Something nagged in the back of her mind. Lifting the collection of pink slips that she’d barely seen earlier, she set one after another aside until she came to the one that had caused the nagging. It was a message from Anthony Kimball, the medical director of the Omaha nursing home where her mother lived. The call had come in promptly at nine that morning. The message requested a callback.
Lifting the phone, Nina punched out the number that she knew by heart. “Dr. Kimball, please,” she asked. She gave her name, then waited while the call was transferred.
“Nina?”
“Yes, Dr. Kimball. I got your message. Is something wrong?” It wasn’t often that Anthony Kimball called her, and when he did, there was usually a problem.
“I’m not quite sure. Your mother had some sort of seizure during the night. Her blood pressure fell dangerously low. We have her stabilized now, and there doesn’t seem to be any other side effect from whatever the seizure was, but I thought you ought to know. This may be the start of the weakening that we’ve been expecting.”
Nina swiveled her chair away from the door and bowed her head. “Is she comfortable?” she asked quietly.
“As far as we can tell.”
“Is she aware of anything?”
There was a pause, then a quiet, “I don’t believe so.”
Nina sighed. “I guess we should be grateful for that.” She pressed a hand to her eyes. “This weakening. Once it begins, does it go fast?”
“I can’t tell you that. Every case varies. It could take one month or ten, but you may want to come out here to see her within the next few weeks.”
Nina didn’t have to look at her calendar to know that the next few weeks were fully booked. This was her busy season. A trip to Omaha would take precious time, not to mention a toll on her emotions. Seeing her mother was always painful. “Why don’t I talk with you next week and see how she is then,” she suggested. “If she stays stabilized, I’d rather wait a bit before coming out.”
The doctor agreed to that, as Nina knew he would. Though the home was the finest Nina had been able to find, it wasn’t unlike others in its overriding concern with money. Nina paid well for the service of having her mother cared for. As long as the checks kept coming, Anthony Kimball and his staff were content.
Hanging up the phone, Nina felt the same hollow ache she felt whenever she thought of her mother. Such potential gone to waste. A beautiful woman now a vegetable. She wished she could credit the damage to a disease like Alzheimer’s, but her mother’s mind hadn’t fallen victim to anything as noble as that. She’d taken drugs. Bad drugs. Too many drugs. Rather than dying of an overdose, she had lived on, simply to languish in whatever position her attendants arranged her.
Nina was the one who felt the pain of it all. She was the one who felt the remorse. She couldn’t say that she felt a loss, because her mother had never been hers to enjoy, but there were times, once in a very great while, when she thought of what might have been if things had been different way back at the start.
But they wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—and thinking about it only caused pain. One of Nina’s earliest lessons in life had been that the only sure antidote to pain was activity. It was a lesson she still lived by.
4
Sunday was moving day. Nina completed all her weekend showings on Saturday and was up with the sun the next morning to pack the last of her things. Rather than pay a formal moving service, when she had so little of intrinsic value to move, she had hired two young men to help. Between their muscles, the small pickup truck one of them owned and the promise of a generous check for the job, they had successfully transferred her meager furnishings and not so meager personal belongings from the old apartment to the new one by noon.
Shortly after, Nina went to work, first pushing the furniture over or back until the positioning was perfect, then opening carton after carton in an attempt to see what was where. She was standing in the midst of chaos, feeling vaguely bewildered, when she heard a call from downstairs.
“Hello?”
She tried to place it, but she wasn’t expecting any guests. “Yes?” she called back without moving.
“It’s John Sawyer, Nina. Can I come up?”
“Uh—” she looked around, bewildered, “—sure.” John Sawyer? Downstairs? She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since the Tuesday before, and though she told herself to be grateful, more than once she had wondered where he was. The consortium wanted them to work together, but since she wasn’t thrilled with the idea, she’d decided to leave the initiative up to him. She hadn’t expected that he’d seek her out in person, much less at her home, much less at the home whose exact address he couldn’t possibly have known.
Yet John Sawyer it was emerging from the stairwell wearing a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. His hair was mussed, his nose and cheeks unexpectedly ruddy. He looked fresh and carefree, neither of which she was feeling at that moment, and as if that weren’t bad enough, the first thing he did after he came to a halt was to give her an ear-to-ear grin.
John had never grinned at her before. She’d caught a twist of the corner of the mouth once or twice, but never a full-fledged grin. The surprise of it had her insides doing little flip-flops, to which she responded by frowning.
“How did you find me?”
“Your car. You said you were moving to Sycamore Street. There aren’t many houses here with bright red BMWs in the driveway.”
For reasons unknown to Nina just then, she felt suddenly defensive about the car. “It’s not new. I bought it used and had it painted. Some people think it’s pretentious to have a car like that when I live pretty modestly, but the fact is that it impresses clients. They like riding around in it.”
John studied her, his grin softening into something curious. “Don’t you?”
“Don’t I what?”
“Like riding around in it.”
“I suppose.” She frowned again. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping.” He stuck his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, a gesture that should have been totally innocent. Given the way his T-shirt tightened over his chest, though, it wasn’t. Nina felt a corresponding tightening in the pit of her stomach.
“I told you I didn’t need help,” she snapped, scowling now.
“Everyone needs help.” His eyes skimmed the sea of cartons on the floor. “This place will be a mess until everything’s unpacked. Why be burdened doing it after work every day this week, when between the two of us, we can get it all done now?”
He had a point, though she wouldn’t concede it. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”
“Actually, I don’t. J.J. and I were at the beach this morning, but he’s gone off for the afternoon with friends, and the store is closed, so I really do have time to waste. I’m in the mood for unpacking.” Shifting his hands from his pockets to his hips, he looked around at the cartons. “Where should I begin?”
“Uh—” Nina tried to concentrate, but all she could think about was that she hadn’t showered, that she hadn’t put makeup on and that between her ultrashort hair and the loose shirt and jeans she wore, she looked more like a boy than a girl. She felt embarrassed. “Uh, really, John, there’s no need—”
“Where?” he repeated. Stepping over one carton, he peered down to look at the writing on the side of another. The words living room had been crossed out and replaced by dining room, but that, too, had been crossed out. Bedroom was the word that seemed left, though even from where she was, Nina saw through the open flaps of the box that it contained pots and pans.
“I’ve used these cartons lots of different times,” she explained, wringing one hand in the other. “I kind of gave up on marking things this time, which is why everything’s mixed up out here.”
“No sweat,” John said, lifting the carton. “This looks like it goes in the kitchen.” He hitched his chin toward the back of the house. “That way?”
“Uh-huh.”
C
arrying the carton, he passed her, went through the dining room and into the kitchen. Within minutes, she heard the clattering of pots and pans being stacked. Wondering where he was putting them, she followed the noise to find him on his haunches before one of the kitchen cabinets. “I don’t know if this is right, but at least they’ll be out of the way. If you find in a week or a month that you want them elsewhere, it’ll be easy enough to move them.”
“That’s fine.”
“Why don’t you go back into the other room and sort through the rest of the cartons. If I carry stuff into the bedroom, you can organize things there, while I finish up here.”
She tried again. “John, this really isn’t necessary.”
“Of course, it’s not. But it helps, doesn’t it?”
Given the direct question, she couldn’t lie. “Yes, but—”
“Unless there’s stuff here you don’t want me to see.”
“There isn’t, but—”
“Or you’re expecting someone else and my being here will embarrass you—”
“I’m not and it won’t, but—”
“Then there’s no problem.”
“There is a problem,” she cried, driven by exasperation to a semblance of her usual force. “I told you this last week. If I wanted help, I’d hire it.”
He looked up at her. “And pay for it. With a check. Yes, I did hear that.”
“Well, I meant it.”
His eyes held hers for a time before he returned them to the task at hand. He had barely set another pot into the nest of them in the cabinet when he looked up again. “This is free, Nina. I’m not asking for payment of any kind, and if you offered, I’d give it back. I’m doing this as a friend. You won’t owe me anything.”
She felt color warm her cheeks. “I know that.”
“I’m not sure you do,” he said with a frown. “You’ve made it clear that you prefer to hire and pay people when you need things done. But when you get someone who’s willing to help for free, the only reason I can think of why you’d turn him down is that either you can’t stand his company or you’re afraid there’s a price.” His words came slowly but steadily, one sentence flowing gently into the next. “Now, I know we haven’t necessarily hit it off on a personal basis, so it may well be that you can’t stand my company, and if that’s the case, just tell me, and I’ll leave. On the other hand, if you’re afraid there’s a price, I’m telling you there isn’t. I’m offering my services free and clear of return obligations.” He paused. “Do you believe me?”
After a minute, she said a quiet, “Yes.”
“Then why don’t you let me help.” It was more statement than question. “Come on, Nina. Go with the flow. I’m here and I’m willing. Use me.”
Use me. It was usually the other way around, where relationships between men and women were concerned. But he’d said the words himself. He’d offered them. Freely. Just as he was offering his help. “Are you sure you don’t have anything else to do?”
“I’m sure.”
As he sat there on his haunches looking up at her, it struck Nina that he wasn’t bad looking. Not bad looking at all. Actually, rather good-looking, even with those glasses perched on his nose. With his longish hair, his light tan, and his T-shirt and jeans, the glasses made him look oddly in vogue.
Which was a surprising thought, indeed.
“Fine,” she said, and headed for the front room before she had a chance to regret the decision. “I’ll sort through the cartons. Come back in when you need another one.”
With a certain amount of kicking and shoving, she had cartons separated into groups by the time John returned. As promised, he carried everything for the bedroom into the bedroom before continuing with the kitchen.
For one hour, then a second, they worked straight. Nina was back to being her usual efficient self, in part to keep her mind occupied and away from the fact of John’s presence in the other room. Come the time when they were both unpacking cartons in the living room, that became more difficult. He was never out of sight. She was highly aware of him. Adding to the problem, most of the cartons contained books, so John’s progress slowed. For every four that he placed on the shelf, there was one that he wanted to discuss.
She tried to keep moving. She tried, even when she was giving her opinion of one book or another, to keep unloading others and lining them up on the shelves. But the questions he asked were good ones, often ones that required thought, and she found her own progress slowing down right along with his. She found herself curious to know his opinions.
Nina had never thought of herself as an intellectual. She had a college degree more out of practical necessity than love of learning. John, on the other hand, was an intellectual. It was clear in the way he looked and acted, not to mention his occupation, and to some extent, she had assumed that given this difference between them, they would have trouble communicating. To her surprise, they didn’t. He didn’t make obscure references to classical writers or philosophers. He didn’t pick apart books along the lines of arcane theories. He offered honest, straightforward thoughts in honest, straightforward English. Pleasantly surprised, she indulged herself the discussion, letting her defenses down, enjoying the talk for talk’s sake.
Engrossed as she was in it, she was taken off guard when, in the midst of a discussion of James Joyce and his wife, Nora, John said, “Have you had lunch?”
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she straightened, looked at him, swallowed. Dragging herself back from a pleasant interlude to the present, she glanced at her watch. “It’s after three.”
“I know. I’m starved. Did you have anything?”
Silently she shook her head.
“I’ll go get something.” Coming to his knees, he fished his keys from his pocket. With another smooth motion, he was on his feet. “You’ll eat, won’t you?”
“I don’t need—”
“Are you hungry?”
“I wasn’t planning to—”
“Lobster rolls?”
Her mouth watered. “Only if I pay.”
He thought about that for a minute. She was prepared to dig in her heels and insist that that was the only way she’d eat anything he brought, when his mouth quirked. “Okay.”
He was quite good-looking, she realized with a start. Dragging her eyes from his, she looked around for her purse. Unfortunately, it was directly behind him. The only footpath through the cartons took her by him with mere inches to spare. His flesh was warm from work. She felt that warmth, smelled its scent, and where she should have been repelled, she wasn’t. John Sawyer smelled healthily male. Attractively male.
Convinced that the tension of the move was jumbling her mind, she quickly found her purse and fumbled inside her enough money to cover sandwiches and drinks. John took the money.
“You do know,” he said, and eyed her straight on, “that I’d never allow this if it weren’t for the big deal you made about not wanting my help to unpack. The way I see it, your treating me now is payment for my work, so we’re even. Got that?”
His gaze was so strong and his voice so firm that all she could do was manage a quiet, “Uh-huh.” If he had asked her to say anything else, she’d have been at a loss. Fortunately, he didn’t. Tucking the money into his pocket, he went off down the stairs.
During the time he was gone, Nina was a whirling dervish of activity. Bending over and around repeatedly, she emptied two full cartons of books, then moved on to her stereo equipment. She tried not to think about anything but the work she was doing, and to some extent she succeeded. Only intermittently did images flash through her mind—John’s long arms flexing under the weight of cartons, John’s shaggy hair spiking along his neck, John’s very male, very alluring scent—but she pushed them away as quickly as they came.
She had a rack of CDs filled and was halfway through a second when he returned.
“This is a treat, let me tell you,” he said with a smile as he began to unload the bag he carried. Shifting a c
arton from the low coffee table onto the floor, he spread out not only lobster rolls, but cups of potato salad, ears of corn and soda. “Take-out for me is usually McDonald’s.”
Instinctively Nina knew that the choice had nothing to do with money. “That’s what your son likes?”
“He loves it. He’d be happy to go there every day of the week if I let him.”
“What does he eat?”
“A hamburger, a small bag of fries and a milk shake. He doesn’t always make it through the shake, but he devours the rest. For a little guy, he always amazes me.”
“He’s four?”
John nodded. Sitting down on a nearby carton, stretching his legs comfortably before him, he took a bite of a lobster roll, closed his eyes, chewed softly and neatly. “Mmm,” he said with feeling, “is this good.”
Nina, too, took a carton as a seat. Using one of the plastic forks that had tumbled from the bag, she sampled the potato salad. “So’s this.” She took another bite, all the while thinking about her curiosity and the fact that maybe, now that she and John were friends, she could ease it. It seemed she’d been wondering about certain things for a long time.
Shooting for nonchalance, she took a sip of soda, then said, “Tell me about your son.”
John’s glasses might have hidden the flash of wariness in his eyes had she not been watching him closely. Clearly he guarded his son. She wondered if he’d tell her to mind her own business—one part of her was telling herself that very same thing—and felt deeply warmed when, instead, he said in a low, slow voice, “J.J.’s a sweet little boy who’s had a rough go of it in life.”
“When did his mom die?”
“When he was one. He doesn’t remember her.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Good, I guess. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
Nina wanted to ask how the woman had died, but didn’t. It was enough that John had agreed to talk about his son. “I’m sure you give him twice the love.”
The Dream Comes True Page 6