A Reason to Stay (11 page)

T
he private plane banked sharply to the right, allowing a perfect view from the porthole window. Below, clumps of palms lined a white-sand beach that stretched for miles. Sailboats dotted the bay, with water so intensely blue Faith's eyes nearly ached from the beauty.

“Oh, Geary!” She pulled at his sleeve. “Have you ever seen anything so stunning?”

He peeked out the window over her shoulder. “This is going to be an amazing two weeks.”

Unlike commercial resort destinations, Hildebrand's boutique getaway equaled a one-of-a-kind sanctuary for the rich and famous, the fortunate ones who could afford to go anywhere they desired. The sort of guests who only stayed at the most exclusive, most luxurious destinations.

Faith nearly had to pinch herself.
This
was where she and Geary would spend their honeymoon. For the next two weeks, they would escape the pressures of their ordinary lives and focus on each other—all against a backdrop of lush Caribbean beauty.

Massive white stone and wrought iron formed the entry into St. Viceroy Negril. Their driver showed credentials to the security personnel and then steered them down a winding paved road lined
with banana palms and hibiscus bushes filled with deep red, orange, and yellow blooms. As far as the eye could see, blue pools lined with rock and waterfalls stretched to pockets of tall palms swaying in the gentle breeze. In the distance, the white-sand shoreline buffeted by the bay created a postcard view.

From the backseat of the town car, Faith nestled her head against Geary's shoulder, trying to take it all in.

He whistled. “Boy, that Hildebrand guy sure knows how to land one.”

She agreed, not with the fishing analogy necessarily, but she couldn't even imagine owning all this. She fingered her new husband's chin. “For the next two weeks, St. Viceroy Negril is ours to enjoy. I plan to savor every second.”

Their suite consisted of seven rooms, all beautifully appointed and decorated in white and creams with hints of light aqua and sea-foam green in the pillow prints and wall art. The building front facing the beach was an open lanai leading to a private zero-clearance pool.

The attendant handed Geary the room keys. “You need anything, mon, just ring the concierge desk. Every want will be immediately furnished.”

While Geary thanked him and handed the uniformed gentleman a generous tip, Faith checked out the complimentary tray of fruit and champagne on a bamboo table next to a window overlooking an expansive green lawn, manicured and bordered with coral-colored plumeria.

She should be exhausted. They'd danced until the wee hours of the morning at their reception, and then they rose early to catch their flight. All that should have depleted her energy level. But at this moment, her mind was running on a high level of excitement.

She raced from room to room, taking it all in.

“Honey, come quick!” She summoned him to the main bathroom. “Look at this.”

He rushed to join her. Together they marveled over the glass floor that exposed a stunning view of the underwater depths below, complete with tropical fish and shells. “Amazing,” he agreed.

Despite all her pre-wedding angst, their special day had come together without a hitch. Well, except for one of the twins spilling red punch down the table at the church luncheon. Thankfully, Geary had quietly suggested the evening party might not be a place for young ones.

The ceremony itself was perfect. Not too long, and focused on the commitment they were making to one another. Before their vows, her new father-in-law referenced a beautiful passage in Ecclesiastes about a three-part cord and urged them to intertwine their lives with God at the center, making their union stronger.

His words were just right.

The only thing missing—her own family. She'd fielded a few questions by simply stating that her mother and father had died and her brother did not live near and had been unable to attend.

Dilly hadn't been so easily convinced. “That's just strange that your brother wouldn't be here on your wedding day.”

Yes, there'd been a few minor issues. Still, the day she'd married Geary Marin would go down as the single best day of her entire life.

Now they had a honeymoon and years ahead to enjoy.

Their first dinner in Jamaica was served on a white linen-covered table positioned out on the beach surrounded by tiki torches. Seven long courses, the first a coconut lemongrass soup. Next they were served roasted figs wrapped in bacon with a brown sugar glaze. The salad came next—hearts of palm placed over a bed of arugula drizzled with balsamic vinegar and sprinkled with finely diced hazelnuts.

The main course was lobster—the biggest she'd ever seen. Both the claws and the back tails extended over the edges of the platters the waiter mistakenly called plates. Little cups of butter sat warming over tea candles with live flames.

“I'd like to propose a toast,” Geary said, holding a glass of a frozen fruity concoction decorated with a spear of fresh pineapple and a tiny umbrella. “To the most beautiful bride ever.”

“Oh, I bet you say that to all the women you marry,” she teased, clinking her glass with his.

They passed on the dessert, little chocolate cakes formed in the shape of volcanoes with molten cherry chocolate sauce oozing from the top. Instead they slipped off their sandals and headed for a walk down the beach, hand in hand. Just like in so many movies she'd seen, the moonlight glistened across the softly rolling waves landing on the sand. The warm water pushed up the shore by some invisible hand until it broke across their bare toes.

“Thank you,” Geary said as he slipped his arm around her bare arm and pulled her close.

She leaned into the capacious comfort of his broad shoulder. “For what?”

“What I'm about to say is going to sound sappy,” he warned.

“Yeah?”

He gave her a slight squeeze and stopped walking, turning her so they stood face-to-face. “Thank you for agreeing to spend the rest of your life with me.” He brushed a strand of her hair back. “And for making me the happiest man alive.”

His finger touched her mouth, her bottom lip.

She pressed into him, felt the warmth of his body through the linen of his shirt. Geary Marin was a good man, not filled with pretense but solidly authentic. And trustworthy.

He'd vowed to be her protector, her Prince Charming.

She turned her face into his hand and pressed a kiss against his slightly calloused palm.

And she believed him.

“Faith.” He said her name, sweet and heady, desperate with need. Even in the moonlight, she could see his eyes were deeply shadowed with longing.

He scooped her up into his arms, leaving her legs dangling above the sand.

In response, she wrapped one arm around his neck and leaned against his shoulder. Her free hand tightened on his shirt, clinging to the strength of his embrace. This man was now her husband, her solid rock against shifting sand.

Overhead, a bright moon illuminated the night sky. Pieces of light whispered through the palm fronds, casting a hopeful glow across their path.

“I love you, Geary.” Her lips barely moved as she whispered her declaration. Goodness, did this man know how solidly her heart was wrapped around his?

His arms tightened around her, pulled her closer. “I love you too.”

Then, as if they were in some romantic movie playing out on the big screen, he carried her back in the direction of their luxury suite . . . and the night both of them had been waiting for.

F
aith opened her eyes to walls the color of water, not the bright turquoise of the bay outside their honeymoon suite, but the muted hospital gray of the shadowed cove where they'd snorkeled—where she'd seen a turtle with black eyes watching from the crest of a rock peeking above the surface.

The sounds differed as well.

No gentle trade wind blowing through palm fronds. No chorus of tree frogs pulsing in the distance. No waves splashing onto the sand in rhythm. Not even the faint chords of reggae music drifting from a distant poolside club.

Instead a ventilator's asthmatic rhythm interrupted the silence of the dimmed hospital room.

A man in a tweed jacket, with a stethoscope hanging from his neck, leaned across the bed.

“Faith, I'm Dr. Wimberly. I'm your doctor and you are at Memorial Hermann. You have a trach tube down your throat, but we're going to remove that now. Then you'll be able to talk. Do you understand?”

She blinked several times. And nodded ever so slightly, her head feeling bulky and unwieldy—a bit like a basketball seven times
bigger than the normal ones you'd see during a Houston Rockets game.

Her doctor smiled. “There, yes, that's good.”

They removed the tube, one she was told had been placed when early signs of pneumonia developed. The removal process made her gag and left her throat feeling like she'd swallowed glass shards.

Afterward, she tried to speak, but her voice wouldn't cooperate. Nothing she told her body to do seemed to be effective.

Frustrated, she tried again. This time a low-volume squeak passed through her vocal cords and out her lips.

A nurse, a black woman with a kind smile, lifted a straw to her mouth. “Can you take a sip, baby?”

From Dr. Wimberly, she learned she'd been in a coma, one he'd induced temporarily by using pentobarbital, a drug that allowed her injured brain to rest while it healed.

Funny, she could vaguely remember this doctor, but not clearly. She couldn't clearly form any memory, really, her mind foggy and hungover like a college student who had drunk far too much tequila the night before. But then, if what Dr. Wimberly told her was true, she'd been asleep.

Hadn't she? And . . . why?

She reached for the doctor's arm, finding her left hand unmovable. She could see the length of it on the bed, resting against her leg as if the appendage belonged to someone else. But she knew this was her arm.

She quickly diverted her gaze to the other side. Her other arm.

Yes, she felt that one.

Relieved, she lifted her right hand. Reached for the doctor again.

He took her hand in his own. “I know you must be confused—maybe even a little frightened. But you are getting the best care we have to offer, and I promise you are past the worst dangers.”

She swallowed against the raw in her throat. “Where—where am I?” She barely recognized her own voice.

He gave her a patient smile. “You are in the intensive care unit at Memorial Hermann Hospital. You've suffered a head injury, and then a bit of a setback with some unexpected swelling, but you are well on your way to getting well. Your long-term prognosis is good.”

Her eyes widened. She tried to assimilate what he was saying.

“Faith, do you know where you are?”

She scowled. What kind of game was this guy playing? Hadn't he just told her? “I'm at the hos—the hospital.”

Dr. Wimberly nodded. “Yes—yes, you are at the hospital. Good.”

She tried to moisten her lips with a tongue that still felt paper-dry. “Why? What—what happened?”

“I'm afraid you suffered a pretty severe trauma that fractured your skull and sent bone fragments into the upper right surface of your brain, the cortex that manages your motor association and coordination of physical action on your left side.”

She drew a sharp breath. “My—my brain?”

The doctor patted her arm. “I lead a medical team of some of the best and brightest professionals available in the country. Within hours, we placed you in a temporary induced coma, which limited the electrical activity in your brain, allowing the tissue to heal. Upon arrival, you were able to breathe on your own, but we placed a ventilator to prevent windpipe infection and pneumonia. As hoped, you've made significant progress.”

Standing behind Dr. Wimberly, a younger guy in hospital garb made notes on an electronic tablet.

Faith glanced back at Dr. Wimberly. “When?”

“You've been with us four weeks.”

Four weeks? She'd been in a hospital four weeks?

She clutched at his arm. “Why?” The single word came out crackly and weak.

Dr. Wimberly squeezed her hand, a failed attempt at reassurance. “Can you tell us what you remember?”

Her head hurt. She pulled her hand back from his and reached up to it. Her fingers landed on what felt like gauze fabric and metal.

Metal?

Her lungs did another sharp intake of air. She tried to sit.

“No, don't try to sit up. I'll answer your questions. Just lie back and—that's it.” Dr. Wimberly stroked her forearm. “Faith, your injuries required surgery. We removed a portion of your skull, and what you are feeling is an orbital helmet. We'll reinsert that piece of skull very soon, possibly in the next day or two. I'm happy to report that the risk of brain tissue swelling is no longer a threat.” He gave her a gentle smile. “Do you understand?”

She nodded, feeling the weight of the helmet. Her hand lifted and she touched the protective gear again. “I was shot.”

The statement seemed to surprise everyone standing at her bedside, including her. “I was shot,” she repeated, outwardly showing nothing of what now cracked inside her.

“Yes—yes, you were.”

Faith squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. Tried to remember more. But couldn't. Her mind wouldn't conjure any sequence of events. Only that a gun had been pointed—fired.

And her head had exploded.

The next time she woke, little had changed.

The room appeared exactly the same. With no windows, there was no way to estimate whether it was day or night. Not that it mattered. Time seemed of little value inside this place—this place of quiet noise, antiseptic smells, and equipment monitoring every bodily function.

She had a PEG tube in her abdomen providing nourishment. Tomorrow the dieticians would introduce a liquid diet. If it was tolerated, the tube would be removed and she'd progress to tasteless soft foods, and eventually solids.

Bags hanging from the bed railing collected and measured urine output and other bodily excretions. Monitors surrounded her bed, measuring every breath, every heartbeat, the pressure of her blood flow, and a multitude of other things not fully known to her.

Faith lost track of the faceless medical personnel rotating in and out of her room, all dressed in hospital smocks and drawstring trousers, all poking, touching, and telling her not to worry—she was doing just fine.

She wasn't doing fine.

She hadn't been out of the coma but a few hours, and she was already tired of lying still. The helmet was foreign and cumbersome and uncomfortable.

Her right side ached with stiffness.

Her left arm felt nothing. Several times her brain commanded and the body part would not respond—a petulant child who would not bend to the will of its mother.

Her senses tensed and wrestled each other for attention. Mixed with crude and unprocessed thoughts, emotions foreign to Faith clogged her ability to survive a building level of dull-edged fear.

Moving her right hand to her mouth, she rubbed the pads of her fingers against her lips—something she did when she was confused and worried. Her eyes filled with tears, a silent clarion of the despair she felt building inside.

Her mind remained muddled. Dizziness enveloped her even as she contemplated—or at least tried to place her circumstances in some sort of context.

She'd been shot?

Her mind trudged through that barest of memory, trying to capture the snippet of images flashing in her head. Or was that flash—

Involuntarily, her entire body shuddered, at least the part she could feel. Why couldn't she wrestle her panic-flooded mind into submission, gather illusive thoughts into some semblance of understanding?

The bilious taste of fear rose again. No doubt a certain reality couldn't be argued.

She was broken, inside and out—and terrified.

“Faith?” A petite woman in scrubs moved into the room, a clipboard tucked under her arm. “Are you up for a visitor?”

“A visitor?” She quickly wiped at her eyes with her only working hand. “Who is it?”

“The man who has barely left your side,” the woman reported.

She saw his face then, in the doorway.

Prince Charming.