Trauma Plan, page 19
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.
By 6 p.m., she’d been tempted to walk out, quit, call Riley and say that she’d be putting her packing boxes onto a U-Haul headed for . . . anywhere else. That she’d had it with humidity and scorpions, couldn’t bear to hear another country song on the PA system of one more grocery store. She’d wanted to say that the charm of fireflies and genuinely friendly strangers—even having Riley as a new friend—wasn’t enough to make up for the aching hole in her life. A hole she had been trying and failing to fill for as long as she could remember.
The loneliness of it had made Kate stall for a few seconds before entering Stacy Paulson’s room. She’d sniffed the roses, tried to forget all the red flags—her bad choices—and started to imagine the comfort of . . .
Kate set down the glass and reached for her cell phone. She searched the contact list for the number she’d entered and started to call at least half a dozen times in the past few hours. She told herself she was being polite. No more than that. Then held her breath, hit the Call button. Recognized his voice.
“Griff, it’s Kate Callison.” She took a breath, exhaled slowly. “The flowers are beautiful. And exactly what I needed today.”
21
“Will you tell Bandy that the woman in room 3 could use some sandwich therapy?” Riley asked, spotting Jack in the clinic kitchen. “I’m getting her flu vaccine, but we were talking and she let it slip that she spent the last of her grocery money on her mother’s prescriptions—Alzheimer’s.” She sighed, remembering the worry on the woman’s face. And the weariness. “Between that and taking care of her teenage children, she’s running on fumes. I doubt she had any dinner.”
“I’ll bet you’re right.” Jack refilled his coffee cup. “She said she’s afraid she’ll get the flu, miss work, and lose her job. They’re a single-paycheck family; it would be more than difficult to be looking for work at her age.” He frowned. “Her situation proves it’s not only ‘indigents and drug addicts’ we’re serving here. Not that I can seem to convince that blasted action committee.” His eyes met Riley’s and his expression softened. “Thanks for taking the extra time with her.”
“Sure,” Riley said, heading for the medicine room. “I’m glad I could.” And I’ll be glad when this shift is over, too. She’d been praying from the moment she hit the door, reminding God of how important it was to get through the day without any incidents that might change Jack’s mind about writing that recommendation. Surely she could manage to look organized and competent for another ninety minutes.
Riley reached for the flu vaccine, shook her head at the sight of the Band-Aid on her thumb. Barely thirty minutes into the shift she’d managed to stick herself with a needle—fortunately unused, sterile. More fortunate that she’d noticed it and didn’t go dripping blood around the clinic, since it was a numb finger she’d jabbed. Mostly numb. Some things I can’t help but feel.
Her stomach dipped as she recalled pressing her palms against Jack’s yesterday when he’d tested her injured arm, how close he’d been, that little spot of clown makeup on his face, those incredible eyes, and his strength. His warmth, too. She could feel it even in her injured arm. But mostly Riley kept remembering how Jack instructed her, “Hold me back. Don’t let me get close.” He’d been testing her ability to push, assessing the damage to her brachial plexus from the spinal cord trauma and determining her muscle resistance. With no clue that he was testing my ability to resist him?
It was becoming difficult. She’d been so wary about him at first, unnerved by his volatility, at odds with his methods of management, lack of tact, and his dismissive attitude toward faith. But yesterday, seeing Jack with those children—his willingness to put aside all pride and play Patch Adams in order to help them—had amazed her. And when she pressed Jack about God, he responded by sharing his gut-level feelings about his father’s cancer and Abby’s death. That Jack trusted her enough to be so painfully honest had touched Riley’s heart.
“Hold me back. Don’t let me get close.” She tried to ignore a new, prodding question: what if keeping Jack Travis away wasn’t at all what she wanted?
Riley stuffed some alcohol swabs into her pocket and walked out of the medicine room. Then glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Six thirty, ticking toward eight. Please, Lord, no more glitches. Medical or personal.
* * *
Kate waited at the table while Griff paid for the coffee. He’d chosen the St. Mary’s Street bistro because it was a comfortable distance from the Fiesta crowds on River Walk. And because, in addition to coffee, it boasted wine, appetizers, live music, and “sinful” desserts. Kate grimaced; she could have done without that particular adjective. It only underlined her queasy feeling that this was a huge mistake. Still, he’d been polite and charming on the phone last night, with no undercurrent of the volatility she thought she’d glimpsed during their interaction in the ER exam room. Plus, she’d been so curious to discover if . . .
Yes. Kate looked up as deep masculine laughter rumbled in the distance. The flushed and completely delighted expression on the barista’s face seconded Kate’s answer to the question that prompted her to accept this invitation: was Griff Payton as gorgeous as she’d remembered? Jade-green eyes, memorable mane of hair—stylishly cut despite its thickness and length. Shoulders even broader under a striped Ralph Lauren shirt worn with faded jeans and full-quill ostrich boots. He seemed impossibly taller now that he was standing fully upright. Because he has no need to fake back pain to secure narcotics? Suspicion pricked at the giddy balloon that had too often dragged Kate to breakneck heights. Still . . .
She smiled as Griff turned toward her, raising two steaming cups of coffee aloft. He wove his way through an influx of happy hour arrivals, and Kate reminded herself that she had questions to ask before she even considered trusting this man. Then, with a sinking feeling, remembered that her father had asked questions, too. When she’d finally returned home after that ugly, wasted year. And oh, how I lied.
“Coffee for California Kate,” he said, settling into the chair opposite her. “Though I’d hoped you could stay long enough to eat dinner. They have these incredible salmon quesadillas, with black salsa and this sort of . . . cilantro and sour cream dip.” He raised his brows, green eyes fixed on hers. “Can’t I tempt you?”
“Not this time,” Kate said over the brim of her cup, then realized her answer implied there would be another time. “I promised to stop by a clinic where I volunteer sometimes, to see if I can help them out next week.” She reminded herself to keep her tone casual. “That free clinic down the street from The Bluffs development?”
