A Summer to Remember (28 page)

“Then it began getting worse. She started having migraines, trouble seeing, walking, and talking, and those awful muscle spasms. She went to the ER, and they did tests and ruled out pretty much everything they'd expected it to be. She did follow-ups with Neurology, same thing. She saw different doctors; each one just echoed the same response. ‘I don't know.' After a while, she got so tired of it all that she stopped going. You're so darn healthy, Elliot, I doubt you've experienced the frustration of trying to get a diagnosis when everyone's stumped.”

She put two of the turnovers in the microwave for half a minute, plated them, then filled two cups with coffee. Ordinarily, he would have offered to do all that—after all, this was as much his home as anyplace else, and he always did the work in his own kitchen—but he was too numb to get up from the stool. After setting the pastries and coffee on the counter, she came around and slid onto the stool next to him.

“After a while, Jessy and I began going to her appointments with her. We thought she needed an advocate who wasn't shy about demanding results. Jessy, as you know, has never been shy a day in her life, and I learned to be pretty commanding as a colonel's wife. We asked for a new doctor, and she got it. He started from scratch—new tests, more advanced ones. He was more proactive, but she still didn't get answers. Now, he's been transferred, and she'll be starting over again.”

Elliot automatically picked up his fork and took a bite of the turnover. The baker inside him acknowledged that it was every bit as good as his own—maybe even better—but the rest of him was focused on the conversation. “So…” He didn't know what to say. He knew more now, probably as much as any of the others did, but he still didn't know a damn thing.

“Sounded like a better sentence starter when you said it, didn't it?” Patricia patted his arm before picking up her coffee and blowing lightly on it. “So she's been sick a year and a half, and no one knows why. She has a lot of good days. She has a lot of bad days. She gave up driving for the most part because she was terrified of what would happen if she had an attack in the car. She had to give up the training stuff, too. Luckily, her boss is a good man who kept her on staff. She doesn't love paperwork, but she hasn't hurt herself doing it yet.”

Elliot ate more turnover, drank coffee, and let more questions tumble around in his head. How could they not find a diagnosis? They were doctors; they had all the tools of modern medicine to help them. Was it something that would get worse? Would the bad days start to outnumber the good days until the good days were completely gone?

Would there be more symptoms yet to come? Would she wind up bedridden? Would they ever be able to help her, or was she doomed to go on the way she had been? Would she ever have a normal life again?

Or God help him, would she die young and in pain?

Again, Patricia patted his arm. “I know it's a lot to take in. She should have told you when she realized that things were getting serious—at least enough so you'd know what to do on a night like this one—but…”

“Things started getting serious about five minutes after we met.”

“Ah, the magic of love. My granddaughter says that when God chooses two people who are meant for each other, He puts a tiny piece of her heart into his, and a tiny piece of his into hers. And when they meet, they may be totally clueless, but their hearts recognize that their missing pieces have come back. Mind you, she's checked her own heart, and it's one hundred percent hers, so there won't be any icky boys coming around her house soon.”

He smiled despite his mood. He loved kids and their logic and their faith.

Loved them. Wanted some. Fia was amenable to both marriage and kids, she'd said. But
could
she have a baby? Could she be a mother?

“I can see where it would have been hard for Fia to bring up the topic when we met. In the first five minutes, she caught me standing in the rain holding an umbrella for a dog taking a leak, talking to myself, found out I'd once chased my sister with an umbrella but didn't have a chance of catching her because she's got all the height in the family.” He shrugged. “She was probably too busy trying to figure out if she should get in a truck with someone who was just crazy or was bat-shit crazy.”

After a moment, he added quietly, “But there were plenty of other chances.”

“You know about her background?”

“Yeah. Her parents should be—” Too late he remembered a few details about Patricia's life—how she'd fallen in love with her second husband while still married to her first; how she'd disappeared from her children's lives without warning and stayed away for the better part of twenty years.

“It's okay, Elliot. They should be whipped. And I should have been, too. I thank God and my family every day that my kids were able to forgive me. Forgiving someone doesn't sound so hard, but I think it's the hardest thing some people ever do.”

He took the last bite of his turnover, got up to top off his coffee, and refilled Patricia's, too. When she slid off the stool to stand, he followed her into the living room, taking seats at opposite ends of the couch, where she took up the conversation again.

“Probably the single biggest lesson Fia took away from her parents, other than the fact they didn't love her, was that they didn't want her. She was a stupid mistake they would be burdened with for eighteen years. They'd done nothing wrong, nothing to deserve her. Why should they suffer when it was all her fault for being born in the first place?”

Forget whipping; it was too good for them. The state should have taken Fia before the damage was done, put her in a good home, and shot the parents. They would never have caused any more harm, would never have brought any other children into the world to abuse and neglect, and Fia wouldn't remember a damn thing about them. She would only know the love and support of her second family.

Nice fantasy, El. It's shameful that even today it probably wouldn't come true. Twenty-plus years ago…Poor kid didn't have a chance.

He shoved Emily back, then dragged his fingers through his hair, tugging hard enough to pull a few strands free. Mouse jumped onto the sofa, putting her front feet on his legs so she could lean close and sniff. For a long moment she stared at him—a silent accusation for not sharing his apple turnover?—before she stepped back and curled so her head rested on his knee. He moved his free hand automatically to the pup's head, finding the favorite scratching spot right between her ears.

“You're a good man, Elliot,” Patricia said quietly. “Fia recognized that from the beginning. She couldn't bring herself to tell you right up front that she had problems. She's been alone a long time. She needed to feel like a woman again and not just a patient. She needed someone who was smitten with her, who could bring the sunshine back into her life. I don't think she intended to let it go this far, but she liked you too much to end it.”

“She didn't have to end it. All she had to do was tell me.” Even to himself, he sounded like a petulant kid.

“What would you have done? Would you have thought you hadn't signed on for that kind of burden? Would you have stayed around of your own free will? Or would you have stayed because that was what a good guy would do?”

He opened his mouth automatically, because the answer was obvious. He'd never walked away from someone he really cared for, and he'd never turned his back on someone who needed him.

But the words didn't come out. If he'd known the truth from the start, in those first few days when they were getting to know each other, when he liked her, was attracted to her, but could have gone on without her…Would he have done so? Would he have thought,
She's a great woman, and we could probably have something awesome together, but I'm not interested in taking on that kind of problem
?

All the confidence he'd claimed his whole life had deserted him. He couldn't say whether he still would have been gung-ho for the relationship or if he would have refused to give it a chance, if he would have moved on—another town, another woman—and thought of her from time to time with fondness and/or regret as the one he couldn't have.

Restlessly he dislodged Mouse and got to his feet. “I, uh, I need to go out for a while. Will you stay? Watch her?”

“Of course. I brought my jammies just in case.”

At the door, he looked back. “I'm sorry. I just, uh…”

Patricia's smile was tinged with sadness. “It's all right. Go. Think. Be careful.”

He nodded, walked outside, and climbed into his truck. As he started the engine, he felt like a jerk for leaving but couldn't find it in him at the moment to stay.

“Not much of a white knight now, huh, Em?”

E
very muscle in her body hurt.

Fia lay in her bed, too aware of the emptiness on the other side. Even though Elliot had been spending the night for only the last week, she allowed herself a moment for self-pity. She ached, her headache hadn't completely given up its grip on her brain, and something miserable and tight had lodged in her chest, making each breath difficult.

The evening had been going so damn well. Nothing could have made it more perfect: the food, the music, the dancing. Even Elliot's run-in with Brian the bastard had reinforced her appreciation for his character, his honor, his plain and simple basic goodness.

And then her body had ruined it. Ruined everything.

A tear seeped from her eye, and she raised one hand to dash it away. The muscles protested, as if she'd overdone it on the weight bench. Spasms always left a bit of pain behind even when they were nothing but a memory.

The bedroom door was open, dim light shining from down the hall. Mouse was stretched out on Elliot's side of the bed, head resting on his pillow.
Just like a person,
he'd said once, and she had scoffed.
Of course she's a person.
The clock showed it was nearly 5 a.m., and the house was still. She was pretty sure someone was there—she had a vague memory of Patricia crooning to her—but she was just as sure it wasn't Elliot.

Hey, the man came over expecting incredible sex, not nursemaiding her through a crisis. No wonder he'd taken off, right? Wasn't that what she'd been afraid of?

One more tear sneaked out, the pain around her heart in liquid form. She let it slide, leaving cool damp in its wake, then mentally squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine. Elliot might be gone, but she was here, and she had things to do. Hurt feelings wouldn't stop her.

Cautiously she sat up and assessed her body again. A little nausea, nothing threatening. A lessening throb behind her eyes. Her head felt like a pumpkin stuffed with cotton, heavy and too dense for easy thought. Her bladder was functioning just fine, though, reminding her it was past time for a trip to the bathroom.

She eased to her feet, but before she turned down the hall, she looked out the window and confirmed what she already knew: Elliot's truck was gone. Patricia's car and her own were the only ones in the driveway.

Disappointment turned her walk into a shuffle, her feet too clumsy to work normally. After peeing, she slipped down the hall to the living room, hoping against hope that she would find both Elliot and Patricia there.

She didn't.

She went back to bed, curled under the covers, and let one more lonely tear slide down her face before dozing off again.

The sun was shining bright when Fia awoke again, thin slivers of light showing at the edges of the windows. She still felt like a pumpkin head, but an experience like last night's could, and usually did, do that to her.

She thrust out one arm, feeling cold sheets where Mouse had lain. She wasn't surprised the dog had abandoned her. A person could only lie in bed sleeping for so long. By now, surely Mouse had moved on to lying on the couch sleeping.

But Fia wasn't alone. Without opening her eyes, she felt Elliot's presence. Smelled his cologne. Heard his slow, steady breathing. Waking with him nearby stirred such sweetness inside her, warmed her in that spot around her heart that had been cold for so long.

Then memory returned. Her body declaring war on itself. The fear in his eyes and his voice when he'd found her on the floor. The worry, the trembling hands. The waking up without him. Where had he gone? How long had he stayed away? Was he back now only to pick up Mouse and say good-bye? Worse, would he look at her with pity and say,
I'll stand by you
, when all he really wanted was to run far, far away?

It took all her courage to open her eyes and see.

He sat in a chair he'd brought in from the dining table, his hair pulled back into a ponytail, his clothes from last night rumpled, his jaw stubbled with beard. Wherever he'd gone, it hadn't been to shower or, judging by the weary lines etched into his face, to sleep.

The desire to close her eyes again, to feign sleep, was intense. The longer they could put off this conversation, the longer she could believe the fantasy: that she'd found a wonderful guy, who thought she was pretty wonderful, too. That she could have another happily ever after, one that would last more than a few short years. That her heart wasn't going to break.

“Hey, you.” His voice sounded rusty, hoarse.

“Hey.” So did hers. She rolled onto her back, sat up, scooted until the headboard was behind her. Her calf muscles protested when she bent her knees, and her biceps did the same when she tucked the sheet under her arms.

“It's after eleven. You ready for some lunch?”

Throwing up was one of her least favorite things in the world, and her gut was already tied in knots, so good sense said skip the food for a while. She shook her head, clasped her hands together, and swallowed. “You have questions?”

“Patricia answered a lot of them. She spent the night here.”

“I know.”
Where were you? Were you afraid to stay? Did you not want to? Are you angry?

She would be pissed if she were him. She'd known chances were good she'd have a serious episode when he was around. She had prepped the margarita girls so they would know what to do, but she hadn't had the courtesy to do the same for Elliot. But prepping him would have meant telling him everything, and she'd wanted so very much for him not to know. For the way he looked at her and touched her and felt about her not to change.

“You should have told me.” His tone was flat, but there was a hint of disappointment, maybe hurt, wavering in there.

“I know. But I didn't think it was much of an introduction to say, ‘Hi, I'm Fia Thomas, I'm twenty-four and widowed, and I have an ailment that doctors can't diagnose that turns me from totally normal to totally disabled in seconds.'”

He conceded that with a nod. “You didn't owe me your life history when we met.”

But she'd pretty much given it to him, except for her medical issues.

“But at some point…”

What point?
By the time she'd realized her mistake in hiding it, there'd been no easy way to bring it up. No good lead-in, no guarantee of an outcome that wouldn't break her heart and probably his, too.

And honestly, there'd been that part of her that didn't want to deal with it. That just wanted to
be
with Elliot.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

She pressed her lips together, and her palms, and her knees. Her toes curled beneath the sheet, but this time it was voluntary because she didn't think he was going to like her answer.

“I accepted a long time ago that a relationship was out of the question for me. I can't hold my regular job. I can't drive without risking my own safety and everyone else's. I have to depend on people in ways I haven't since I was eight years old. I'm no prize in this shape.”

He didn't argue with her—didn't say anything at all. Though she hadn't said it in hopes of him denying it, pain twinged anyway.

She shook her head, trying to focus on getting out what she had to say in the best way possible. “Before I could possibly get involved with someone, I needed answers and successful treatment and, aw, what the hell, maybe even a cure. I wouldn't be a burden. I couldn't. But that night we met, I realized I could have a few good times, make a few good memories, without a chance of anything permanent. Without requiring a huge lifelong commitment. I could quit worrying, quit being the center of everyone else's worry, and pretend I was okay, that I was an everyday average woman doing everyday average things like flirting with a gorgeous man. Having dinner with him. Hanging out with him for a few hours. For just a little while, I wanted to be the woman I used to be, before the illness crippled my life.”

Elliot sat still, stoic, his gaze locked intensely on her. She loved his intensity, but she loved it more when it was soft and aroused and full of warm, gooey emotion. “So I went to Sonic with you, and I had such a good time that I couldn't say no to the next time or the next. Then I didn't know how to tell you everything because I knew one or both of us was going to get hurt, and I couldn't bear that.” She said the last part on a rush of breath, then inhaled deeply. Even with the six or eight feet separating them, his scents teased and tempted her.

Finally, he moved, shifting position, crossing one booted ankle over his knee. “You never gave me a chance.”

“No, I didn't, and I apologize for it.” The sentiment was way too inadequate, but it was the best she could offer. “But I learned a lot about you that first night, Elliot. I knew you had a sense of honor and responsibility and integrity that's rare today. I knew you lived by your own code: loving your family and your friends and your country; protecting anyone more vulnerable than you; being responsible; living up to your commitments; saving the world for everyone in your part of it. I knew…”

Her spine was aching from the slumped position, and a lump was forming in her throat. If she wasn't such a warrior girl, she'd think she was about to cry, but she never cried. At least, not in front of men.

Moving slowly, she pushed back the covers and scooted to the foot of the bed, closing most of the distance between them. His chair was at an angle in the corner, and she faced the wall, but she still had a very good view of him. His scents were stronger, and heat radiated from his body as the fine muscles in his jaw twitched.

“The unshaven look works for you.”

“The rumpled look works for you.”

His voice faded, and so did the lightness of the moment. What settled in its place was regret, resignation, despair. She knew all three well.

“I figured there were two possible outcomes. You wouldn't want to tie yourself down to a woman with as many needs as I have, or you would feel like you had a duty to finish what you started and stay with me.” Her smile was brief. “Duty holds one hell of a meaning to a guy like you.”

“Yeah. And now it's my duty to get some food into you and get a couple of pills down you.” He rose from the chair, walked past, then stopped, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder. “You forgot the third outcome, Fia. That I would fall in love with you because you're the sweetest, funniest, strongest, and most open woman I know, and that I wouldn't care about your illness because it's not your health I'm in love with.”

Her throat swelled again, a lump forming so hard and so big that it might never sink down. If it did, it would probably crush her heart. She tried to smile but couldn't, tried to sound casual but couldn't manage that, either. “What are the odds of that?”

He went to the door, pausing for one quiet question before walking out of the room.

“We'll never know, will we?”

Elliot stalked down the hall to the kitchen, stumbling when Mouse circled around his ankles. He caught himself with one hand on the bar and snarled at her. Sitting politely on her butt, she snarled back, then gave him a look as if to ask what they would do next. Damn dog didn't even blink when he scowled at her.

You're her rescuer, her protector. Why would she take a scowl seriously?

Maybe it was time to hang up his white hat. This morning it seemed it caused him nothing but trouble.

He nudged Mouse with his boot until she moved aside. She'd already emptied her breakfast dish and drunk half the fresh water Patricia had put out, but she was never so full that she would turn down a snack. Maybe not yet totally confident that her luck had really changed and that he would continue to feed her?

He preheated the oven, buttered a half-dozen slices of bread, and slid them in. After tossing a slice of bread to Mouse—because the idea of anyone scared of being hungry sucked—he got two bottles of water and the pills Patricia had told him to give Fia when she woke up.

Once the toast came out of the oven, he plated it, tucked the water bottles under his arm, and carried it all back to the bedroom. Fia had put on gym shorts that barely showed under the baggy T-shirt, straightened the covers, pulled back the drapes, and tilted the blinds to let light into the room. It was the first time he'd seen the blinds open.

Damn, listening to her talk had been tough.
Be careful what you wish for,
Grandma had often warned, and she'd been right. He'd wanted answers, and he'd got them. Now he had to deal with them.

He set the toast on the bed, gave her a water bottle, and grabbed a couple of tissues from the nightstand before sitting down. She swallowed the pills without comment, chose the least buttery toast, and took a small bite. She swallowed, waited, then bit off another piece.

He waited, eating his own toast, until she'd eaten half the slice like that before he spoke. “Let me see if I have this straight. Your plan was to pursue the mutual attraction we felt for each other, have some fun, and then dump me before things got too serious?”

She looked affronted. “Wasn't that your plan, too?”

“No. I knew there was a chance it wouldn't go anywhere, that we'd have some good times and then it would run its course, but I always stay open to the possibilities. I didn't go into it with the intention of dumping you.”
Of using you,
he almost said, but that wasn't fair. There had been women in his life that he'd known he wouldn't be with after a month or two weeks or, hell, even for a second date, but that hadn't stopped him from enjoying the time they did have to its fullest extent.

Besides, her intentions weren't the problem. He wasn't even sure exactly what the damn problem was. He'd driven out to the lake last night and spent hours hiking and staring at the stars and trying really hard to figure out what he was feeling.
Betrayed
was too strong a word,
disappointed
not strong enough. He'd thought she trusted him—had thought she was falling in love with him.