Letters from Peaceful Lane, page 4
The manila envelope lay on the desk in front of her. In her present condition, the mere thought of putting it back in the drawer made her feel tired. But given the chance that Brianna might come rushing home and see that her stepmother had been snooping, Allison knew it would be prudent to leave things as she’d found them.
Willing her hand to move, she picked the envelope up by its nearest end—the bottom. As she lifted it, the flap at the top fell open, spilling the contents onto the desk.
Allison stared at the scattered heap of letters, folded into pretty envelopes that made a rainbow of pastel shades on the desktop. Except for one that was sealed, they’d been torn off at one end, the way Burke tended to open his letters. They were addressed to him, at the far-flung locations where his work as a talent agent had taken him.
The labels in the upper left corners bore the return address of this house—6314 PEACEFUL LANE. And above the address, the name on each one was KATE CALDWELL.
Realizing what she’d found, Allison scooped up the letters. She was stuffing them back into the manila envelope when she was seized by a thought so stunning that it stopped her hands in midmotion.
Maybe she was meant to find these letters.
Maybe, in this time of shattering crisis, there was something here that would help her understand the proud, impossibly stubborn man she’d married.
Or maybe not. The letters were private and precious. She had no business touching them.
Still vacillating, she gazed down at the scattered envelopes, trying to decipher the blurred postmarks. The latest one was dated a few months before Kate’s death.
One envelope, this one plain, white, business size, and thicker than the others, bore no postmark, stamp, or address, only a single line, written in an unsteady hand.
For Burke, to be opened after my death
Allison’s throat tightened as she held it. This letter, if that’s what it was, had almost certainly been written last. And it appeared that it had never been opened.
But never mind that. Today, with her life crumbling like a sandcastle, the last thing she needed was to read the intimate thoughts of the woman Burke had loved.
Hastily, as if fearing she might change her mind, she began scooping the letters into a pile. One letter slipped loose and dropped to the floor, spilling its folded pages—sunny yellow sheets bordered with daisies—onto the carpet.
She reached down to gather them up. The first page had fallen open, lying faceup, inviting her—almost daring her—to read it.
As her fingers brushed the paper, Allison felt a shiver of anticipation. She would read only one letter, she vowed. Then she would put them all back in the drawer and forget she’d ever seen them.
Her pulse quickened as she put the three pages in order, smoothed out the creases, and began to read.
My Darling Burke,
The rains have come early. This afternoon, while I was mulching the hydrangeas, I noticed a cloud bank creeping in over the lake. Now it’s lying out there like a big, shaggy, wet dog, with no plans to leave. I’ve opened the French doors to let in the breeze. A few minutes ago, when I looked out beyond the balcony, I saw the first flash of lightning.
Earlier tonight I tried to sleep. But the house is too quiet, the bed too wide and empty without you, so I’m curled in your big leather chair, wearing your ratty old plaid bathrobe over my pajamas. The robe smells like you, which is why I stop myself every time I get the urge to throw it in the laundry. Wearing it is the closest I can come to feeling your arms around me.
Brianna’s off at a slumber party and Captain is snoozing in his favorite spot under your desk. From the way his arthritic old legs keep twitching, I’d say he’s dreaming about chasing seagulls on the wharf, or maybe treeing that snooty Siamese next door.
A few minutes ago I almost picked up the phone and dialed your hotel. Don’t worry, I came to my senses in time. It’s after midnight here and God knows how late it is in Miami—sorry, you know I never bother to keep track of such trivialities as time zones. Whatever the hour, I’m aware that you’ve had a hectic day and need your rest. Besides, the ringing of a phone in the dark hours is a nightmare sound. Even when it’s a wrong number, your pulse doesn’t stop jerking till dawn. I wouldn’t inflict that on you for the world. But I wish I could hear your voice right now—or better yet, I wish I could fly across the country on the wings of night and creep between your sheets. We wouldn’t even have to make love. Just holding you would be enough.
Since that isn’t possible, I’ve decided to write you a letter. Oh, yes, I know it’s the twenty-first century, and email is the way to go. It’s fast and efficient and won’t wake you up in the night. But I hate the sterile look of those words on the screen. A letter is more intimate—the paper I’ve touched, the curves, dots, and lines of words that I’ve formed with my own hand, the envelope I’ve sealed with my tongue, to be opened by no one but you. I realize I’m hopelessly out of date. But I’ve always enjoyed writing letters to people I love.
Wondering . . . How much time have we spent apart in the past twenty years? I’ve never tried to add up the days, weeks, and months, the missed holidays and anniversaries, the crises I had to survive without you. But then, why should I? It’s the time we’ve spent together that counts—you, me, Brianna, the dogs, the boat, our friends. We’ve had a rich life, Burke. And the rough times have only made the good times sweeter.
Which brings me to a bit of news. It’s nothing you need to be alarmed about, and certainly no cause for you to come flying home. If it were, you’d have gotten one of those awful late-night phone calls. And you haven’t. So don’t worry, OK?
Here it is. Last week, when I was showering after a run to the landing and back, I found a pea-sized lump in my left armpit. The doctor took a biopsy, and the results came back today. The picture isn’t pretty, my sweet. But the specialist is hopeful that we’ve caught the cancer in time to stop it (there, I’ve used it, that nasty old C word).
I start chemo (another of those ugly C words) next week. The doctors say I’ll lose my hair, which will probably make me look like Patrick Stewart in drag. But you and Brianna always did like Star Trek, didn’t you ? And my hair will grow back thick and curly when the treatment’s over, or so they tell me. I should even lose some weight in the bargain. Think how sexy I’ll look on the boat next summer!
I know my news will worry you, Burke, but please don’t let it change anything between us. I’m a strong woman, and I’m going to fight this thing like a tigress. I plan to be around for years to come—to dance at Brianna’s wedding and rock her babies in my arms, to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary, and maybe our sixtieth! Not only am I not going down without a fight—I am not going down, period!
So put this letter aside and be at peace. In two weeks, when you fly home, I’ll be waiting at the airport to welcome you with open arms. Until then, stay well, be safe, and know that I’ll always be here for you.
All my love,
Your Kate
CHAPTER 3
Racked with grief and worry, Brianna sobbed against Liam’s jacket. The call about her father’s accident had come early that morning. Allison had delivered the news, her voice so calm that Brianna had wanted to scream at her. What’s wrong with you? This is my father! He could be paralyzed! He could even be dying!
But she hadn’t screamed. With amazing self-control, she had asked a few questions, promised to come as soon as she could get a flight, and then phoned Liam, who’d picked her up and driven to a nearby park where they could talk. Only now that she was in his arms did she give full vent to her emotions.
“I can’t lose him, Liam,” she said between sobs. “I already lost my mom. I can’t even imagine losing my dad, too.”
His arms tightened around her, cradling her close. “From what you’ve told me, it sounds like he’s going to be all right.”
“All right?” She gulped back a sob. “He has two shattered vertebrae in his back. They’re operating on him this morning. What if he doesn’t wake up? You’ve seen those TV shows where the lines on the monitor go flat. Anything can go wrong during surgery.” She pushed away, far enough to look up at him. “I need to go. I need to be there.”
“I know,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, loving him, needing him.
“What about school?”
“I’ll take my laptop and try to keep up. But if my dad is in a bad way, or if he’s going to need me for a long time, I may have to drop out of the program.”
His azure eyes searched the depths of hers. She knew what he must be thinking. If she stayed in Branson, they would be forced apart, maybe for good. If things went badly, they could be seeing each other for the last time.
“I love you, Brianna,” he said. “And I want you to know that whatever happens, I’ll be here for you.”
Fresh tears sprang to Brianna’s eyes. Liam had never said those words to her before. She knew he meant them from the bottom of his heart. But right now they couldn’t be allowed to matter.
* * *
Drifting on a pain-edged opioid cloud, Burke groaned and opened his eyes. A jumble of cords, tubes, and blinking monitors swam in his vision. The hospital—at least he knew where he was. That was a start. Closing his eyes again, he struggled to remember more. Slowly, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, the fragments of his memory began coming together.
He remembered driving the Porsche down the rain-slicked highway, hitting a curve too fast, and sliding toward the edge. Then there’d been nothing until he woke up with Allison’s worried face hovering over him. He’d told her to get a lawyer and file for divorce while she could still claim some of his assets. He hoped to hell she’d taken his advice. By the time he was on his feet again—if ever—there’d be nothing left.
After that, he recalled the coffin-like confinement of the MRI and later, the young Indian doctor coming into the room to talk to him. The concussion was moderate and should heal with time and rest. His spine was another, more frightening matter.
The accident had shattered two vertebrae in his lower back. The fractures needed to be stabilized with a metal cage as soon as possible to prevent nerve damage to his legs as well as incontinence and impotence—words that Burke couldn’t say even to himself. He’d scrawled his consent on the form. They’d wheeled him into surgery; and that was the last thing he remembered until now.
Bracing against fear, he willed his legs to move. They stirred beneath the sheet—feet flexing just enough to reassure him, thank God. But right now there was no way to know about the other critical parts. Would he be in diapers for the rest of his life? Would he ever make love to his wife again?
As if the thought could summon her, he heard Allison’s voice from the hall outside his room. “But will he be all right, Doctor?” she was asking.
“The surgery went as well as could be expected.” The doctor spoke with a slight accent. “But the recovery’s going to take time. He’ll need rest and care.”
“And the end prognosis?”
“All we can do is hope for the best, Mrs. Caldwell. You can go in now, but he’s still under sedation for the pain. He might not be quite himself yet.”
Not quite myself? What the hell is that supposed to mean? My body might be broken, and my head hurts, but my mind is fine!
“Thank you.” Burke heard the familiar cadence of Allison’s footsteps coming closer. Then she was leaning over the bed, a lock of her honey-blond hair tumbling over her stunning violet eyes. Lord, he loved her so much. But she didn’t deserve any of this. Why couldn’t she just walk away with whatever she could take and let him deal with this new hellishness like a man?
“Hello, Burke.” She brushed her lips with a fingertip and touched his mouth in a semblance of a kiss. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” he growled. “What are you doing here? Did you get hold of a good lawyer?”
“The doctor warned me that you might not be yourself yet.” She pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. Dressed in jeans, a black sweater, and a tan raincoat, she looked as if she hadn’t slept since the accident. Her face was bare of makeup and there were shadows under her eyes. This experience had to be hell on her. All his fault. If he hadn’t gone storming off after putting her down, then driving like a maniac on that road in the rain . . .
“The lawyer?” he demanded, pressing the question.
Her weary expression didn’t change. “I told you, if you want a divorce, you can get one yourself. I’m not calling a lawyer, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then you don’t understand what you’re looking at. Think about it. This is no time to be a sentimental fool.” He shifted in the bed, biting back a whimper as he felt the lumpy bulk of the dressing, the drainage tube, and the ice bag that lay against his lower back. Right now, all he wanted to do was rip out all the clamps, stitches, tubes, and needles, swing his feet to the floor, and walk out of this place a whole man. But that wasn’t his reality. Not anymore.
His gaze shifted to the window, dark night through the slats of venetian blinds. The sound of an incoming helicopter penetrated the glass. Only now did he remember that, before the surgery, he’d been transferred from the ICU to Cox Medical’s new orthopedic/neurological building on Cahill Road behind the main hospital. “What time is it?” he asked.
She glanced at the wall clock. “It’s five minutes after eight. You were in surgery and recovery most of the afternoon. The nurse says you can have some juice anytime you want. And you can have solid food in the morning.”
“Never mind that. Does Brianna know about the surgery?”
“I called her early this morning and again while you were in recovery. She’ll be here as soon as she can get a flight.”
“You should’ve told her to stay in school. What can she do here except make a fuss and get in the way?”
“You know better than that. She’s your daughter, Burke. She’ll want to be with you. I can call her now, on my cell, if you want to talk to her. She’ll be relieved to hear your voice.”
“Never mind.” Burke loved his daughter, but she was young and tended to react strongly to both joy and pain. And seeing him like this was bound to bring back memories of losing her mother. He wasn’t ready to deal with the emotion—or his guilt over what this accident would do to her life. There’d be time for that later.
“Have you spoken with Garrett?” he asked.
Did her eyes flicker away, or had he only imagined it? “He’s in the waiting room now, wanting to see you. I can put him off if you’re not up to talking business.”
“I might as well know what’s going on. Send him in.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“No. Go get some coffee. Or better yet, go home. I don’t need you to sit here wringing your hands. There’s not a damned thing you can do.”
For an instant she looked as if he’d slapped her. Then she forced a smile. “I’ll get myself some coffee,” she said. “And I’ll tell Garrett he can come in.”
She walked out without looking back. Burke knew he’d wounded her. Maybe now she’d come to her senses and call that lawyer.
The door opened again, but it wasn’t Garrett who came into the room. It was a perky blond nurse who looked young enough to be his daughter. “Up to the bathroom,” she said. “We’ve got to get you moving so you won’t form blood clots.”
Burke willed himself not to swear at her as she helped him slide off the bed and totter across the floor, trailing tubes, lines, and his IV hanging off a metal rack. Everything hurt. A blasted dog would get more dignified treatment than this, he thought as the door closed behind him.
When he was back in bed, the nurse cranked him into a half-sitting position, brought him some orange juice with a straw and turned to leave. “If you need anything else, just push the call button, honey,” she said.
Honey? Good God! Get me out of here!
Burke was sipping the juice, wishing it was scotch on the rocks, when Garrett walked in without knocking and closed the door behind him. Dressed in a black polo and tweed blazer, and carrying a briefcase, he looked like an ad from GQ. But then he always did.
“How are you feeling?” Garrett asked. “Is the staff treating you right?”
“Don’t even ask,” Burke grumbled. “What’s happening with the American Heartland? Did the May-weathers go on, or did you have to refund everybody’s tickets?”
“By the time I got there, everything was fine,” Garrett said. “After Max reminded them that they’d signed a contract, and if they didn’t perform, they wouldn’t get paid, they came around. As the old saying goes, the show must go on. But because of the late start, we had to give out discount vouchers for future tickets.”
“Well, thanks for that, at least.” Burke placed his paper cup on the bedside table. “But we both know it’s only a Band-Aid.”
Garrett nodded. “That’s why I’m here. There’ll be some needed changes going down before you’re on your feet again. I’ll be negotiating with the bank and scouting for new investors in the theater, things that can’t wait for your recovery.”
“I’m laid up, not dead, Garrett. I’m counting on you to keep me informed and involved in everything.”
Garrett frowned and glanced at the briefcase, which he’d placed on the empty chair by the bed. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “But your top priority has to be healing and getting your strength back. Meanwhile, I need the authority to bargain and make on-the-spot decisions for the company. Agreed?”
“That depends.” Burke didn’t like the turn this conversation had taken.
Garrett opened the briefcase and took out a manila folder. “I’ve taken the liberty of having this power of attorney drawn up. Once you’ve signed it, I’ll be able to negotiate contracts and make deals for the company. You’ll be able to take it easy and focus on getting well.” He opened the folder to reveal a single-page document with a blank for a signature and another for a witness. He thrust it toward Burke. “Read it over. I’ve got a pen. I can call one of the nurses to witness your signature.”
