A Shore Thing (28 page)

Redmond’s voice crackled, as usual. “You with the contractor?”

“Yes, we’re meeting now.”

“Make sure you tell ’im this is no free-for-all. Don’t let him make unnecessary changes that are going to cost me more money.”

Surely Redmond knew Gage had little control over that.

“And you listen to the guy. He’s been throwing up buildings all over the state. If he tells you something’s not right, fix it.”

“Of course.” Why was he wasting his time? Gage would be working with the structural engineer to make sure that all aspects of the design were drawn up properly. Having Gus’s input as the contractor should add another keen-eyed voice into the mix. When this project finally got off the ground, nothing within Gage’s power to fix would be left to chance.

He cleared his throat, the sound of Redmond’s phlegm, more than Gage wanted to hear first thing in the morning. “I’ll be out at the golf course tomorrow morning with Rick and a couple of key players in this project. We have some things to iron out, and I’ll be tellin ’em to expect those construction docs real soon. Nose to the grindstone, know what I mean?”

Key players? As in council members?
Gage considered the consequences. “Those things you need to iron out . . . anything I can answer for you?”

“Not unless you’re a legal whiz. Any experience in drafting proposed amendments?”

“Well, I—”

“That’s what I thought,” Redmond spat out. “You take care of your end of things—and don’t delay. And I’ll handle securing this property once and for all. Capiche?”

He clicked off without a goodbye and all Gage could think was that his client had spent too much time with his fast-talking realtor Rick Knutson.

Chapter Twenty-nine

It didn’t take Sheila much time to transform Greta’s plain hospital room into a soothing day spa. Tranquil ocean sounds emanated from a portable CD player, flameless candles flickered on every open surface—she even rubbed lotion into Greta’s feet and ankles before tucking them into a pair of fuzzy socks. As for me, I kept the washcloth saturated by running back and forth between the bathroom sink and our patient.

Sheila kept the room buzzing along. “Callie, hurry with that compress.”

Doing as told, I approached the side of Greta’s bed. Worry lines marked her forehead making me both want to comfort her—and run away. Shame heated my cheeks.
Pull it together! Greta needs you.

Greta touched my clenched fist. “Where’s Bobby?”

“He’s filling out your paperwork, honey. They said you were too far along to sit in the hall.”

“Right. I knew that. Oh!” She fixated on Sheila. “What . . . do . . . I . . . do?”

Unlike me who shrunk back into the corner, fear causing all my muscles to contract, Sheila hovered like a mother hen, cooing into Greta’s face. Her voice came through like a whisper. “Breathe slowly. Keep breathing. It’s all good. You and Bobby are going to have a precious baby to hold real soon. That’s nice. You’re doing very well.”

As quickly as the etched pain on Greta’s face had appeared, it drifted away. Sheila massaged Greta’s temples and cheeks with her fingers, and every bit of lingering stress seemed to leave her. I marveled.

A nurse arrived with a harried Bobby following on her heels. The petite woman with brown shoulder-length hair talked to Greta from the end of the bed while stroking one of her ankles. “I see you’ve been having some nice contractions already. Good for you!”

Nice contractions?
How can anything that painful be considered
nice
?

Sheila kept her eyes on Greta but spoke to the nurse. “I take it you have her monitor hooked up to screens at the nurse’s station?”

The nurse bobbed her head. “Absolutely. Nothing gets past us. I’ll just do a blood pressure check, then I’ll call the doctor.” She glanced at Bobby, then at me. “Looks like you have your own pit crew here to help out. Terrific.”

I lunged toward her. “Oh, but you’re not leaving, are you?”

Bobby ran a hand through his disheveled head of hair, looking from me to Sheila, who scowled. Her voice belied that look, in an effort, I’d guessed, to keep Greta calm. “Thanks, Nurse. We’re a great team and we’re all going to help our Greta through her labor.”

Greta’s eyes locked with mine. “Will you really stay, Callie? I’d love it if you would.” Her face took on an odd mixture of fear and hope. “Please?”

I stepped forward and held her hand. “Of course I’ll stay.”

“What about me?” A lopsided grin lolled on Bobby’s face. “Isn’t anyone going to beg me to stick around?”

“Oh, Bobby!” Greta’s face crumbled into a wet mass of tears, and I lifted her hand, my eyes suggesting he get his booty over there. Fast like a spark, he moved to her side as I stepped out of the way.

After that, time zipped through space faster than a catapult shot spun through air. Greta’s labor, from what I gathered by the quick succession of strong contractions and sudden entrance of a doctor and nurse, was atypical. At least, how I understood the drawn out process of labor.

Rarely had I attended a gathering of former high school friends when a glowing mom did not treat the guest list to a blow-by-painful-blow of their labor and delivery. I smiled sympathetically during those memory-charged conversations, but how easy could it be to enjoy noshing on crisp bread smeared with olive tapenade while someone described in agonizing detail their delivery of the afterbirth?

Difficult as being hemmed in between clicks of new mothers had always been, my own mom was the one to provide enough detail to solidify my desire to never ever become pregnant.

Children, I loved. Pregnancy? Not at all.

“They damage you forever!” Mom had said, in my watery memory of long ago. “Men, Oh men! They get to enjoy the process of creation while we women—yes, we women!—are forever altered by the audacity of childbirth. I will never forget the ripping, the tearing, the excruciation of needle and thread as it sought to repair what pregnancy had wrought.”

I fought the very real urge to slip into the restroom and vomit out every inch of that speech she gave.

Greta’s animal-like growl snapped me into the present. More nurses arrived with gloves and metal tools and serious expressions. Bobby had taken over labor coaching, but Sheila stayed close enough to offer support for both of them. My friend and sister-in-law looked more like a woman in the deep throes of disease rather than one about to give life. Several minutes passed along with another torturous cry from Greta before I noticed how I’d been twisting my fist into the center of my own chest.

Fat drops sprung forth over Greta’s face and head, her body straining against the pressure of another contraction. Sheila’s steady hand stood by, mopping. Helplessness wove its way through me, and I spun around, hiding myself from the drama.

Pray for her.
The admonishment came quickly and without doubt, as sure as Greta’s labored breaths. I recalled my late night chat with the young girls in my cabin and how they grappled to understand what it meant to hear God. Sometimes I did too, but I knew in this moment that this is what it meant.

The doctor moved into a crouched position at the end of Greta’s bed, and her cries grew louder and more intense. I too moved into position, only to the far corner of the oddly shaped room, in a space just large enough to drop my head in prayer. What began as a muddle of requests slowly became more assured and specific. Bobby cheered Greta on from the sidelines. Sheila continued to give measured direction, unwavering in her encouragement. Peace began to flow through me, its warmth oozing through those places that had lain cold and barren.

The doctor’s reassuring voice cut through the chaos like a beam of light in a dark room. “Almost there . . . almost . . . almost . . .”

Greta’s hoarse cry turned mournful and I stepped up my prayers. Electric energy filled the room, however, peace never left.

“We’re almost there, Greta.” His voice so laced with both serenity and a spark of anticipation, the doctor could have been coaxing a cake to rise.

And then, as if the entire room had taken one collective breath, a pause fell over us, the kind that anticipated good news. Or in this case, great news. I held my breath, still praying, until hearing Greta’s lungs gasp in one heavy sigh of relief followed by the unmistakable bleating wail of a newborn babe.

GAGE

THE MYRIAD SUGGESTIONS DROVE Gage nuts, mainly because he knew the unwillingness of his client to accept changes that might incur more costs. Surely Redmond knew the inevitability of rising prices in this business.

But the day had dawned anew. Gage hunkered down in his chair, poring over the list of updates the structural engineer had left him. Now
this
he could handle. Taking the engineer’s notes and applying them to his own ideas brought his drawings closer to completion. At this point he could work out kinks and amp up the accuracy, like what an editor did for a book.

He might have stayed in that one position all day had it not been for the growl that roared through his stomach. Gage glanced at the clock and blinked unbelieving eyes: 11:30 a.m. Where was Suz?

She’d said last night that Callie had not called her back all day. Her plans were to work with him in the morning until she heard from Callie. Maybe she had.

He rubbed his eyes and the phone rang. He shook off a welling sigh. “Gage Mitchell.”

“Hey, dork.”

“Same to you. What are you doing, Marc?”

“Sick of working and thought I’d see what trouble my old buddy has gotten himself into lately. Seeing as you never call or write or send me a Twitter.” Marc pretended to sniffle.

“Oh, man. It’s crazy. This development has taken over my life. I’m sitting here right now with the schematics and engineering notes side by side.”

“So that’s a good thing, right? You’ve always wanted to head up some big project and now you are. Unfortunately we little people must suffer in your absence.”

“Right. Last time I heard you and Lizzy were traveling the globe in search of Egyptian earrings or something.”

“Hey, don’t knock it. Egyptian collectibles are big business, my friend. Did I tell you the one about the camel and the jockey who got confused? Heh-heh. Okay, forget about all that. What’s going on with the girl? Made progress there?”

“You make it sound like she’s one of my drawings.”

Marc laughed. “Well, I
hope
you didn’t make her up.” He paused. “You didn’t, did you?”

Gage pressed a hand to his face and dragged it down his cheek. “No, she’s as real as you and I.” He sighed. “Long story.”

“I got all the time in the world, man. Lizzy’s out on a spa day with the girls. Hit me with it.”

Gage proceeded to tell Marc about finding her dog running loose on the Kitteridge property and then Callie’s ultimatum at the diner and their ultimate truce. He filled him in about the SOS team’s progress, providing details about her television interview and how mesmerized he found himself while watching her on the small screen.

Marc laughed. “Welcome to small town USA. I hope she’s into you because Otter Bay sounds like the shrimplike town I grew up in. Couldn’t walk out the door in your undies to get the paper or the whole town’d see you.”

One of Gage’s eyebrows darted upward. “You step outside in your underwear?”

“Well, maybe not every day, but c’mon, sometimes it’s hot.”

Gage laughed, the feeling washing over him like clean water. “You never fail to crack me up.”

“Hey, it’s a gift. So what else? You saw her on TV and then . . . where? The Five & Dime? Laundromat? Pig Slop Café?”

Gage hauled in a deep breath. He glanced at the door, still wondering about Suz. Did he want to get into this story now?

Marc’s voice dropped to a lower-pitch. “I’m waiting.”

“Fine. Well, here’s what happened.” Gage couldn’t seem to find the words, or know where to start, the whole thing sounded ludicrous even before he told the story. “I was on my way to a meeting and I discovered her hiding in the bushes outside the home where it was being held and, well, I skipped the meeting.”

Marc roared. “What? Oh, man, this is priceless stuff. Price. Less.” He gave way to more laughter before getting hold of himself. Gage knew it could be awhile. “Okay, so you and she were hiding in the bushes and, hey, what was she doing there anyway?”

Gage tried to corral the thoughts that collided like free floating stars in his head. What was he saying earlier about his God-given gift to focus? Callie, it seemed, had a new effect on him. “Actually, I was invited to a gathering at a town council member’s home. I was exhausted that night—didn’t want to go. This is between us, but Callie was, uh, spying.”

“Spying? Why did she have to . . . oh. So was this a secret meeting, then?”

Gage swallowed. “Guess you could say that. Man, you’re quicker than I am. I didn’t suspect a thing, but like I said, I was tired and ready to leave my office for home when the invite came in.”

Marc’s grunt sounded grim. “This is beginning to have a familiar sound to it. Man, what are you gonna do?”

“That’s just it. Nothing. I’m keeping my nose clean, staying out of whatever it is my client is doing. I’m not even sure this is anything but a bunch of rich guys all trying to one-up each other. Could be innocent as that.” He paused. “No matter what, though, unlike my former employer,
my
firm will not participate in anything shady.”