, no matter how pricey.
As her cell phone rang, she sighed. Beckett, at last.
“Hey there.” His voice was low. Distant.
She pressed the phone to her ear, straining to hear him. “Are you heading to my house?”
“No. Sorry. It turns out it’s going to be a late work night. Again.”
“What?” Her cart skidded right as she eased around the corner into an aisle, bumping the shelves of assorted teas. “You said you’d make it for dinner.”
“I know what I said, but the superintendent needs me to handle something—”
“It’s always something!”
“I’m scrambling to put a press release together.” Beckett’s words overrode her protest.
“Beckett, I’ve already bought everything to make a nice dinner for us.”
That was stretching the truth, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Just . . . just save it. You can cook it tomorrow. Or the day after.”
Right.
She should be used to this. She’d been warned this was Beckett’s life for the next year. Her life, too. She had nothing to complain about. But she didn’t like dancing with two partners—Beckett and his still-hadn’t-met-him boss leading her round and round in a never-ending waltz of inconvenience.
She relaxed her grip on the cart handle. Flexed her fingers.
Even in a busy grocery store, she was alone.
“You still there?”
“Where else would I be?”
“I’m sorry, Johanna. I’ve got to go.”
“I understand.”
The silence on the other end told her the attempt to be a loving fiancée wasn’t worth the effort.
The man probably didn’t even remember she’d lost her promotion.
She closed her eyes. Organized her thoughts, her emotions, like the rows and rows of exotic teas in front of her. Box upon box. By flavor. By brand. By touted remedies.
For a moment, she seemed to catch the faintest hint of the aroma of lemon and mint tea. Heard the clink of delicate bone china teacups. A voice saying, “Sometimes the best reward for a job well done is a nice cup of fresh-brewed hot tea . . .”
Johanna opened her eyes, shaking her head. She didn’t have time for this. She was in a grocery store aisle, not strolling down memory lane.
She retraced her steps, replacing each item she’d chosen. Brussels sprouts. Sweet potatoes. Salmon. Steak.
The overhead voice announcing some sort of sale price in the produce section might as well be the voice of some all-seeing god unveiling a truth. Other people might be running to grab half-priced organic fruit and vegetables. But Johanna was embracing the reality that Beckett loved his military career as much as she loved being a pharmacist. He reveled in being handpicked by the general. In the unrelenting fast pace, the endless demands.
Laughter floated over from the next aisle. At least someone was having a good day. Who was she kidding? Plenty of people were happy, including Dr. Axton Miller. Johanna couldn’t move. Her thoughts jumbled together, a mixture of retorts to her boss and complaints to her fiancé.
Despite the rumbling in her stomach, Johanna wasn’t hungry. She wanted to go home.
Jillian thought she was tired?
Her sister had no idea.
THE AROMA OF HOT PIZZa—three cheeses, onions, green peppers, and extra Canadian bacon—filled the air as Harper tipped and thanked the delivery guy, closing her front door with a smile and a firm kick of her bare foot, her nails painted a vivid orange.
“I thought he’d never get here.” She balanced the boxes so the smaller container of cheesy bread wouldn’t slide off.
I moved our glasses of soda so Harper could set the food in the center of the coffee table.
“You sure you don’t want to sit at the dining room table?”
“Casual dining is fine.” I handed her a paper plate, keeping one for myself. “Casual is all I do right now.”
Besides, Harper’s living room was comfortable. She’d lost half her furniture during the separation proceedings but had found replacements at estate sales. A white couch with a coordinating floral-print chair. An oval wood coffee table. A slender wood floor lamp.
“I knew I
should have cooked something.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I added a piece of cheesy bread to my plate. “This is fantastic. It’s not out of a Crock-Pot. It’s not out of a can. And it’s not a peanut butter sandwich.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” She slid two pieces of pizza onto her plate. “Life’s just been a bit unsettled lately.”
“You, too, huh? What’s going on?”
“My divorce is final.” She took a bite of pizza. Chewed. Swallowed. “I’m no longer legally married to Trent Adams.”
The bravado in her voice was undermined by the sheen of tears in her eyes.
How had I lost track of this dreaded event in my best friend’s life? Harper had been counting down the days like some sort of macabre ringing in a New Year . . . a new life she’d never wanted.
After I was diagnosed with cancer, people at work struggled to know what to say or what not to say. Should they ask how I was? Avert their eyes and walk past, saying nothing? So often they chose to say nothing. Was Harper getting the same kind of treatment from friends, family, coworkers at the bank? Did people even remember she was separated?
This was Harper. The friend who’d deluged me with positive thoughts, refusing to let me give up or give in to cancer. I’d be there for her like she’d been there for me.
I reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. I should have remembered. Trent’s going to realize what a mistake he made—”
“Jillian.” Harper shook her head, removing her hand from mine. She proceeded to shred a piece of cheesy bread. “He’s getting married again. Soon.”
“He’s a jerk.”
“So we’ve both said. Many times.” Her laugh was weak. “Unfortunately, he never realized it.”
Maybe changing the subject was best. I sipped my root beer. “How are things at the bank?”
“Funny you should ask.”
“What does that mean?”
“It turns out they’re downsizing. . . .”
“Hampton didn’t say he was firing you!”