by Mika Jolie
“I’ll meet you there.”
He shook his head. “Not necessary.”
Blake’s phone beeped. He peeked at the screen and smiled. “Ovulating time.”
“Go home.”
“All right, but send me a text as soon as you get there.”
* * * *
Forrest swerved the Jeep into an empty parking space, jumped out and bolted toward the entrance. His heart pounded to the beat of his feet racing against the pavement, only one thought swarming through his mind. Please let Dad be okay.
He avoided the revolving door and shoved through the manual entryway, taking the flight of stairs by two, three even, until he reached the reception area. An older woman probably in her early seventies sat behind the desk. Damn it, she must be new, as he didn’t recognize her. Her eyes grazed up, and grew wide at his untamed appearance.
“Forrest Montgomery Desvareaux, my father, Luc, is here.” He jotted down the French names, first and last for her to avoid any spelling confusion. He knew the process. She’d ask him to spell his last name at least two times before looking it up on the computer. Writing his name down took away at least two minutes.
She scanned the paper where he’d just written his father’s name. As she typed, each click scraped across his raw nerves. He bit back the anxiety swimming through his veins, willing himself to be patient. After a few attempts at what he guessed was typing his name properly, she looked up, pity on her face.
“ICU,” she said in a low tone. “Third…”
Her voice faded behind him. He already knew which floor. He might have his own practice but he worked closely with the only hospital on the island. Within seconds he was by the elevator, punching the UP arrow again and again until the door slid open. Mind racing, he hit the number three with a trembling hand. As the door closed, he grabbed his phone and thumbed ICU to Blake. Intensive Care Units catered to patients with the most severe and life-threatening illnesses and injuries.
After what felt like hours, the hollow ping announced he’d reached his destination. The elevator door opened and he stepped onto the quiet floor. For a minute he stilled, letting the strange feeling that he was here this time not as a doctor but as a son settle in before walking to the nurse’s station.
“Hey.”
He turned to Gwen, the pretty nurse who’d dated Adam once upon a time. She touched his shoulder, a compassionate touch. He recognized it. As a doctor, he was all too familiar with the bedside manner reserved for people losing a loved one soon. He’d done the same on a few occasions.
“Is it too late for surgery?” he asked, needing to know.
Gwen cleared her throat, a sign of nervousness. His heart clenched.
“Has the neurosurgeon seen him?”
“Yes.”
A deafening silence settled between them for a beat. But the doctor in him got the message, it was too late.
“Third room on your right. Your mother and Charles are there.”
Charles Montgomery was Jason’s father, his parents’ best friend.
“Thanks, Gwen.”
He walked down the hall to the room, dazed in an almost dreamlike state. For the first time in a long time, the antiseptic smell sickened his stomach. It smelled clean–overly clean to the point of nothing, but there was so much nothing that the nothing was something. Dead germs, he concluded, hospitals carried the scent of faintly dead germs, like a hotel room for souls in purgatory.
He entered the room, sounds and beeps of the machines greeted him. Trained eyes immediately checked his father’s vital signs and heart rhythm. Luc’s heart was beating alarmingly slow. Forrest clung onto hope. His gaze moved to his mother, her usual rosy complexion now pale and sunken. Charles stood on the other side of the bed, tall and powerfully built like his son. He nodded at Forrest, his face grim.
“A tourist was on a scooter, drunk as a bat.” His mother spoke softly into the silence. “Your father sw-werved to avoid him....and...w-went head-on into a tree.” Her voice cracked on the words.
He didn’t have to ask, no seatbelt. They’ve had many arguments over the use of the safety device. Wrapping his arms around his mother, Forrest looked down at his father on the hospital bed and his breath caught. Fifty-nine years young, his father was the poster child for health. Having worked on the farm for so long, he was naturally big and sturdy, but at this moment, he looked frail, sickly and gray. Tubes and IV inserted in his pale skin, the only thing connecting him to earth.
Forrest glanced around the room. Everything was expectedly sterile, and yet a faint smell of death hung in the air.
“Intracerebral hemorrhage we were told,” Charles’ said in a low muffled tone. “Luc had a stroke as he was transported here.”
He nodded at Jason’s father. Forrest was all too familiar with the medical term. Intracerebral hemorrhage was caused by an artery in the brain bursting and creating localized bleeding in the surrounding tissues. This bleeding killed brain cells and could lead to coma and death. His eyes went to the slow blip of his father’s heart on the monitor. The mortality rate for this type of injury was over forty percent.
Heart hammering painfully in his chest, Forrest’s breathing went from quick to next to nothing. He dropped his gaze to the linoleum tiles. Even though the floor was scrubbed spotlessly, he could see all the tears that were ever shed on it.
“Forrest.” His father’s voice split on his name.
He quickly moved closer. “I’m here, Dad.”
He watched his father fight to open his eyes, when he finally succeeded, he smiled. A weak smile. Hope slipped.
“I waited for you.”
Forrest grasped his father’s hand in his. “Don’t talk. Relax, we’re here.” A doctor until the very end, his voice sounded deceptively calm, no hint of the panic and fear eating him up.
“We?”
He nodded. “Mom and Charles are here as well.”
Charles peeled himself away from the wall and came to stand next to Forrest. His mother followed. His father’s gaze slowly floated from each of them, a smile on his face.
“Thank you.” His father said to his wife and Charles. “Thank you for giving me my son.” He focused on Forrest. “I love you.” He smiled once more, took one last jagged breath and slipped away into an endless sleep.
Forrest stood absolutely still, silent and frozen, as if his brain short-circuited and needed to be rebooted. Around him, everything was in fast-forward while he was motionless in the middle of it all. The monitor continued with the loud buzzing sound.
Code blue! Code blue! The hospital code used to indicate a patient requiring immediate resuscitation echoed in the speaker. Soon the door swung open, fast, high-pitched voices spitting out medical terms: Push epi, pupils blown, intubation. The words flew around him; he recognized each one of the terms. He’d spent countless hours with his nose buried in medical books. But suddenly he understood why people called it medical jargon because none of the words made any sense. Until the doctor spoke, “Time of death, three-fifteen p.m.”
Forrest’s soul shriveled.
He stepped back. An arm filled with life and strength dropped on his shoulder. “I’m okay,” he told Charles, but his voice trembled.
“Let’s go to the waiting room.”
He nodded. Standing next to his father’s best friend, he clutched his mother’s hand and the three of them walked out to the waiting room where the rest of the wolf pack sat, waiting.
* * * *
Ten long years and nothing had changed. Forrest was everywhere. He occupied every space in Claire’s mind and heart. That explained why she was on the ferry this cold winter evening, crossing the Atlantic Ocean back to Martha’s Vineyard. A wild wind whipped a mass of ebony hair, prodding her face. With a hot cup of cocoa wrapped in black fingerless gloves, she lifted her chin, eyes closed, and relished the fierce, frigid air rushing around her.
“Oh, my gosh, you’re Claire Peters! Can we take a picture?”
Her day had
started at three a.m. in her Los Angeles apartment, quickly eating a mix of fruit and yogurt and drinking a cup of coffee before heading to her first television appearance of the day. After she completed the taping, stuck in a bumper-to-bumper limo ride to a meeting, she had leaned over and changed her destination.
Six hours later, after a flight from L.A. to Boston, this ferry ride, and an anxious heart, she was exhausted. But she didn’t get where she was alone, and for that she would never complain when people recognized her.
“Absolutely,” she said with a smile to the two excited girls. They looked to be of college age. “Are you from the island?” She didn’t recognize them. Not that she knew everyone, she wasn’t there enough anymore for the closeness.
“No,” the brunette answered. “We’re here for the weekend. We go to Northeastern University.”
Forrest’s alma mater. Her heart fluttered like a butterfly learning to fly.
“We don’t want to bother you,” the other girl with a ponytail said, cell phone ready for the picture. “By the way, I love your middle name. What does it mean?”
“Yasō,” she said the middle name she rarely used. “It means wildflower.” She squeezed between the two girls and smiled for the selfie.
After a couple rounds of thank you and names were exchanged, the two girls stayed true to their words and retreated back to their chairs. Claire leaned on the rail and exhaled, her breath forming clouds.
Few passengers stood nearby, their voices simmering with excitement, completely oblivious to the Massachusetts bitter winter. The same college girls now giddily discussed the possibility of hooking up with a Kennedy or any other local, now that the only Montgomery was married. She didn’t have the heart to tell them this time of year the island was like Stephen King’s The Shining with a population of barely fifteen-thousand people scattered over six towns.
Claire on the other hand was reminded of why she’d stayed away the last four months. In the cold months, once all the tourists were gone, the island became dismal and desolate. And, oh yes, she had thrown herself at Forrest but he hadn’t taken the bait. Instead he reminded her why Martha’s Vineyard was no longer her home. She was temporary. So she’d stayed away.
Until now.
Four months ago, caught up in the magic of Jason and Minka’s wedding, she gave in to her deepest desires and kissed Forrest. The audacious move got her nowhere. He walked away, but not fast enough. With just a kiss, he had crushed down all the walls and freed her heart. The fist-sized powerhouse had expanded and contracted with life.
Treacherous, unreliable heart.
That’s why she was on this ferry. Time to let Forrest go or surrender to her heart. Either way, she craved closure and a much-needed break. Her choice. Probably not the smartest career move to walk away in the middle of a promotional tour, but she needed the break. After years of touring, filming a movie, and designing countless wedding gowns, she was burned out. Her creativity had dried up and she couldn’t write a song to save her life. More importantly, her career felt like a chore of late. The happiness it once provided had dissipated.
Two weeks she told James, her manager of the last ten years. Two weeks without anything to do. Two weeks to be Claire Yasō Peters. Two weeks to figure out no matter how hard she tried to remove all traces of Forrest out of her mind’s eye, he stubbornly kept hanging to her heart. When the captain announced they had docked safely, a sudden panic washed over her.
What if Forrest wasn’t home alone?
She kept tabs on him, sort of. Here and there he’d posted a picture of Lake Tashmoo on his Twitter or Facebook account. Once upon a time, she’d commented, not anymore. Now she received her updates through their mutual friends. Well the girls anyway. From them, she discovered until recently he was still seeing Kerry, the redhead who had him for lunch four months ago.
Jealousy poked its ugly head and Claire reminded herself she no longer had any rights to him. She stroked the infinity tattoo inside her left wrist. Now or never, she reminded herself and made her way down the stairs to her black Audi sedan.
The car glided quietly along the streets. After a short time, she turned onto State Road. At six o’clock in the evening the streets were dark, mystifying, and empty, a sharp contrast to the summer months. By spring, they would start arriving–the tourists, the homeowners who migrated to Florida, Canada, or somewhere in the West during the winter. Come summer, the population would hit its typical one-hundred fifty thousand plus and bustle with visitors, shoppers, scientists, residents, and passengers. But until then, only the locals were here, the fishermen, the teachers, the students, the policemen, her friends. And let’s not forget the Vineyard’s most eligible doctor.
The car slid onto Herring Creek Road, location of the farm owned and operated by Forrest’s parents. There were no street lights, no traffic lights, yet, in the dark she remembered every turn, every Yield or Stop sign.
Her heart picked up speed as she erased the distance between her and Forrest. Logic told her she could wait until the morning to see him, she’d be calmer.
And do what tonight?
No one knew she had returned to the island, not even her BFF Keely. There was the Montgomery compound her mother managed, but that would mean she’d have to catch a boat to Chappy. For that, she’d have to contact Jason. She didn’t want to do that. Not tonight.
From Herring Creek Road, she made a left on Tisbury Lane and continued to drive about a mile. She cruised along the winding road through acres of what she knew comprised of picturesque, open pastures and arrived on Meadow Lane. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel, she blew out a deep breath, and made a right onto the well-trodden path that led to Forrest’s waterfront home on Lake Tashmoo.
She spotted the orange Jeep right away. Her heart leaped with anticipation and nerves. Stepping out of the car, Claire rushed across the lawn, avoiding any patches of snow, all along convincing herself a phone call hadn’t been necessary. Once a friend, always a friend. But now he’s an ex- lover, reason whispered.
Well, too late now. She knocked on the door and waited. Nothing.
She knocked again, a little firmer this time. Still nothing.
Claire reached in her purse and grabbed her phone. Damn, no signal. Another perk of living on the island. Phone signals were capricious. She turned on her heel to the back of the house where she knew he kept the emergency key, then headed back to the front. The night wind penetrated the wool coat with absurd ease, making her shiver. She drew her shawl around herself more tightly to keep out the cold as she fumbled with the key.
The door slowly creaked open. She stepped inside and was greeted by a muted house, not typical of Forrest. She headed down the hall to the family room, the click of her heels amplified with each step on the wooden floor. In here, ESPN always blared in the background. Tonight, there was nothing but an eerie, hollow silence.
A bad feeling slithered up the back of her neck.
She dug in her purse for her phone again. One finger dragged along the screen, it lit up. Still no signal. A knot of fear twisted in her gut.
“Claire.”
The sound of Forrest’s voice, infused with a question mark, caused her heart to jump and fill with joy, relief. She whipped around and faced the main reason she came back to Martha’s Vineyard.
Chapter Six
“How to save your heart…Should: never demand”
Anonymous
He stood still, barefoot and casually dressed in an unbuttoned white shirt that appeared to have been thrown on at the last minute and worn jeans that hung low to his lean hips. The hard muscles he earned from hours of manual labor on his parents’ farm on full display. Try as she might, Claire couldn’t tear her gaze from the exposed skin—the broad expanse of his chest, his toned, sculpted stomach and narrow waist.
He slid his hands in the pockets of his unsnapped jeans, giving her a peek of black and red waist boxer briefs.
“Claire.” Forrest’s voice cut through the air, forci
ng her to look at him.
Through black-rimmed glasses, smoldering slate gray eyes with slight azure tinge jolted through her, his facial expression taut with tension.
At a loss for words, she stared.
“Did you speak to Jason? Keely?” he asked when it became obvious she’d lost all ability to speak.
His voice sounded cracked and strained. Something was definitely wrong.
Claire shook her head. “No one knows I’m on the island.” She took a few steps closer, erasing the space between them. One hand rose to caress his face. He didn’t move, but she caught the slight clench of his jaw and pulled her hand back at the last moment. “What’s wrong, Forrest?”
Faces inches apart, eyes locked on one another, the air between them charged with static electricity. For a beat neither spoke, her question hung in the air. His jaw flexed and his eyes wavered, breaking their connection. He walked past her into the room. His movement pulled her to him like a lion being turned into a hunter’s spear.
She glanced around, rich leather furnishings and a shaggy rug grounded the airy room, giving it a relaxed coziness that balanced the panoramic view of the ocean. The natural world outside echoed inside with wildlife-embroidered pillows. A Twelve Monkeys poster hung over the fireplace adding a pop of color. Polished, yet welcoming and casual, a perfect representation of the man standing before her. Everything was the same, except for the dispirited feeling in the room.
“Something is wrong, I can feel it.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a promotional tour or something?” he asked while stacking the books on the reclaimed-wood coffee table as if she had not spoken at all, quietly closing the door that led to his emotions in her face.
His aloof manner showed how distant they’d become. Her heart wobbled like a train on a rickety track. She was unequipped to deal with this detached man speaking to her as if they were strangers, instead of two people who’d known each other all of their lives, had been friends, ex-lovers.