“You said that you have a town house too?” she asked after sipping her tea.
“Not like this. It’s more like a great garage for my Hummer, mountain bike, and skydiving gear—with an attached house where I reheat dubious leftovers and crash on the couch. And drive the cleaning lady crazy by asking her to dust around my piles of medical journals and paperwork.” He shook his head. “I’ve tried to bribe her, but she draws the line at changing the water in the fishbowl.”
“Fish?”
“Just one. A Siamese fighting fish—Rocky.” He grimaced. “Not my idea. Or my fish. It’s a long story.” Jack glanced past Riley’s cream-colored leather couch toward a small limestone fireplace, its logs replaced by white candles in glass holders. “Those photos on the mantel—is that your family?”
She nodded.
He set his tea down, took a half step. “May I?”
* * *
Riley watched as Jack’s gaze moved across the grouping of framed photos. Nothing like the collections at her parents’ home in Houston: formal family portraits, a wall in the library papered with three generations of Hales posing with religious leaders, celebrities, presidents, and Texas athletes. And then there was the commissioned oil of Riley at six, sitting ladylike in a designer sundress under her grandparents’ pecan tree.
“This is you, as a kid?”
“Eight or nine, maybe,” Riley confirmed as Jack lifted the rumpled snapshot she’d framed. It was slightly out of focus, with shadow-dappled lighting and a tear where it had stuck to a plastic drawer of her play kitchen. “I could see past the fences of my grandfather’s ranch when I crawled out onto that branch. Miles and miles. Sometimes I’d pretend I was a bird, that I could spread my wings and fly away.” She shook her head. “My best friend took the photo; her parents showed it to mine after it was developed. They had a volcanic fit. Always sure I was going to get hurt.”
Riley met Jack’s gaze, saw the concern in his eyes before he turned back to the photos. She realized that he was the first person who’d looked—really looked—at this little display of photos. Disordered and random slices of her life.
“You look like your mother. I noticed that when she stopped by the clinic. Same smile . . . chin.” Jack moved from her parents’ portrait to the next frame. “College graduation?”
“Yes,” Riley confirmed, assuring herself there was no way Jack would read the vanity license plate on the shiny new convertible in the photo. “That’s my grandfather with me.”
“And this one’s of you at . . .” He held out a photo in a pewter frame. “The Golden Gate Bridge?”
“Yes.” Riley took it from him. “With a doctor friend—a coworker—from Golden Gate Mercy Hospital. I . . .” She hesitated, seeing the sling on her arm in the photo. “It was my first position as a chaplain. Several months after I was injured.”
Jack stepped closer, his arm brushing hers. “I’d imagine your parents had qualms about you being so far from home.”
“It was a toss-up, I think. They didn’t want to let me go but wanted me as far away as possible because that man was still on the loose.” She felt Jack’s body tense. “Ultimately, I forced the issue. I needed to go. I was . . . suffocating.
“My parents were against my going to nursing school. Completely. And when I ended up on that parking garage floor . . .” She set the photo back on the mantel. “I have no doubt they pulled strings to get me that chaplain’s position in San Francisco. And that they expected it would be a first step toward getting me out of nursing altogether. When I came back to Texas, I was supposed to go straight to Houston.” Riley gave a short laugh. “Sort of the Hale version of a Monopoly play: ‘Go directly to Home. Do not pass Go. Do not collect a salary in San Antonio.’”
“But you wanted to climb out on that branch and spread your wings,” Jack said softly, his eyes holding hers.
An ache crowded her throat.
You understand.
“Being a nurse, part of the ER team, was incredibly important to me,” Riley explained. “More than I can say. And since the assault, nothing’s been the same. Nothing at all. It’s like I’m waiting for . . .” Her gaze moved to the mantel, and for the first time she realized that her little photo collection wasn’t at all random or disordered. The little girl in the tree, the rebellious graduate, the woman in a sling two thousand miles from home—it was a chronology of her life, of a struggle to claim it as her own.
She turned to him, blinking back tears.
“What?” Jack asked, brows scrunching.
“Thank you,” she managed despite the lump in her throat. “When you threw that stupid training manikin at me, I was sure I’d drop it. And I was
so
furious at you. But I needed that nudge, that chance. You were giving me a way back. But I still had all these doubts. And now you’re writing a recommendation for me, and—”
“Wait, Riley.” Jack grasped her arms. “There’s something I need to explain.”
* * *
Jack sat down next to Riley, the leather cushion compressing like a toasted marshmallow under his weight. “There’s no guarantee that my recommendation will help your chances. In fact—” he frowned—“considering my reputation, you could end up making peanut butter sandwiches with Bandy full-time.”
And I could learn to like that idea.
Riley took a sip of her tea, nodded.
“You need to know that I’ll be completely honest in that letter,” Jack continued, picking his way toward what he needed to say. It felt like he was starting down the steep grade of an unfinished bike trail—and not sure of his brakes. But he’d be a fool to risk having his intentions mistaken for harassment. “I can only report competencies in skills that I’ve actually seen you perform. And I’d have to address any deficits related to your injuries. . . . Here, raise your arms.”
“What?”
“Like this.” Jack demonstrated, raising both his hands. “Face me full on and raise your hands shoulder high. Now press them against mine. Right—like that.” Her palms, warm and soft, met his. “Now hold steady. Hold me back. Don’t let me get close.”
“Okay.” A faint flush rose on her cheeks.
“Hold me back,” he repeated, pressing his palms against hers. He pushed harder, felt her resistance—the left hand noticeably stronger than the right. “Keep them up; don’t let that arm sag. It’s drifting down.”
“I’m trying.” Riley’s right hand trembled. “It’s . . . hard.”
“Keep it up,” he told her, seeing her pupils widen, her determination despite the fact that her entire arm had begun to tremble.
Ah, Riley . . .
His throat tightened as he recalled her expression in the photo with the tree, that innocent bravado as she crawled out onto the high branch. Jack wrestled with a sudden rush of anger at the violent act that had injured Riley’s spine. And might close so many doors for her.
“Aagh,”
she groaned, fighting to raise her weakened arm higher.
“Okay,” Jack said, lowering his hands but still clasping hers. “Enough.”
“Well . . .” Riley swallowed. “I guess that was more straightforward than a manikin toss. My doctors say I’ve shown an amazing recovery, but you can see that there are still problems.” She leaned a little closer, enough that he could see tiny flecks of gold in the blue of her eyes and the pulse fluttering in the hollow of her neck. “Jack, I don’t expect you to be anything but honest in your evaluation. I’ve known you long enough to understand that it’s part of who you are. Honest, fair. And kind. To Bandy, your patients, those kids at the Sunshine Center today. And to me, too. If I have even half a chance at returning to the ER, it’s in large part because of your willingness to trust me at the clinic.”
“I do . . .” Jack cleared his throat. “I do trust you. And admire your determination.” He sighed. “I’ll get that recommendation to the nursing supervisor. But—” he told himself he had to say it—“I want to be sure you didn’t get the wrong impression about my offer to do that.” He let go of her hands. “You know, considering . . .”
She tilted her head, brows drawing together.
Oh, great.
How soon could he get to the Hummer? She had no clue what he meant.
“I mean that I wouldn’t try to dangle a recommendation,” Jack explained, “in order to take unfair advantage. As an employer with a female . . .”
“Oh.” Riley’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t thinking—”
“Good!” he blurted, then laughed. “Anyway, you’re a volunteer, so I’m not technically an employer. Which means that when we . . .”
“Went out for . . .” She glanced away, the color returning to her cheeks.
“For pralines today,” Jack finished, “it was totally on the up-and-up. So any recommendation I write is valid, regardless of how I might feel personally.”
“About—” her smile crinkled her eyes and warmed his chest—“Tia Rosa’s pecan pralines.”
“Exactly.” Jack grinned.
And about wanting to kiss you. Right now. Bury my face in that mass of hair that’s making me crazy with its scent of peaches . . . then kiss you again, and—
“I should get going.” He stood.
She walked him to the door and thanked him again for the ride home. He said something appreciative about the tea and that her town house was nice. Then they stood there awkwardly for a few seconds.
Riley chuckled. “Really—a Siamese fighting fish named Rocky?”
“Hey—” Jack narrowed his eyes—“I also have a modest share in a fine dog that comes with a cool set of wheels. It’s just that my dog prefers to live in another neighborhood.” He shook his head. “Where he manages to flirt with a cat that is way out of his league.”
Something we apparently have in common, Hobo.
* * *
“May I?” Vesta rested her hand on her pole-mounted mailbox to steady herself, willing the dizziness to pass. She forced herself to meet the man’s gaze.
I can do this. . . . I can.
Even if The Bluffs’ curb felt like Dallas rush hour and was the farthest point she’d ventured in two years. “Is it all right if I pet him?”
“Right as rain,” the man replied, his blue eyes as warm as his smile. “Hobo was hopin’ you would ask.”
“I’ve seen you walking with him. From my window,” Vesta said, bending low. The little dog whined eagerly, front legs dancing in place. “It must be hard for him to pull that cart with the streets disrupted by the gate construction. Oh . . . he’s so soft.”
“I think it’s harder for Hobo
not
to get out. He’d pull the cart loaded up with rocks if it meant seein’ folks. Making them smile.” The man clucked his tongue. “It reminds me of a song we heard on the road. Let’s see if I remember the words. Something like ‘Out in the highways and byways of life . . . Carry the sunshine where darkness is rife . . . Make me a blessing to someone today.’” He shook his head. “Yep, if Hobo could talk, I think that’s what he’d say: ‘Make me a blessing to someone today—right after breakfast. And hurry that up, wouldya?’”
Vesta’s laugh squeezed past the lump in her throat. “Well, he’s been a blessing to me.” She stroked Hobo’s ears, scratched his chin, watching his melted-chocolate eyes blink in pleasure. “He reminds me of my little dog, Corky. I lost him two years ago.” Vesta glanced up at the dog’s owner, tears pricking her eyes. “I miss him so much.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s . . . Vesta.”
“And I’m Bandy Biggs.” He glanced skyward for an instant and then bent down to shake her hand. “You go ahead and pet a patch of fur right off that dog if you need to, Vesta. He’s got plenty—and it’s our great honor to see you smile.”
* * *
Kate poured an icy glass of cucumber water and moved a box out of the way so she could lean against her tiled kitchen counter. Leaving the flowers at the hospital had been the right thing to do; that much had seemed clear to her. And once she’d decided, taking them to the neurosurgical ICU seemed the logical choice. Anonymously. And minus the cutesy Fiesta eggs, of course—there was nothing festive about the Collins family’s situation. But somehow Kate imagined that a girl who loved Tinker Bell would be crazy about such a colorful bouquet, and having it there might remind her parents of some half-forgotten joy. She hoped so and that it would bring them comfort.
Would it have comforted my father when I ran away? Would he have wanted to be a grandfather to my baby?
The ache, a well-deep hole in her belly, returned without mercy.
Kate took a long swallow of the water, tasting the faint hint of lime and mint. It was refreshing after her workout and an hour of packing boxes, but far from the remedy health spas liked to claim.
About as helpful as leaving flowers for the family of a dying girl.
She touched her fingertips to the scratches on her forearm. It had been a thoroughly horrible ER shift—from the clawing incident, to the child who’d swallowed party drugs, to screaming threats from both the foster mother and the aunt. Then she’d had to intervene when a sensitive and skilled male nurse—distraught from an impending divorce—showed up for his shift intoxicated. And all the while, Kate had been forced to field wisecracks and curious questions about the vase of roses on the nurses’ desk.