Whisper a Warning

by Christine Bush

  How could it be? How could her heart have gotten so involved? A devastating feeling, almost like a physical pain, rushed through her, leaving her breathless. Was this what love was like? She had trusted Rockford, opened herself to him, with the unleashed enthusiasm that was so integral to her life. And trust didn’t come easy for Willow Blake. Her father had ensured that with his instability and criticism.

  Today, in her independent life, she shared her love with others. She loved giving. She loved Maggie, the children at the barn, the residents of the AIDS home, her coworkers in the real estate office. But she had never put herself in a position to trust again. Until Rockford. She had made the fatal mistake with Rockford. She had opened her heart, and he had let her fall. She had trusted the kind of man who did business with the likes of Marco Slergetti.

  She knew she wasn’t going to be able to sleep. She left the cottage, closing the door tightly behind her. She took the Miata for a ride, top down, letting the moonlight flow over her, and the wind cleanse her sad emotions. She drove for hours.

  When she pulled back into the farm, she was still too restless to go to sleep.

  She parked her car, and walked the short distance to the cottage, letting herself in to face her indignant cats. She fed them quickly, guilty for having neglected them earlier in the night. She stripped off her barn-smudged clothes, and gratefully stepped into the shower. The warm water cascaded over her, relaxing her tense muscles. She pulled on a well-worn sleep shirt, turned off the phone bell, and climbed into her bed, instantly surrounded by purring cats. Gratefully, her fatigue overtook her, her problems receded, and she sank into sleep.

  George had just fallen into a restless sleep when the phone rang, and Rockford’s voice gave her the sad news of their father’s stroke.

  It was only minutes before she was dressed again, and heading out the door. She left a note on her door to say she was going out of town, visualizing the panic that would descend upon the rectory if both she and the parish car disappeared in the darkness of night.

  She had tried to call Willow several times that evening and had not found her at home. On her last call, she left a message giving the news about her father, and told her that both she and Rockford would be in New York, at the hospital.

  “Is Willow with you?” she had asked Rockford, and he had been surprised at the question. So where was Willow? George pushed the little car as fast as she safely dared. When she reached the highway, she reached into her bag and pulled out the head covering from her little-worn habit.

  There, she thought determinedly, pushing the speedometer another five miles per hour. No self-respecting cop would give a nun on a mission a speeding ticket, right?

  The car sped away into the night, toward New York, and her ailing father. She prayed all the way, even adding a prayer for Willow. At the end of the trip, she screeched into the hospital driveway, pulling the car right up to the door. She jumped out, and literally ran through the brightly lit reception area, punching the elevator buttons rapidly for the intensive care floor. If anyone had an unusual thought about a nun wearing a habit, along with the grungy gray sweat suit and some extremely used Adidas sneakers as she passed by, she didn’t notice. She was going to see her father.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Georgina found her brother and mother dozing on the couch in the hospital waiting room. Her heart contracted at the sight of her mother, face streaked with tears, as she sat protected by Rockford’s arm around her shoulders.

  “Mother . . . Rockford.” They awakened immediately at the sound of her voice. After a hug, they led her down the hall to her father’s intensive-care room.

  Uncharacteristically subdued, George’s tear-filled eyes regarded the man who was her father, the whiteness of the hospital sheets a sharp contrast to his dark peppery hair and sun-colored face. He looked smaller, lying in the bed.

  This was her father, the man who could (and did) move mountains, who could bellow the house down, who could state his case in court with verve and vigor. An IV was attached to his arm, an oxygen mask covered the lower part of his face. He looked helpless. He looked vulnerable. The sight wrenched Georgina’s heart.

  How he would hate being so powerless! How he would resent being so dependent! She repeated the prayers she had said in her frantic journey. She sat quietly in a stiff vinyl chair next to the bed, and held his hand.

  He had always been so “large” to her. With a huge presence, a loud voice, an unflagging determination, they had often been at odds when she was growing up. In many ways, she was exactly the opposite of him. Except the determination part. She smiled at the thought. She had taken after her father in the determination department, that was for sure. But although he had questions, cajoled, and tried to manipulate her in her early years, he had accepted her calling to become a nun with a certain respect. He had never understood, but he had accepted her choice to live her life a different way, and she had loved him for that.

  Rockford and his mother stood in the doorway, watching Georgina as she sat by her father’s side. It was good to be surrounded by people you love at such a trying time. He felt a wave of need wash over him, wishing that Willow were beside him. His arms ached with missing her.

  Finally, Georgina rose from her chair, leaving her father to sleep peacefully. As they stepped from the room, heading back toward the waiting area, she turned to Rockford.

  “Where’s Willow? I couldn’t find her anywhere. But then, I hoped she was here with you.”

  Rockford felt his stomach coil with lightning speed. “What do you mean, you couldn’t find her?” He thought of leaving her sleeping gently in the bed that they had shared so intimately.

  “She wasn’t at home. I called. She’s not at her office . . . or at yours. I was worried. . . .”

  Thoughts started racing through his mind—pictures of the burned farmhouse, Porter’s office, Marco Slergetti’s cruel face, Peter’s bloody death, his father’s muttered words. They were immersed in danger. Where was Willow?

  Without a second’s hesitation, he bounded to the pay phone in the hallway. He had to find her. He had to know that she was safe. He punched the numbers into the phone.

  After the fourth frustrating ring, Willow’s answering machine picked up. “Hi, This is Willow. Please leave a message at the tone. . . .”

  He swore in frustration. “Willow,” he said to the tape, trying to keep his voice sounding normal, “this is Rockford and I’m trying to find you. I’m—I’m not home. I had to rush to see my father. He’s in the hospital with a stroke. My mother is here, and George. I’ll call again later. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay and to make sure you know. I love you. . . .”

  He hung up the phone abruptly, surprised at the lump in his throat, the tingling in his fingertips. Where was Willow? He was momentarily overwhelmed at how much she had come to mean to him. He was going to have to find her.

  He joined his mother and sister to find out the latest medical update on his father, feeling like he was being torn in two.

  The medical news wasn’t good. The stroke Rockford Harrison II had experienced had been a severe one, and it was possible that it would be quite a while before they could learn the full extent of its effects. Once he was alert again, his attitude would be crucial, needing to be as calm and positive as possible. They took turns sitting by his side, watching the proficient nurses and staff keep watch over his vital signs, sophisticated monitors beeping and flashing as the minutes passed.

  At frequent intervals, Rockford attempted to call Willow, again leaving a message on her machine. As the sun rose and the morning clatter of the hospital increased with the new day, he called her office, only to find that no one had heard from her. His anxiety mounted.

  When he had sent his mother and sister out for breakfast, sitting alone in the hospital room, his father began to stir. Startled, Rockford moved quickly to his side.

  “It’s Rockford,” he said softly, holding his father’s hand. His father’s head mov
ed slowly back and forth. “It’s okay, Dad. You’re in the hospital. You’re in good hands. Things will be fine.”

  The older man stilled his restlessness, as if he could hear his son, but didn’t open his eyes. Rockford felt his conflicting emotions dueling inside. This was his father. . . the man who had given him life, and who had given him so much. Could he also be responsible for taking so much away? But how was he involved with Marco Slergetti? Was he involved in Peter’s death? The thought brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

  His mind groped for an alternative, another explanation. But his jangled nerves wouldn’t cooperate, and his mind was anything but clear. All that was apparent to him at the moment was that he was alone, saddled with questions with no easy answers. He felt like a rickety ship cast into a wild storm, with no anchor to keep him steady.

  That was when he turned his tense face toward the doorway, where he sensed someone’s presence. Willow Blake stood quietly, leaning against the doorjamb, not saying a word.

  Maybe, he thought to himself, my anchor has arrived.

  She couldn’t help herself. After hearing the sound in Rockford’s voice on the answering machine, she had to follow her instincts. Her rational mind was still angry and violated. She was suspicious of the broad-shouldered man sitting in the stiff hospital chair. But her irrational reaction, physical and deeply emotional, had propelled her to New York. It was a most unsettling realization. She loved this man, even if she didn’t trust him.

  Awaking in the morning, she had listened to the messages on her answering machine. Hearing Rockford’s voice had done what miles of aimless driving hadn’t accomplished. She had calmed down. His father had had a stroke. She could hear the vulnerability in his voice, the fear. She had wanted to be with him.

  It hadn’t been hard to locate the hospital. A few well-placed phone calls had given her the names of hospitals near his home. She had found the patient’s location on the first try.

  Packing a small bag without delay, and leaving a message for her office, Willow had steered the Miata toward New York and Rockford. She didn’t stop to question whether she’d be welcome. She had only known that she had to go.

  He stood from his chair with one swift, fluid movement, crossing the small hospital room with long strides. His long arms reached out and pulled her close. He buried his face in the softness of her windblown hair, smelling the sweet, fruity smell of her. Raspberry, he thought with a grateful sigh, absorbing the beauty of the nearness of her. Willow was safe and by his side.

  “Ah, Willow,” he breathed quietly.

  “I’m so sorry about your father, Rockford. Is he going to be all right?”

  Her eyes were filled with sincere concern. Having her in his arms made him feel both strong and vulnerable at the same time. With her body pressed close to his, he felt whole, invincible. But with her eyes showing she shared his pain, he felt safe to acknowledge the pain that was deep inside of him. He could feel his hands beginning to shake. He pulled her closer, her strength reinforcing him.

  “They won’t know for a while . . . it was a bad stroke. He came to once or twice, and tried to talk, but. . .”

  “I hear these things take time, Rockford.”

  He took her to see his mother and Georgina then, while the nurses attended to his father. The time passed slowly.

  “Wait and see.” That was the basic diagnosis from the medical point of view.

  “Wait and see.” Was that also the diagnosis for her heart, her life? She watched the dark, strong man as he coped with the many things that needed to be settled for his father. He made her feel so good. Was it possible that he was involved with someone like Marco Slergetti? Would there be answers to her questions? Or would her heart be left in tatters if she trusted this instinct to love? ‘‘Wait and see. . .” Like a mantra, the words echoed in her troubled head, trapping her in that undesirable place between trust and doubt.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The day stretched on, eventually changing to night, at least outside the hospital windows. Inside, with the bright fluorescent lights and the constant hum of activity, time seemed to have no boundaries.

  The doctor brought the news that the vital signs had seemed to stabilize. Rockford’s father, while not again gaining consciousness, was breathing steadily on his own. His pulse, his heart rate, his blood pressure were holding steady.

  “It will be a matter of time,” he told them in a caring yet professional voice. “As a family, you should conserve your energies.”

  Georgina had decided to stay with her mother for a few days, taking turns being with the elder Rockford.

  Rockford would temporarily return home to Pennsylvania with Willow. He was torn with conflicting needs. He wasn’t going to let her out of his sight, his fear of Slergetti well justified. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell her what he suspected. How could he admit his naive stupidity? How could he admit that his own father had been involved in some way with the man who had ultimately been responsible for ending his best friend’s life? And how could he tell her that Marco Slergetti had returned?

  Willow followed his silver car in her Miata. Rockford wanted to stop by his parents’ house for some more information before making the trip home. They drove through the large wrought-iron gates that protected the Harrison estate. Her eyes grew large at the sight of the mansion. Groomed shrubberies, gleaming windowpanes, elegant architecture. Every sight said “wealth.”

  Willow swallowed a lump that had crept up into her throat. What would it have been like growing up in a place like this? It was the absolute opposite of her own experience. The hovel she had shared with her father had been decorated in “Early American rust.” She had worked hard to believe in herself after growing up in that environment. But she had a feeling that it would be to even find yourself in a place like this.

  She pulled her little car next to Rockford’s in the drive, and unfolded her long legs to greet him. The knot was still in her throat. He looked so good. He meant so much. And yet, the echo of Slergetti’s voice rattled in her brain, haunting her. She turned and looked at Rockford.

  He, too, was staring at the big house, regarding it as if he had never seen it before. His handsome chiseled face looked at once forlorn. He turned, suddenly, and looked at her.

  She met his troubled eyes, and felt her heart swell. This was Rockford. This was the man she loved. He would explain away the confusion and fear she was feeling. She opened her arms, and walked resolutely toward him, and he clutched her to his chest like a drowning man.

  “Ah, Willow,” he said softly, his breath rustling her hair. “I love you. I can’t believe how good you feel right now. I need you so much. This thing with my father. . . it’s really got me upside down.”

  Her arms tightened around his neck as she hugged him back. “I’m here. I’m really sorry about your dad.”

  He nodded, not trusting his voice. He kissed her gently on the forehead. “I grew up here. I lived here for years. But right now, it seems so strange.”

  Thomas let them in. There were no messages.

  Rockford showed her quickly around the house. It was gorgeous, inside and out. But Willow couldn’t help feeling that something was missing. The house felt cold and impersonal.

  He took her up the steps, stopping at a graceful pair of double white doors.

  “This was my room.” His voice was hushed, thoughtful. “The private domain of Rockford Farquahar Harrison III. He pushed the heavy doors, and they opened soundlessly.

  It was a masculine suite, done in striking tones of brown and burgundy. The furniture was sleek and elegant, and not a speck of dust could be seen.

  “Wow,” Willow said softly. The room was a masterpiece . . . but it didn’t look alive at all. It didn’t look as if it had ever seen a moment of life.

  “Pretty bad, huh?”

  “Well, it’s beautiful, of course. . . .”

  “Go for the honesty, Willow. Your face gives you away, anyway.” His face wore the trace
of a smile.

  “Well, I mean, did you actually live here? I mean, like write at that desk, and throw your clothes on the floor, stuff like that?”

  He was grinning now. “Yes and no. I definitely wrote at the desk. I definitely didn’t throw clothes on the floor. Georgina was the only one in this house who dared to do things like that.”

  “So you were the obedient type, huh?” A shadow passed over his face, the darkness was back. Yes, he had been the obedient type. Following directions, doing what was expected of him, without a thought of his own. And Peter was dead.

  She saw the abrupt change in him and crossed the room quickly, wanted to feel his heartbeat next to hers again. He grasped at her, and she wanted nothing but to erase the look of pain in his eyes.

  “Rockford,” she said gently, burrowing her face into his neck. “Whatever your childhood was . . . that was then, and this is now. I learned that myself a long time ago. You’re here now, Rockford. You’re here with me.”

  “Yes, I’m here with you,” he said in a low voice, thankful for the kindly, giving spirit of the woman he had come to love. She had put her arms around him, comforting him, and his emotions had surged so fiercely it almost took his breath away.

  She pulled her head back suddenly, laughing, and started to climb up onto his high bed.

  “Willow? Here? What are you doing?”

  She stood up with a bounce, and took his hand and beckoned him to join her. Giddily, she started jumping up and down on the bed, like an errant child.

  “Why? Isn’t this your room? Don’t you think it’s about time you had a little fun here?”

  Amazing himself, he climbed up onto the bed and started bouncing right along with her. Laughter bubbled up and spilled out from him, like a giant release from a pressure cooker.

  They moved together until they collapsed, breathless and still laughing, as they clung to each other.

  Rockford’s heart swelled as he held Willow close, breathing in the smell of her, remembering her laugh. One thing was for certain—he would never look at this room the same way again.