Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  “I’m sorry. That wasn’t nice.”

  “Maybe, but it was appropriate. I’ve been such a mess since William died. Things are better now, though. Or at least they’re starting to be. I actually find myself looking ahead, feeling almost . . . optimistic. It’s like I’m starting to remember who I used to be. Some of that has to do with you.”

  It was a response he hadn’t expected. “With me?”

  “I’ve been piecing it all together, and you were right. That’s why I walked out on you that night at McCrady’s— you were right about William, and about me. I was part of the lie, and part of me knew it. I just wasn’t ready to see it, or to think about what it said about me.”

  “And what did it say?”

  “That I’d been playing it safe. I wasn’t in love with William. I was in love with the idea of him, of what I thought we had. I conned myself into believing it was all so perfect. Then, when he died, everything got turned upside down. There was this sense of . . .” Her voice trailed. She closed her eyes, shook her head. “It was almost like relief. Like I’d gotten a reprieve, and I couldn’t understand it. And so I kept lying—to myself and everyone else.”

  In the moonlight, her face was all shadow and contour, lovely angles of hollow and bone. And there were tears in her eyes, silvering her lower lashes like tiny stars. She was a beautiful mess, still trying to figure it all out, not quite ready to let herself off the hook for things she’d had no control over, but reaching toward the future now, too. For her sake, he hoped she found it easier than he had.

  “Sometimes lying is the kindest thing we can do,” he said quietly. “For ourselves and everyone else.”

  She made a quick swipe at her eyes. “It still seems unbelievable.”

  “Of course it does. Losing someone the way you did—without any kind of warning or understanding—is a special kind of hell. There’s no good-bye, no resolution. You’re just left behind, twisting in the wind. There’s nothing to do but get on with things, whatever that means. And live with the regrets.”

  “Do you have regrets?”

  She was looking up at him, her eyes wide and luminous, vulnerable, and so achingly beautiful. “If I didn’t before, I’m probably about to.”

  It took only a step to close the distance between them, to pull her into the circle of his arms, to cup her face in his hands, to find her mouth with his. She tasted of peaches and pralines, so ripe and sweet he could have swallowed her whole. And there was the smell of her hair, salt air and rainwater and some kind of flower. He ran his hands through the silky warmth, registering an almost visceral shock as he realized just how long he had wanted this. Her touch. Her mouth.

  Her.

  And she wanted him, too. She had opened to him without a moment’s hesitation, her lips soft and pliant. Hungry. Her hands were inside his jacket now, the warmth of her palms bleeding through his shirt like a pair of brands on his chest. There had been no one since William. If he hadn’t been certain before, he was now.

  He was the first—or would be, if he let this happen. But was she ready for what came next? Come to that, was he? The blood pounding in his ears told him he was, but there was more to what was happening between them than hormones. The sparks had been flying for weeks—on his end at least. So why was his brain trying to put on the brakes?

  The kiss deepened, moving from tentative surrender to exploration, from hesitance to assurance, the warm pressure of her hips and breasts searing through his clothes until it was hard to tell who was kissing whom. If he didn’t put a stop to this, and soon, one or both of them were going to regret it in the morning.

  “Dovie, we shouldn’t.” But she gave no sign that she’d heard him. It took everything he had to finally push her away. “Dovie, wait.” Finally, her eyes opened, heavy lidded and confused. “We can’t. I can’t.”

  “Did I miss something? Didn’t you just kiss me?”

  “Yes, but I shouldn’t have. I’m not the right guy for you.”

  She stepped back, folding her arms across her body. “It’s a little early for the it’s not you, it’s me bit, don’t you think?”

  “I’m trying to be honest, because you deserve that. You need someone who knows how to do the whole thing. Popcorn and a movie on the couch. Sunday mornings with coffee and the paper. I’m not that guy. I’m dinner and the sack.”

  “Is this because I didn’t want champagne with dinner?”

  Jesus, she wasn’t making this easy. “Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning. This seems like a good idea right now, with the moonlight shining down on the marsh, and Mama Hettie’s magic in your veins, but tomorrow I’ll be Austin Tate again. I have a short attention span, and to be honest, it works for me.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t. But I do. I can’t be your rebound guy, Dovie. I have no idea if you’re ready to move on, or what you’ll want when you do. I just know I haven’t got it to offer.”

  Her mouth sagged open a moment before she found her voice. “You think that’s what I’m looking for? A rebound guy?”

  “I think you’re trying to get back on the horse, and I think doing it with a man whose name and picture pops up in the newspaper on a weekly basis is a bad idea. I’m a bad idea, Dovie. I hurt people—maybe without meaning to, but the result’s the same—and you’ve been hurt enough.”

  Dovie took another step back, then turned away, her back to him as she looked out over the moon-bleached marsh. “For months, people have been telling me it’s time to get on with my life. I think I even recall you saying it, or something like it. Now, all of a sudden, I’m not ready?”

  “That isn’t what I’m saying. I’m saying I’m not ready. It’s absolutely time for you to get on with your life—just not with me. I know it sounds harsh, and I know I’m confusing the hell out of you right now. I’m a little confused myself. It would be so easy to let this happen, because some part of me does want it—the popcorn and the Sunday paper, the happily-ever-after thing—but I know myself. You have to trust me on this, Dovie. I’d wreck you. And probably myself, too. I swore a long time ago that that was never going to happen again, and I haven’t changed my mind. I just . . . forgot for a minute. Now let me take you home. It’s getting late, and it’s freezing out here.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  She had never been one for sleeping in, even on Sundays, but if there was ever a day Dovie longed to pull the covers back over her head, it was today. She didn’t want to think about last night, didn’t want to relive the kiss, and then the brush-off. Didn’t want to ask herself one more time how she had gotten the signals so very, very wrong. Maybe she was rusty. Not that she’d ever been very good at that sort of thing. With William there had been none of that to navigate, no steamy glances or coy remarks, no does he or doesn’t he. No games. Or none that she’d suspected at the time. At least Austin had been up front.

  So much for Mama Hettie’s magic. And for sleeping in.

  Kicking off the covers, she padded to the bathroom, grabbed her toothbrush, and then headed to the kitchen. She had just pressed the

  button on the coffeemaker when her cell phone went off.

  She knew something was wrong the minute she saw the Palmetto Moon’s number pop up on caller ID, and she was right.

  “Ms. Larkin, it’s Heidi, from the Palmetto Moon. I’m sorry to bother you so early on a Sunday, but I remembered you telling me that if there was anything Mrs. Tandy ever needed, or if something was wrong, I should call you, and I think there might be something wrong. This morning when the maid knocked on her door she didn’t answer, and since there was no sign on the door, she used her key to go in, and, well, Mrs. Tandy was still in bed. She didn’t look so good. She said she was fine, and not to bother you, but I thought I’d better call. You know . . . in case.”

  In case she died. Dovie understood. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Please make sure
someone stays with her until I get there.”

  It took less than thirty minutes to throw on some sweats and drive to the outskirts of town. Dora turned her head as Dovie let herself in. She tried to raise a hand, but it fell back to the bed. “I told them . . . not to trouble you,” she said, fighting for breath between words. “Just a little . . . setback.”

  Heidi scrambled up out of her chair with a look of relief, darting toward the door without a word. Dovie moved to the bedside, pressing a hand to Dora’s cheek. It was hot and dry, and her skin was the color of wallpaper paste, the blue around her lips more pronounced than Dovie had ever seen it. More alarming, though, was the fact that she was breathing through her mouth, a wet spongy crackling that seemed to come up from her chest.

  “Have you been taking your pills like you’re supposed to?”

  Dora closed her eyes but managed a nod.

  “How long have you been like this?”

  “Last . . . night.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Happens . . . sometimes. Gets better.”

  “Dora, I think you need to go to the hospital.”

  “No . . . hospital. Let me sleep. Be . . . fine.”

  “How can you possibly sleep, Dora? You can barely breathe. I’m calling 911.”

  Dora’s head lolled on the pillow. Dovie wasn’t sure if it was in agreement or protest, but it didn’t matter. Dora Tandy wasn’t dying on her watch.

  The ambulance arrived in less than fifteen minutes. While the medics strapped Dora to a stretcher, Dovie scooped the pill bottles off the nightstand and into her tote, then followed them out to the parking lot, ignoring the growing gaggle of onlookers as she slid behind the wheel of her car. Her heart was still hammering as she pulled into the emergency room entrance, playing scenarios over in her head and blaming herself for not having seen this coming.

  There was nothing to do but watch as the medics unloaded Dora from the ambulance and wheeled her into the ER, her face white as chalk beneath the clear oxygen mask. “I’m here, Dora!” she called as the gurney rushed past. “I’ll be right here.”

  Dovie had no idea if Dora could hear her, or if she was even conscious, as they wheeled her down a long corridor and through a set of swinging doors. The next forty-five minutes were spent at the admissions desk, trying to explain her relationship to Dora and provide what few details she could about the woman’s health, which were next to nothing.

  Finally, an intern in faded green scrubs and a lab coat that looked as though it had been slept in appeared at the mouth of the corridor and called her name. His name badge identified him as Dr. Bradley Gatlin.

  “I’m not sure how much you know about Mrs. Tandy’s condition, Ms. Larkin, but she’s suffering from advanced COPD.”

  “The smoker’s disease?”

  “Not necessarily. COPD stands for chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, which is often caused by smoking, but not always. Mrs. Tandy’s condition is likely genetic, since she was never a smoker. At any rate, the COPD makes her more susceptible to chest infections like colds and the flu—or in this case, pneumonia. A pretty nasty case, in fact. She’s running a high temp and she’s dehydrated. We’ve started her on fluids, antibiotics, and a course of steroids, as well as treating her for hypertension, which isn’t at all uncommon in these cases. We’re also going to change the meds she’s been on and see if we can’t make it a little easier for her to breathe. There’s always portable oxygen, but I don’t think we’re there yet. For now, she’ll go home with an inhaler, a bronchodilator that will help relax the muscles around her airways. Someone will need to make sure she has it with her at all times and that she’s using it properly. I’d also recommend a respiratory therapist to help manage her condition long term. We’ll write her a referral before she’s discharged.”

  “So she can go home?”

  “Not tonight. Like I said, it’s a pretty nasty case, and she’s already so frail. We’d like to keep her a few days, just to make sure her white count is stabilizing and she’s responding to the antibiotics. While she’s here we’ll do some lung function tests, and keep an eye on her O2 levels.”

  Dovie bit her lip, not sure how to broach the thoughts that had been nagging at her for the past hour. “I don’t know if she has any kind of insurance. She’s from England and I think they do things differently there. Is there going to be a problem with—”

  “Right now let’s focus on getting her stable, shall we? We’ll worry about the bean counters later.”

  Dovie smiled up at him, relieved and grateful. “Can I see her?”

  “Yes, but not for long, and not too much talking on her end. In her condition, talking is like running a marathon, which is why we need her to stay calm and quiet. They should have her in a room in about forty-five minutes. In the meantime, the cafeteria coffee’s not bad.”

  Nearly an hour later, Dovie tiptoed into Dora’s semiprivate room, moving past the empty bed near the door to where Dora lay with her face turned toward the window. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing and color had definitely improved since the last time Dovie saw her. Still, she looked so fragile and small in her faded blue hospital gown, a plastic ID bracelet swimming on her stringy wrist.

  She was wearing a nasal cannula, and clear IV tubing snaked over the metal railing, connected to an IV pump. Her antibiotics, Dovie supposed, and who knew what else? Somewhere behind her, a cardiac monitor beeped softly. It was a reassuring sound, but a reminder, too, of how close Dora might have come to dying.

  “Dovie, girl.”

  Dovie started at the sound of her name. She hadn’t realized Dora was awake, or that she was looking at her with the ghost of a smile on her thin lips.

  “Always been a bit of a drama queen. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Maybe not, but you did. You look better now, though. Do you feel better?”

  “I do. They say I have to stay a few days.”

  “They want to make sure you’re responding to the meds.”

  Dora’s lids fluttered closed with a sigh. “More pills.”

  “Different pills. And an inhaler. Look, I’ve been thinking. When you get out I don’t want you going back to that motel. When they discharge you, you’ll come stay with me.”

  Dora managed another smile, this one tinged with sadness. “Time . . . to go home soon.”

  “You can’t travel until you’ve recovered, Dora. I’m sure the doctor will tell you that. And if he doesn’t, I will. You need to get your strength back before you get on a plane and go flying across the Atlantic. Now, I’m going to go and let you rest, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Is there anything I can bring you?”

  “Letters. Bring . . . the letters.”

  “Dora, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You know you get upset when I read them, and you can’t afford that right now. The letters can wait.”

  “No.”

  “It’ll just be a few days, a week at most. Just until you’re better.”

  “You promised. No saving . . . my skin.”

  Dovie sighed. She’d seen this stubborn streak before, but this time she wasn’t winning. “Dora, when I made that promise it was about not sparing your feelings, but this is different. We’re talking about your health here, and Dr. Gatlin was very clear about you needing to stay calm, which is why my answer has to be no. No letters until you’re out of here and at my place, being properly looked after.”

  Dora stuck out her chin, as if to protest, but quickly abandoned the effort. Dovie couldn’t say if she had given up so easily because she knew she wouldn’t win, or because she simply hadn’t the breath to argue. Either way, the matter was closed for the time being.

  “I know you’re upset with me, but it’s for your own good. You need to rest. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the motel, pack up your things, and settle your bill. As soon as I’m finished I�
��ll be by to visit.”

  Dora reached for Dovie’s hand on the metal bedrail. “You’re a good girl,” she said so softly Dovie barely caught the words. “A very good . . . girl.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. I just know you’re in no shape to stay by yourself. I have plenty of room, and I’d be a wreck with you halfway across town, and all by yourself. Now promise me you’ll rest.”

  Dora nodded, eyes closed, but breathing easier now.

  Dovie lingered a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin hospital blankets. Lord, she was exhausted, and tomorrow wasn’t going to be any picnic. She had an early meeting with a new vendor, and then lunch with Theda, which they had set up last week and she had almost forgotten. The subject of Austin was sure to come up, and she knew Theda too well to hope she’d be allowed to sidestep her questions.

  Dovie watched as Theda deconstructed her chicken sandwich, extricated the pickles, then put the thing back together. “Why don’t you just order it without pickles?”

  “Because I like pickles. I just don’t want them on my sandwich.”

  “You could order them on the side.”

  “Then they forget them altogether and I have to go back up and ask for them. Too much of an ordeal. And speaking of meals . . .”

  “Were we?”

  “We’re about to. But then, you already knew that. So spill. What’s the deal with you and Austin Tate, and when were you going to tell me?”

  “There’s no deal, Theda. And there’s nothing to tell. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. We watched part of the Carolina game together. When he was leaving he asked if I wanted to grab dinner.”

  “And whose idea was the Porch?”

  “Mine. I thought it would be fun. Please don’t make more out of it than it was. I promise you there’s nothing going on between Austin and me. He’s made that abundantly clear.”

  Dovie regretted the words the minute they were out of her mouth, but by then it was too late. Theda seized the remark with both hands. “And when was this?”