McKettrick's Heart (10 page)

Psyche crossed to Lucas's crib, touched his sweat-curled hair with a tremulous hand. Her eyes glistened in the semidarkness. “Dear God,” she murmured. “What I'd give to see him grow up.”

Had Psyche been anyone but who she was, Molly might have put an arm around her in an effort to lend comfort. But Psyche was the wronged wife, and Molly had played a major part in that betrayal.

“Let's go downstairs,” Psyche said very softly, tucking Lucas's favorite blanket around him. “I could really use a glass of wine.”

“Me, too,” Molly admitted.

They rode down in the elevator, neither one speaking.

The kitchen was dark and extra-empty without Florence there, peeling potatoes, warming milk for Lucas or muttering while she listened to the commentators she loved to hate on the countertop radio.

Psyche got out a Napa red while directing Molly to the wineglasses.

Enervated by the day, Psyche soon collapsed into a chair at the table.

Molly wielded the corkscrew and poured.

“It's a hard thing, dying,” Psyche said.

“I suppose you tried all the treatments,” Molly replied after swallowing hard. She'd been doing that a lot since coming to Indian Rock.

Psyche hoisted her glass in a wry salute. “Everything,” she said. “Trust me, the ‘cure' definitely
is
worse than the disease.”

They each sipped their wine.

Then, out of the blue, Psyche said, “Keegan is a good man, Molly.”

“He's a—well, never mind what he is.”

Psyche smiled, but there was a lot of sadness in her eyes. “I've known him since kindergarten,” she mused. “He always fought my battles for me. That's one of Keegan's problems, you know. He's an Old West kind of man, trapped in a modern world.”

“I saw his Jag,” Molly said moderately. “His clothes are expensive. I don't get the Old West connection.”

Psyche sighed. “Wait till you see him on a horse.”

The image came to Molly's mind, in living color. Once again she felt an inner shift, painful and sweet.

“You will, you know,” Psyche went on. “See Keegan on a horse, I mean. Because I want Lucas to learn to ride, and there's no one better to teach him.”

Molly looked into the future, saw it stretching out before her, filled with Lucas growing up through the stages of a typical boyhood. Days, weeks, months and years filled with Keegan McKettrick and his unrelenting contempt for her. She'd tried to establish a truce; he'd thrown it back in her face.

“You could marry him,” Psyche said.

Molly almost choked on her wine, and she was still trying to catch her breath when Psyche went on.

“I bet the sex would be apocalyptic,” she said.

Sex with Keegan McKettrick.

Don't go there.

“I'm just guessing, mind you,” Psyche continued between sips of merlot. “Keegan and I never slept together. More's the pity.”

Please,
Molly begged silently, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking,
don't ask me how it was between Thayer and me.

“Frankly,” Psyche said, “I didn't think Thayer was all that great in bed.”

Molly filled her mouth with wine, practically making her cheeks bulge. In the next instant she had to jump up and dash to the sink to spit it out, because she was laughing.

Laughing.

“What?” Psyche asked.

Molly gripped the edge of the sink, her back to Psyche, her shoulders shaking.

“What?”

Molly turned to face the woman whose husband she'd—as Keegan had so inelegantly put it—
boinked.
Her cheeks were burning, and her eyes hurt.

“Good Lord,” Psyche said. “Are you crying?”

“No,” Molly managed. “I'm laughing.”

“Why?”

“Because this conversation is bizarre, and because you're right.”

“About Thayer?”

Molly nodded.

Psyche broke up. She held her sides and giggled until Florence, cinched up in a pink chenille bathrobe, stuck her head out of her room adjoining the kitchen and scowled.

“Do you two know what time it is?” she asked. She had one of those little blue breathing strips stretched across her nose, which only increased the hilarity.

“It's time to laugh,” Psyche said, recovering a little.

Florence's face softened.

“And laugh and laugh and laugh,” Psyche added. Now there was something frantic in her tone.

And then she began to cry.

Florence went to her, drew a chair up close and took Psyche in her arms. “There, now, baby,” Florence said, holding her tightly and rocking her slightly back and forth. “You just let those tears out. God knows, you got the right.”

Molly stood stricken, and over Psyche's head her gaze collided with Florence's. And what Molly saw in Florence's eyes made Keegan's disdain seem like unbridled praise.

“I guess I'll go to bed,” she said, as if anybody gave a damn whether she turned in for the night or jumped off the roof.

“You do that,” Florence said.

“I could help Psyche upstairs—”

“
I'll
take care of Psyche,” Florence interrupted.

Molly fled, avoiding the elevator to bound up all three flights of stairs, hoping to exhaust herself.

Nothing doing.

She looked in on Lucas, left the door open between his room and her own. Took a shower. Went to her laptop and checked her e-mail.

Major mistake. At the moment she wasn't any more popular in New York and Los Angeles than she was in Indian Rock.

She paced.

The elevator ground its way up to the top floor.

Molly peeked out into the hall, and was surprised to see Florence there, without Psyche.

“She's in a bad way,” Florence said. “Hurting something awful. You've got to take her to the clinic. I done called the doctor, and he'll meet you there.”

Molly didn't hesitate. She dashed back into her room, exchanged her shorty pajamas for jeans and a tank top, shoved her feet into a pair of sandals and grabbed her purse.

“You'll look after Lucas?” she asked, in the hallway again.

“Of course I will,” Florence retorted. “You can take the station wagon. Psyche'll never be able to get into that big SUV of hers. You call me soon as you know anything. Anything at all.”

“I will,” Molly promised. She stole one last peek at Lucas and raced to the elevator, nearly shutting the door in Florence's face as the housekeeper joined her.

Still in the kitchen, Psyche was bent double and groaning.

Molly realized she didn't know where the clinic was.

Florence gave her directions, and between the two of them they managed to get Psyche into the garage, then into the car. If Florence hadn't raised the rolling door from a switch, Molly probably would have backed right through it.

“It hurts,” Psyche moaned. “Oh, God—it hurts—”

Molly's heart seized. “Hang on,” she said, zooming backward along the driveway and shooting out onto the road.

“What if this is it?” Psyche fretted between groans. “I didn't get to say goodbye to Lucas….”

“Don't even think like that,” Molly snapped, spinning the steering wheel of the big station wagon. It was like driving a tank. “And isn't there an ambulance in this chickenshit town?”

Psyche laughed, despite what must have been almost incomprehensible pain. “It would have to come from Flagstaff,” she said. And then she doubled over again and gave a keening cry that chilled Molly's blood.

When they screeched to a stop in front of the clinic, there were people with stethoscopes hanging around their necks waiting, thank God. And they had a gurney.

Two nurses and a doctor who looked older than dirt.

Molly's panic escalated.

The doctor had gray hair and a Hal Holbrook kind of face, kindly and full of character. Gently, with a strength Molly wouldn't have guessed he had, he lifted Psyche out of the station wagon and single-handedly laid her on the gurney.

“Easy now, sweetheart,” he said to Psyche. “Remember when you were thirteen, and your appendix ruptured? I took care of you then, didn't I?”

Molly froze, right there on the pavement outside the entrance to the clinic, suddenly unable to move.

In fact, she was still standing in the same place minutes later when the black Jaguar zipped in, passing so close it nearly crushed her toes.

Keegan got out, wearing hastily buttoned jeans and a white T-shirt, partially tucked in. “What happened?” he demanded, as though he thought Molly might have given Psyche a dash of drain cleaner as a nightcap.

Florence must have called him, Molly thought distractedly.

But she did manage an answer. “She's—Psyche's in a lot of pain. A
lot
of pain.”

“And you're standing out here because—?”

A ferocious anger rose up within Molly, along with something else, some emotion she wasn't ready to acknowledge, let alone analyze. “Well, because it's such a nice night!” she yelled, flinging her arms out from her sides.

“Oh, shut up,” Keegan said, starting for the clinic's entrance.

Molly had to scramble to keep pace. “What if she dies?” she pleaded.

Keegan stopped just inside the double glass doors and looked down into her face, frowning. “Keep up. Psyche has terminal cancer. There isn't going to be a Hallmark moment.”

“Do you have to be such a prick?” Molly whispered, not even trying to keep back her tears.

From somewhere in the rear of the clinic, Psyche screamed.

Keegan bolted in that direction.

Molly paced.

Her phone rang.

She ferreted it out of her purse, flipped it open and barked an anxious hello.

“You're fired,” Denby said. Though he'd uttered only two words, it was obvious that he was roaring drunk.

“Denby?” Molly replied. “Screw off.”

Having made that professional and dignified remark, she snapped the phone shut.

The woman behind the reception desk gave her a disapproving look.

Molly homed in on her. “Tell me something about Psyche,” she said.

“She has terminal cancer,” the woman replied. She was about thirty, a little overweight and distinctly homegrown.

“Thanks for the news flash,” Molly said. “I just heard her scream. I want to know
what the hell
is going on back there!”

“Are you a member of the family?”

“No. I'm a—friend.”

“Then I can't give you any information without Mrs. Ryan's permission.”

“Keegan McKettrick is with her. How come
he
didn't need permission?”

“Because he's Keegan McKettrick.”

Molly drew a deep breath, huffed it out, sucked in more air. “Look, let's start over here, okay?”

“Okay,” the woman said placidly.

“There's a woman back at Psyche's place, waiting to hear what's going on. I need to tell her
something.
”

“That would be Florence?”

“That would be Florence.”

“I'll see what I can find out.”

“That would be fabulous of you.”

The woman disappeared into the bowels of the clinic.

Before she returned, a good-looking blond man rushed in, as sleep rumpled as Keegan had been.

The receptionist returned. “Doc's called for an ambulance,” she told Molly and the blond man. “They're taking her to Flagstaff.”

“Christ,” the blond man muttered.

And then
he
disappeared, just as Keegan had.

“I suppose he's a McKettrick, too,” Molly said tersely, digging for her phone again.

“You suppose right,” said the receptionist.

Molly punched in Psyche's home number. Florence answered on the first ring.

“Tell me what's happening to my baby,” she demanded.

“They're taking her to Flagstaff.”

“Dear God,” Florence said.

Keegan stormed out of the back.

The blond man followed.

Keegan banged out through the front doors, practically springing the hinges.

“Damn it,” said the receptionist. “If they're going to fight, we might be here until next week patching them up.”