by Edie Claire
"I’m sorry," Rose said sincerely. "I’m sure it’s harder when it comes as a surprise. I’ve lost a lot of loved ones, but I’ve always had warning. I even got warning of my own death; but then, that turned out to be greatly exaggerated."
Sarah’s eyebrows rose. She was grateful for the change of topic, but had no idea what to say.
Rose snickered a little. "I got all ready to die eight years ago. They told me I had ovarian cancer. So I called my first husband’s mistress and told her I forgave her, then sold some stock, took a cruise, and had a one-night stand with a widower from Des Moines. Wouldn’t you know it—as soon as I got back and got under the knife, they told me the pathologist had made a mistake. My ovaries were fine. I was going to live after all."
Sarah was silent a moment, absorbing the story. "You must have been ecstatic. And furious."
"Damned right I was furious!" Rose said sharply. "I called that worthless tramp right back up again and told her to go straight to hell."
Sarah cracked a grin. "I meant furious with the pathologist."
Rose waved a dismissive hand in front of her face. "Oh, no. My second husband was a urologist—I know doctors are only human. It’s not like the ovaries were doing me any good anyway."
Her eyes moved to the picture of Dee.
Sarah tensed again. "My sister committed suicide shortly after our parents died," she offered, anticipating the next question. "And no, it wasn’t an easy time for me, but I managed."
Rose’s gray eyes fixed studiously on Sarah. "You’re a fighter," she said, her tone admiring. "I would have guessed that. Takes one to know one." She returned her gaze to the pictures. "Where did you grow up?"
A flicker of suspicion swept through Sarah’s brain. Rose’s questions weren’t out of line, but the timing was curious. Could Adam have sent Rose over to check up on her, perhaps to determine whether she had family nearby?
She forced herself to dismiss the notion. Why would he?
"I grew up in Alabama," she explained, doing her best to sound nonchalant. "Around Auburn University, mostly. My parents both taught there."
"A Southern girl," Rose said with approval. "Lovely. I’ve never known anyone from the deep South before. You’ll have to make me some grits someday. Are any of your relatives still there?"
Suspicion flickered again, but Sarah doused it. She had no reason to keep her dearth of nearby relatives a secret. "I’m afraid I’m not a big fan of grits, myself. But I do make a mean country-fried steak. As for relatives, my father’s parents still live in Alabama; my other grandmother and my uncle live in Georgia. That’s about it."
She didn’t tell Rose that she hadn’t seen or talked to her father’s parents since her sister’s funeral, nor did she mention that her maternal grandmother had been in an Alzheimer’s facility for years and that her uncle was a grade-A asshole. The point was the same. She had nobody local.
"And what about you?" she asked swiftly, determined to redirect the conversation. "Do you have family nearby?"
Rose stepped away from the pictures and nodded. "I never had any children of my own, and both my husbands are gone now. But I do have stepchildren from my second marriage. They were grown when Dean and I married, but they adopted me anyway. So did the grandchildren—and the great-grandchildren." She smiled. "They’re a delight when they visit, but I have to admit, I prefer living alone."
"So do I," Sarah said quickly, sensing a kindred spirit. "I work with people all day long, but in the evenings, I enjoy my solitude. And my books."
Heartened, Sarah turned back toward the kitchen and gestured for her guest to follow. Her plan was to put the zucchini bread in the refrigerator, offer Rose another drink, and then hopefully engage her in a rousing discussion of good literature.
But those things never happened. One second Sarah was walking across the room. The next, everything went black again.
***
"Sarah? Sarah! Wake up now. Nap’s over."
Cold hands patted her cheeks. A voice, sharp and insistent, stirred her brain back into consciousness. She focused her eyes on Rose’s tightly pinned hair, a hodgepodge of dark brown and mousy gray streaks, then moved her gaze to the other woman’s thin, smiling lips. The face was upside down.
"Well, thank heavens," Rose said flippantly. "Fainting spells I can handle. Comas are another matter. Are you all right?"
Sarah was lying in a crumpled position on the gold, seventies-era carpet, which to her good fortune was made of extra-thick shag pile. Her hand flew immediately to her head, but the wound hurt no more than usual. The only part of her that ached was the hip opposite the one she had bruised yesterday—and that pain was mild. She shifted her weight to sit up, realizing only as she did so that her head and shoulders had been resting on Rose’s lap.
"I’m so sorry," she sputtered. "I didn’t fall on you, did I?"
"Not entirely. I wouldn’t say I caught you either, but I did keep you from banging your head again. How do you feel?"
Sarah struggled to her feet, and Rose went with her. "I feel fine," she said truthfully. Unlike before, she felt neither dizzy nor addled. Those symptoms had probably come from the head wound, not the—.
Her heart began to race. The whatever it was.
"What happened exactly?" Sarah asked, marveling at how easily the septuagenarian had gotten to her feet. Rose must have moved quickly to break her fall; it was a miracle neither of them had been hurt.
"You turned around, took a few steps forward, and then started to sway," Rose answered, gesturing for her to have a seat on the couch. Sarah complied, and Rose sat beside her. "I only got to you a foot from the floor. If you’d fallen forward, I wouldn’t have had a chance."
Sarah’s face flushed with embarrassment. "You must be quite an athlete. Thank you."
Rose’s pale eyes, though worried, sparkled a bit. "I’ve been a professional dancer since the fifties, dear. I ought to be."
Sarah’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to ask another question. But Rose interrupted her. "How many times has this happened?"
The suspicion Sarah had been battling shoved itself to the forefront. Rose did know what had happened to her yesterday. Had she not just said "banging your head again?"
Sarah allowed herself a deep breath. So, her new neighbors had conferred. Adam had told Rose about the episode, probably encouraged the visit. Perhaps he knew that Rose would be a more welcome guest than he.
Sarah’s heart continued its pounding. A part of her felt duped. Her privacy, her anonymity violated. But another part of her was warmed. Two people she barely knew had conspired in what they believed to be her best interests. She couldn’t help but be touched.
"This is only the second time," she answered. "I guess Adam told you about the other one."
Rose nodded, admitting her knowledge without apology. "He was worried about you. Now, so am I. When are you supposed to see a doctor next? Do you have some sort of follow-up scheduled?"
Sarah hesitated. The ER physician had instructed her to follow up with her PCP, but even as she had nodded her assent, she knew that she probably wouldn’t. She didn’t have a PCP, and besides, she didn’t plan on having any more problems.
"I’m sure it’s nothing," she assured, standing. She walked toward the kitchen again, bracing at every step for another surge of blackness. None came. Physically, she really did feel fine. "Are you sure you won’t have something to drink?" she asked, pleased at the opportunity for a rewind.
But Rose was nobody’s fool. "Passing out twice in as many days isn’t nothing," she said firmly, rising herself. Her forehead puckered; her gray eyes turned steely. "What are you, a man? Women are supposed to have better sense about such things. You need help, you get it. Simple as that. Now, who’s your doctor? Or don’t you have one yet? No—of course you don’t."
She marched to the kitchen counter, picked up a notepad and a pen, and started writing. "I have the perfect internist for you: Dr. Charles Payne. He’s young—well, young to m
e—he knows his stuff, and he treats old ladies with respect. What more could you ask for?"
She ripped off the sheet and handed it to Sarah. "His number’s in the book. Try to get in soon. You’ll feel better when you get some answers. The number at the bottom is mine. If anything like this happens again, call it. Or else just yell loud. I’m only a stone’s throw away."
Sarah accepted the slip of paper. "Thank you."
Rose stared at her skeptically. Her tone turned earnest. "You shouldn’t be driving, you know."
A heaviness settled in Sarah’s middle. This couldn’t be happening to her. She was healthy; she always had been. The blackouts were something temporary—something she ate. She had to drive. There were no two ways about that.
"I have to drive," she responded flatly.
Rose’s eyes remained hard. "That’s what I told my stepkids. They didn’t buy it either. ‘Rose,’ they said, ‘you’re probably one of the healthiest seventy-year-olds in the state of Pennsylvania, but you can’t see worth a damn, and you know it.’ I can see just fine, of course, as long as I’m looking straight ahead. But when it comes to seeing things to the side, I can’t tell an Irish Setter from a fire hydrant. I told the kids I didn’t plan on running down either one, but they kept after me until I admitted that my driving was a risk to innocent people." Her eyes bore into Sarah’s. "And right now, so is yours."
Sarah’s face felt hot. All at once, she wanted to be alone again.
"I appreciate your concern," she responded, working hard to keep her voice from faltering. "But I’m sure I’ll be fine by tomorrow morning. I’ve just been working a little too hard lately, that’s all."
Rose’s lips didn’t smile, but there was a twinkle in her eye. "So like me," she said heavily. Then, without instruction, she turned and headed for the door. "Well, I’ve got to get going. If you need anything at all, just give a yell." She opened the door and turned around. "Whether you drive or not is entirely your decision, my dear. By the way, what does your car look like?"
Sarah’s brow furrowed. "It’s a blue Civic."
Rose nodded, then gave a devious wink. "Right. I’ll go warn the neighbors."
Chapter 6
Sarah walked up the steps from her garage, entered the kitchen, and tossed her purse and keys on the counter. There, prominently displayed, lay the slip of paper she had left home this morning without. The name of the doctor she was supposed to call—the name she had been wracking her brain to remember.
She slid her new phone book out of the drawer. It was five-thirty in the afternoon. She still had a shot. Her fingers fumbled with the thin pages, and she let out a muttered curse. Her hands were shaking. She was as jittery as a wind-up toy on a tile floor.
You had no business driving.
Don’t you think I know that?
She had been battling with her conscience all day. This morning, her stubborn side had won out. The side that had insisted the risks of her driving were both minimal and greatly outweighed by the inconvenience of the alternative. Hadn’t the taxi that brought her home from the hospital been overpriced, filthy, and twenty-five minutes late? She couldn’t afford to be late to a new job, she had told herself. Rose had been overreacting. She had been downright snarky.
She located the listing for Dr. Payne. She began to dial.
Her stubborn side had been all talk. Not five minutes into the commute she had found herself holding the steering wheel in a death grip, her knuckles white with tension, her foot poised to release the accelerator the instant she felt a twinge of anything. The drive had been the longest twenty minutes of her life, and the return trip had seemed even longer.
Are you insane? You could have hurt somebody! How selfish can you be?
The doctor’s line began to ring. She took a deep breath. Her hands were still trembling.
She wasn’t driving again. No way, no how. Not until some doctor figured out what was happening to her, and how to keep it from happening again. She didn’t have to pass out to be dangerous. As uptight as she was, she could be hazardous with a can opener.
The ringing stopped just as a loud knock on the front door sent her leaping from the floor. She exhaled with frustration at her jumpiness.
"You have reached the offices of Drs. Payne, Ladbrook, and Abernathy. Our offices are currently closed. Operating hours are Monday through Thursday, nine—"
Too late. She hung up the phone. The knocking noise came again, this time louder. She moved to look through the peephole. It was Adam Carmassi.
She stepped back. Despite everything he had done to help her, her instinctive reaction to him was still apprehension. He just looked too blasted much like the man in her nightmares. But she would have to get over that. They were neighbors, and such irrational fear was no longer acceptable. A show of irritation at his pounding on her door, however, was justified.
She put her eye back up to the peephole and saw that his hand was raised to knock again. She let him finish the next few pounds, then pulled open the door. She didn’t ask why he hadn’t used the bell, or why he felt compelled not just to knock, but to beat her door into submission. She was pretty sure the look on her face expressed her feelings.
His hands dropped to his sides. "Sarah," he said, his voice gruff. "Could I talk to you for a minute?"
She surveyed him dubiously. His face was flushed, his eyes intent. If he had looked at her during their first meeting the way he was looking at her now, she would have run away screaming. Knowing better, she held her ground. She looked back at him levelly and said nothing.
He moved back, rubbed his hands briefly over his face, and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his tone was even. "I’m sorry. I guess I should have used the bell."
She made him sweat a moment longer. "Is my house on fire?"
He cracked a grin. "No. Not as far as I know, anyway. Can we talk? Please?"
Her anger softened. There was something about his smile that comforted her, though she found it difficult to qualify. When his face was alight with humor, he looked like no one but himself: the wisecracking Good Samaritan. His asking Rose to check on her yesterday had been a genuine act of chivalry, and she did appreciate it. The least she could do in return was let the man say his piece in the air conditioning.
She stepped aside and swung open the door, but placed herself carefully to discourage his entering any farther than the foyer.
He complied beautifully. "Rose tells me you passed out again yesterday," he said as he stood, breathing hard. "Did you see the doctor she recommended?"
Sarah stared at him. She wasn’t sure what to say—whether to thank him for his concern, politely ask him to leave her alone, or both. Had they not had the same conversation at least once already?
Before she could answer, her phone rang.
"Excuse me," she said, shaken. She moved mechanically toward the unfamiliar sound. Almost no one called her cell phone—she always gave out her work number. The call had to be either an emergency or a mistake. Keeping one eye on Adam, she picked up the phone from the counter.
"Hello."
"Hello? Is this Sarah Landers?" The young man’s voice was unfamiliar, but his accent—even five words of it—pegged his geography. He was a Mississippi boy.
Her pulse quickened. She answered in the affirmative.
"This is Josh Myers. I’m an intern here with Sherman and Sylvester in Montgomery. I just got back from your farm out by Auburn. Mr. Sherman asked me to run by and take a look at the place—see if it looked like you still had any stuff left out there. He figured I ought to give you a call."
Sarah watched nervously as Adam began to drift out of the foyer. "I’m sorry," she interrupted, "but this isn’t a good time—"
"This won’t take long," the young man insisted, unfazed. "But you need to know that whatever you got left in that house after next week is going to auction. If that’s fine by you, then there’s no problem, ma’am. But I know some people would rather—"
Her blood ran cold.
"Auction?" she repeated. "They were supposed to destroy the place. It was condemned."
"Well, yes, ma’am," the voice drawled. "But they don’t just bulldoze a whole house and throw a little dirt on it, you know. If there’s anything inside worth selling, the county’s going to want to make a buck. Now, I’ll be honest with you—it didn’t look to me like there was much left worth selling, at least not that I could tell from the outside. But Mr. Sherman told me to make sure you knew how it was going to be handled, because some people don’t care for other people picking through their things like what happens at some of these auctions—"
The images shot through her mind like daggers. Pushy women huddling over her parents’ antique vanity, picking through her mother’s costume jewelry with chipped fingernails. Smirking men, pocketing her father’s screwdrivers. Her great-grandmother’s quilts heaped into a filthy box, being dragged up to the podium. People everywhere, swarming the grounds…
She felt sick again. She hadn’t thought about what would happen to the things she left behind, much less how it would happen. Like a fool, she had envisioned it all simply disappearing. It would be one thing for her family’s belongings to be boxed and given to charity. But for the wretched county to—
"Ma’am? You still there?"
She collected herself. "I’m here," she answered. "Is there anything I can do to prevent a public auction? Legally?"
He was silent for a moment. "Well, you don’t really need the law. As long as the place is still yours, you can clean the stuff out yourself and leave them nothing to sell. But you’ve only got eight days left, ma’am."
"Eight days," Sarah mumbled.
"Mr. Sherman did tell me to make clear that you’ll have to handle any arrangements like that yourself," he continued apologetically. "We’re a law firm, you know—not a moving company."