AFTER SCOTT HAD CONVINCED his mother there was nothing more they could do at the hospital, she agreed to leave. Once home, he escorted her up to the guest bedroom, then walked back downstairs where he kicked off his shoes, pulled a beer out of the fridge and collapsed into his recliner.
Times like this he missed Buster, the shepherd-Lab mix he and Meg had picked up at the animal shelter when Justin was a toddler. Buster’s death last year had hit the whole family hard. A lump formed in his throat. Now Pops’s life hung in the balance. It had taken every ounce of willpower not to shake his fist and scream at the situation. But his mother hadn’t needed that. Besides, such thinking was counterproductive.
He took a sip of his beer and leaned his head back, remembering Meg’s reaction to catching him in Brenda’s arms. He brought the cold beer bottle to his temple, as if the chill could obliterate memory. He should drag himself to bed, but his muscles tensed at the thought. Meg would want to have it out with him. Not tonight, not when he was barely holding on emotionally.
Then there was tomorrow. His mind teemed with things to do, questions to ask, people to see. Get a grip, Harper. You’re supposed to be the strong one. They—all the theys in his life—were depending on him. He began mentally prioritizing his to-do list. Hospital. Work. Maybe tomorrow night he’d have to have the unavoidable talk with Meg. Between now and then? He hated walking on eggshells with her, fearful that no matter what he said or how he said it, he still couldn’t redeem himself. Especially not after the scene with Brenda.
As he slowly finished the bottle, he was overcome by a deep, abiding sadness for what had been—with Meg, with Pops, with all of them.
Finally, he got up and headed upstairs, driven by a compelling need to check on the kids. Even though he’d spoken to them on the phone, he wanted to see them. Pausing to gather himself, he gently pushed open Hayley’s bedroom door. There she was, her dark hair a tangle on the pillow, one hand drawn up beside her cheek. A child-woman who had grown up in the blink of an eye. A sudden feeling of love overwhelmed him. Had she ever experienced grief? Well, Buster, of course. But in the human realm? He sighed, thinking of the potential breakup of his marriage. He tiptoed across the carpet, littered with teen magazines, CDs and discarded clothing, and brushed the hair off her forehead, inhaling the fragrance of her lemony shampoo. “Sweet dreams, princess,” he whispered.
Turning, he made his way down the hall to Justin’s room. The boy lay spread-eagle on his bed, covers twisted around his legs. Scott stood over him, watching his son breathe. In the moonlight streaming through the window, he could just make out the faint line of hair sprouting on Justin’s upper lip. Lord, how had that happened? Why hadn’t he noticed before? He’d have to remember to have the shaving demonstration with him. Soon. And while he was at it, maybe a refresher session on the birds and bees.
He unraveled the sheet and blanket and covered his son.
“Dad?”
The sleepy murmur stopped Scott in his tracks. If he didn’t say anything, maybe the boy would drift off.
“Dad?” This time Justin opened his eyes, then scooted over, making room for Scott.
He perched on the edge of the bed. “What, son?”
“Will Grampa be all right?”
“We won’t know for a while. It’s going to take time. The improvement will be gradual.”
Biting his lower lip, Justin lowered his head, as if he couldn’t bear to look directly at Scott.
“What’s bothering you?”
Still without looking at his father, the boy swallowed several times before speaking. “I’m sorry.” His voice caught in a hiccup.
“Sorry? What for? None of this is your fault.”
“It is, too!”
Justin’s vehemence was clear evidence of the degree of his self-imposed guilt, but, for the life of him, Scott couldn’t imagine why he’d feel responsible. “The stroke could have happened anytime, anywhere. It had nothing to do with you. In fact, we’re proud of how strong you were throughout the whole ordeal.”
“But if I hadn’t—” The boy strangled on the words.
“Hadn’t what?”
Justin rolled onto his side, averting his face. Scott rubbed a hand along his son’s back, but his body was as unyielding as stone.
“Can you answer me?”
Justin merely shook his head back and forth.
“Tell me why you think you’re somehow responsible for what happened to Grampa.”
The boy’s words were muffled. “He was only trying to help me.”
Scott bent down so he could look into his tear-streaked face. “Help you how?”
“I messed up at school.” Then the words spewed out, confessional and self-condemning. Heartsick, Scott wondered why Justin hadn’t told him and Meg about his difficulty with reading. Had they been too preoccupied to pay attention? Likely. Yet the desperation of their son’s cover-up spoke volumes. As the story unfolded, Justin kept moving toward the headboard of his bed, as if retreating from his father’s reaction. “So, see, if I hadn’t screwed up, Grampa wouldn’t have had to come to school with me and he wouldn’t have offered to take me to the library, and—”
“He still would’ve had the stroke.” Scott gripped the boy’s shoulders. “Listen to me. This is not your fault. Strokes just happen. Nothing you did caused it.”
Before he could say any more, Justin threw himself into Scott’s arms. “When you’re not here, I really miss you, Dad,” he whispered, his warm breath smelling of cheese crackers and toothpaste.
Scott’s heart cracked. Did Justin mean he’d missed him while he was in Colorado or, worse, that he’d been missing him generally? Holding Justin tight against his chest, he managed a response. “I missed you, too.”
More than his son would ever know.
MEG WOKE EARLY THE NEXT morning, knowing the day ahead would tax her organizational and human-relations skills. She stood at the kitchen sink making coffee and mentally compiling her lengthy to-do list. The good news? If she kept busy enough, she wouldn’t have to think about Scott—or Brenda.
She’d heard him come in last night, but had apparently fallen asleep before he’d joined her in bed. Just as well. They were both drained from the last two days. If they’d talked, she might’ve said things she would later regret. This was no time to pour salt on wounds, for either of them.
Nor was it a time to upset the kids more than they already were. Justin had gripped her in a huge hug yesterday when she’d picked him up, and Hayley had been uncharacteristically helpful with dinner, actually volunteering to do the dishes. Their concern for Bud was evident and Meg even believed they’d missed her and Scott.
She was relieved that she’d beaten Marie to the kitchen and took her time, setting the table, pulling bagels from the freezer, slicing grapefruit. When the coffee was ready she poured a cup and wandered out to the patio, trying to put herself in Marie’s position. Standing there, looking out at the dew-covered grass, she could almost trick herself into believing this was like any other peaceful dawn.
She couldn’t begin to imagine how Marie must feel, her beloved spouse lying helpless in the hospital. The what-ifs must be multiplying in her head. Despite Meg’s occasional sense that Marie would’ve preferred another mate for Scott, she mostly felt she’d come to earn the older woman’s acceptance and affection. No doubt Marie would be devastated if she knew her perfect son had been having an affair. But, had he?
She fortified herself with another jolt of caffeine. What if Scott had been telling the truth about Brenda’s hospital visit? Maybe as a result of her own insecurities, she was assigning suspicious motives to their embrace. But even if Scott was innocent, it sure looked as though Brenda was making a play for him and he hadn’t tried to fight her off. Like it or not, the spark of jealousy that had overcome her yesterday had been a gut-level reaction, and guts didn’t lie, did they? If she was truly ready for separation, if she didn’t care about Scott, why had the sight of Brenda in his arms upset her so much?
“Meg?” Scott stepped out onto the patio, his khaki suit, blue oxford-cloth shirt and striped tie giving him a totally different look from the relaxed fly fisherman of a few days ago. She missed the fisherman.
“Good morning. Are you leaving so early?”
“I want to stop by the hospital on my way to work.” He hesitated, then went on. “Can you take Mom later?”
“I’m planning on it.”
He shifted his feet. “When the kids get up, you need to know…” He shook his head as if in misery. She tamped down her impatience. “What?”
“You were right. Justin feels responsible for Pops’s situation.”
She’d told him as much. Why did men persist in being so dense? “I know.”
“He’s had some troubles at school. Do you think you could call, find out what’s going on?”
“Sure. Isn’t that what mothers are for?” He flinched. What was the matter with her? She didn’t mean to sound so sharp and vindictive. Maybe it was because they were both being so formal, purposely avoiding the Brenda issue.
Scott touched her arm awkwardly. “We’ll talk tonight. We have a lot going on in our lives right now. But, trust me, Brenda isn’t a concern.” Then he wheeled around and went back inside the house. A short time later, she heard a vehicle backing down the driveway.
Trust me. She’d read somewhere that when people used expressions like trust me and in all honesty, you could almost guarantee they were lying.
In her heart she admitted she didn’t want Scott to be lying. Ever since the beginning of their trip she had felt confused. In some ways he’d been the same maddeningly preoccupied Scott, but in other ways, he’d been thoughtful, fun…loving. At the cabin, memories had begun to surface—good ones. But they were home now. Would they fall into old routines and patterns?
She watched two mourning doves land on the birdbath, fluttering their wings, cooing softly. Paired. Nature was not without irony.
“Mom!” Hayley bolted out the door in her shorty pajamas. “I can’t find my geometry book anywhere. Have you seen it?”
Meg bit back her response. Hayley’s room was a disaster area. “No, but you might try making your bed and seeing what you discover.”
“I’ve got to find it. I have a test fourth period.”
Meg sent the doves one last glance, then followed her daughter inside where duties…maternal and otherwise—awaited.
MEG CHECKED HER WATCH, then turned onto a side street, hoping to avoid the morning commuter traffic. After dropping the kids off at school, she and Marie were headed for the hospital. Before they’d left home, Scott had called to say he thought there had been a slight improvement in Bud’s condition overnight. But hope was a fragile bloom.
In the passenger seat, Marie, her face pale, stared straight ahead. “I don’t know why we didn’t buy a little car, you know, to pull behind the motor home. Then you wouldn’t be stuck driving me everywhere.”
“That’s the last thing you should worry about. It’s not a problem for me to take you to the hospital.”
Marie’s voice trembled. “Yes, but for how long?”
“It’s hard to know. We need to take it one day at a time.”
“But this is so inconvenient for you.”
Meg’s heart softened. “Family isn’t about convenience. We’ll all pull together to do whatever we have to.”
Marie turned and looked at Meg, her bloodshot eyes watering. “Thank you, dear.”
They rode in silence, Meg second-guessing herself. What, exactly, would be required of them if Bud’s recovery took a long time? He and Marie couldn’t return to Nashville…they’d sold their house. Obviously there was no counting on Kay, who still hadn’t made plans to come and visit Bud. Stays in rehabilitation facilities were limited by Medicare and based on continuous improvement. Eventually Bud would be released—to what? A motor home? Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as the truth she’d tried to avoid surfaced. There was only one home for Bud to return to—hers and Scott’s.
A gamut of emotions swept over her, along with a numbing sense of powerlessness. This was not a situation she could micromanage, control or delegate. She and Scott were facing some unavoidable decisions that would affect every single member of the family.
“Will Scott come to the hospital after work?” Marie’s voice was tremulous—her take-charge mother-in-law was like a tiny, scared child. Yet Meg knew Marie would pull herself together when she saw Bud.
“Of course he will. I’ll stay with you for a while this morning, but I’ll have to leave right after lunch.”
“I know. You have things to do at home.” She sighed. “I need to call Kay again.”
Hearing the wistfulness in Marie’s voice, Meg bit her lip. Kay. Scott’s sister, so involved in her globe-trotting lifestyle, seemed oblivious to family obligations. Always had.
Marie went on, her voice weepy. “I don’t know what to do about the motor home. About anything, really.”
Meg patted Marie’s knee. “Nothing needs to be decided today. Let’s concentrate on Bud right now.”
When they entered the hospital and the first draft of antiseptic-laden air hit her, Meg experienced a sinking sensation. Unless Bud had undergone a miraculous recovery, they were in for a long period of caregiving.
THE WORDS. TWO WORDS. He knew them. He cleared his throat. Motor home? Why was Marie looking at him so funny? It was a simple question. Marie. He rolled the name around in his head. Wife.
“Take your time, dear. I can’t understand you.”
Well, doggone it. His brain was perfectly clear. He wanted to know about the motor home. “Two words.”
“Two words? What words?”
Bud closed his eyes. He’d tried to say it. Motor home. But that wasn’t what had come out of his mouth. He tried again. “Two words.”
The worry visible in Marie’s eyes scared him. Why couldn’t his mouth form the words for the thought in his brain? What kind of idiot says “two words” because he can’t say what he means? Then he remembered. A stroke. Like in the commercials? Take an aspirin a day. That kind?
He gripped the sheet with his left hand. Then he studied his right hand, lying at his side, limp and useless. Fear pinned him to the bed. Was he going to die? Be paralyzed? What?
“What?”
Marie brushed a cool hand over his forehead. “Don’t worry, Bud. Please. You’ve had a stroke. It will take time for you to recover. Patience was never your strong suit, but you’re going to need some now.”
Patience? Patience took time. He didn’t have time. He struggled to tell her to get the doctor in here—pronto. Fix him. Fix him. But all he heard coming out of his mouth was a strangled sound, like somebody gargling.
“Do you understand? You’ve had a stroke, but you’ll get better day by day.”
He didn’t have days. He was on a trip. He screwed up his face. But where was he going? He couldn’t remember. Tears pooled in his eyes and he clenched and unclenched his left fist.
“I’LL BE RIGHT OVER.” Jannie Farrell’s words on the phone had given Meg the first relief she’d felt in forty-eight hours. Now, engulfed in her friend’s warm hug, she slowly began to unwind.
“Thanks for coming,” she whispered, grateful in a new, more profound way for her friend. Stepping back, she gestured toward the patio. “It’s nice out. I fixed us some iced tea.”
“Sounds great.”
Outside, Meg poured their drinks and then sat back in the wrought-iron patio chair and surveyed the chrysanthemums bordering the back fence—a riot of gold, vermilion and dusky-purple. She knew Jannie was waiting for her to speak, but was respecting her need for silence. “It’s weird. This feels like a parallel life. Like who I was two weeks ago and who I am today are worlds apart.”
“This business with your father-in-law has to be scary.”
“It’s more than that,” Meg said quietly.
Jannie turned toward her. “Oh?”
“It’s as if I’ve been going through the motions for so long I don’t know how to live any other way.”
“What do you mean?”
Meg ran a finger around the rim of her glass, wondering how to put into words everything she was feeling. “Do you think we suburban moms get so caught up in rushing here and there that we lose who we really are?”
Jannie’s eyes narrowed. “No fair. You just answered a question with another question.”
“It’s like this afternoon. When I looked at my planner and realized how many obligations I’d have to cancel because of this situation with Bud, I had the oddest sense that who I am is so tied in with what I do that when I take away all those activities, I’m no longer sure who this Meg I’m left with is.”
“Are you saying our identities get swallowed up by our roles? Or, worse, that we’re defined by them?”
Meg sat forward. “Exactly. I’m Scott’s wife, Hayley and Justin’s mother, representative to the neighborhood association, pairings chairperson for the ladies’ golf association, book-club vice president, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, as the King of Siam would say. And I usually function just fine. But strip those roles away, and then what? Who’s left?”
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself. But in any event, maybe this stroke of Bud’s is a kind of blessing in disguise, allowing you to step back and reacquaint yourself with Meg, who, if you ask me, is a pretty spectacular lady.”
Meg managed a grudging grin. “What are friends for, if not to make you feel better?” She wanted desperately to confide in Jannie about her problems with Scott, but she couldn’t overcome the sense that it would be disloyal to him. “I have no idea how quickly or in what ways Bud will improve.”
“What a huge worry.”
“And a huge responsibility. My in-laws will be confined to Tulsa, at least for the next few weeks.” Weeks? More likely months. Meg wasn’t proud of the twinge of resentment that reality produced.
“I imagine a large chunk of the burden will fall on you. After all, you’re the woman.”
Jannie had articulated Meg’s fear. “We’ll get through it somehow, I guess.”
Jannie raised her glass in a toast. “If anyone can juggle the demands, it’s you.”
Meg permitted herself a moment to bask in Jannie’s admiration and support. Admiration and support of the kind she craved from Scott—and the same kind of admiration and support he undoubtedly needed from her. Or from somebody. She closed her eyes. Please God, don’t let that somebody be Brenda.
SCOTT PERCHED ON A STOOL in the art department looking at the sketches Brenda had displayed on the drawing table, representing various ideas for the billboard space they’d be renting for the Jordan ads. Brenda sidled up beside him and draped an arm over his shoulder. “What do you think?”
I think I’m dog-tired and don’t want to make this decision now. He studied the images, trying to sort through the pluses and minuses of each one, and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Brenda, I’d like to nail this down, but to tell you the truth, product promotion is about the furthest thing from my mind tonight.”
“Poor baby,” she murmured, and while seemingly still focused on the drawings, she began kneading the base of his neck. “Do you want to wait till morning to decide?”
Her fingers were like keys unlocking the bolts of tension in his neck and shoulders. “No.” He tried to concentrate on the artwork. “What does Wes think?”
“He prefers the second rendering.”
Scott willed himself to study it, to assess any possible drawbacks. He should care about this. But he couldn’t focus. “Yeah, it’s good.” He forced his eyes open. “Number five isn’t bad, either.” He was aware that everyone else had gone home, except for one account executive at the far end of the hall. “What do you think?”
“I agree with you. Those two are my favorites.”
“Aren’t you going to help me out here?”
She chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “Hey, I thought I was.”
She moved between him and the drafting table. Close. Very close. Her eyes sparkled with veiled amusement as she leaned back, bracing her hands on the edge of the table.
She raised one eyebrow questioningly. “Decision time, boss.”
At first, he wondered if she was talking about the next step in their relationship. Women were hard to read, but unless he missed his guess, maybe Meg did have justification for her concern. This was awkward. Brenda Sampson was one of the most sought-after creative directors in the business. He didn’t want to compromise their working relationship. But it sure seemed as if she was coming on to him. Decision time? He hoped she meant about the ad campaign.
Abruptly he shoved back his stool, stood and straightened his tie. “Number two,” he said with all the confidence he could muster. Then he beat a hasty retreat, hoping against hope that her signature fragrance had not left traces on his shirt. It was quite an insight into his feelings for Meg when escaping to a grim hospital setting was preferable to the company of an attractive woman.
In fact, it told him everything he needed to know.
BUD WATCHED MARIE. SHE dozed in one of those hospital chairs that doubled as a commode. She looked tired. All day she’d tried to cheer him up. Once he’d said something too loudly and she’d almost cried. Sometimes, though, she would try to smile. He loved her smiles. When they were real. These today had been fake. Her eyes had been gray hollows of fear. When he’d tried to say, “Tell me the truth,” all that had come out was “Telly.” She’d assumed he’d wanted to watch television and had turned on some cockamamy show about people whose pets resembled their owners.
He tried to move. The sheets were scrunched up and the hospital-issue pillow was worthless. He’d been lying here all day, fidgeting. Why weren’t they doing anything to help him get better? The nurses either treated him like a baby—“Do we need to shave, Mr. Harper?”—or had about as much compassion as a marine drill sergeant. Then there were the vampires with their blood kits.
But the worst was the panic that swept over him every time he tried to perform a function and couldn’t. Was he going to be an invalid? He closed his eyes, wondering whether it wouldn’t be easier just to give up. He didn’t want to become a burden to anyone, but if he couldn’t even talk? Walk? Never mind drive a motor home.
“Pops?”
He looked toward the door and watched his son cross the room to his bed.
Marie, instantly awake, stood. “Scotty?”
Scott picked up Bud’s good hand. “How’s it going?”
Like a day in the trenches. That described it perfectly. But all he heard himself say was “Great, just great.” He grimaced.
Marie hovered solicitously. “You need the bedpan?”
Angrily he responded, “No!” Then he almost smiled. For once, thought and word had coincided. Hallelujah!
Scott grinned crookedly. “Mom, I think he means this is a bad situation.”
Bud grunted in satisfaction. Finally somebody who was on his wavelength.
“I stopped at the nurse’s station,” his son said. “Tomorrow you’re going to start therapy.”
Therapy? That was for nutcases. He shook his head violently. “Crazy.”
Marie wrung her hands. “It’s not a crazy idea, honey. It’s part of your treatment.”
Bud gritted his teeth. Why couldn’t she figure out what he meant? Just once. Please.
“Not that kind of therapy,” Scott said. “Speech and physical therapy.”
Well, that was a relief. Once again his son had come to the rescue. Speech therapy. Fantastic. Maybe then he’d be able to communicate with these idiots around here. Oh, that wasn’t nice. He didn’t mean Marie. She would understand him fine when she wasn’t so worried. But, for now at least, Scott could interpret for him.
Marie. He needed to help her. Make her feel better. Maybe he’d been rude. Just because he’d had a stroke didn’t mean he should mistreat her. He sought her eyes. Then he made the effort. “Marie.”
She bent over him, smoothing his brow with her soft hand. “What, my darling?”
He stared intently into her eyes, remembering the first time he’d seen her, how his heart had tumbled in pieces around his feet with the sure knowledge she was his forever-girl. He moved his lips, trying to make sure he would get it right. Then he forced the word into the air. “Love.” Then the second word. “You.”
Tears came to her eyes, but better, a real smile, the kind he hadn’t seen all day. Then he felt her warm lips on his. “Oh, Bud, I love you, too.”
After a moment, Scott cleared his throat. “Am I disturbing you two lovebirds?”
When Bud looked at his son, he saw another genuine grin. “No.” He rested, gathering his concentration before going on. “You. Love. Too.”
Bud watched Scott move closer, then give him a thumbs-up. “Dad, you know what? I think you’re on the mend. This is great progress for one day.”
Great progress. Being able to talk in monosyllables, only occasionally getting his point across?
Suddenly he felt exhausted. Marie and Scott looked as if they were celebrating a Super Bowl championship. Bud groaned. He wanted to be cured. Now. He didn’t want to hear any more about patience. About one-day-at-a-time. Especially not about therapy.
And he wanted to see his grandchildren!
ONE OF THE FEATURES MEG had liked best about the house when they’d bought it five years ago was the alcove sitting room off the master bedroom. She’d loved decorating it as a retreat. On one wall was a built-in entertainment center and bookcase, full of family photos and favorite books; opposite were two swivel rockers. Occupying the third wall was an off-white love seat, over which hung a hazy pastel of an apple orchard in full bloom. Meg had pictured herself curled up there with a good book, having quiet conversations with Scott and passing on sage advice to her daughter.
None of that had happened. On the contrary, she hardly had time to enjoy what she’d hoped would be her sanctuary. And even when she did manage to escape for some privacy, invariably one of the kids would show up, intruding on her solitude with one request or another. Still, kids weren’t there forever. Eventually, her time would come.
Now, dressed in her robe, she sat in one of the rockers, cradling a book in her lap, the soft glow of the reading lamp the only illumination. But she wasn’t reading, she was waiting. For Scott.
“We’ll talk later,” he’d said, brushing her cheek with a light kiss when he and Marie had arrived home from the hospital around eight. She’d kept dinner warming on the stove for them, and after eating, Scott had excused himself to make some phone calls. She could hear him outside now dragging the trash cans to the curb for tomorrow’s pickup. Forcing her mind off the topics she knew they’d have to discuss, she turned back to her book, reading and rereading the same paragraph until Scott finally entered the sitting room wearing only flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. She tossed him a soft fleece afghan. “Here, you might get cold.”
He threw her one of those you’re-mothering-me-again looks, then settled on the sofa. “Where should we start?” The weariness in his voice matched the sadness in his eyes.
“With Justin, I guess.” She filled him in on the conversations she’d had, first with Marie and then with the school counselor. “The upshot is he’s going to be getting extra help three days a week from the reading specialist.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But I’m not happy about the lying.”
“I think he’s punished himself quite enough.”
“I agree. Sounds as if Pops dealt with the situation.”
“Probably more effectively than we would’ve,” Meg admitted. “But it disturbs me that we had no clue about his problems, except for his somewhat lower-than-average test scores.”
“Maybe we weren’t paying enough attention.”
Meg bristled. “Are you saying I should’ve been on top of it?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said, Meg? I said we weren’t paying enough attention. Last I knew, we included me.”
Meg’s head ached. This conversation was in danger of spinning out of control. As usual. “I’m sorry. Of course, you’re right.”
“It’s not going to get any easier. With Mom and Pops here, the Jordan account…” He shook his head.
“I know.” She swallowed the wedge of fear lodged in her throat. “Realistically, what do you think we’re facing?”
He looked directly at her. “They may never be able to go on their trip. At best, I imagine we can anticipate a fairly lengthy recovery period.”
She ran her fingers up and down the cover of her book. “Here?” Okay. The question was out.
“Here,” he said, leaning over to put a hand on the arm of her chair. “Can you handle it?”
“What happened to that we of a few moments ago?”
“You and I both know the brunt of care will fall on you. Of course, I’ll do what I can when I can, but the daily routine? You and Mom will be on the front line.”
Meg studied the back of his lightly veined hand, the fingers splayed against the plaid fabric. “Is there any other option?”
“No.” He looked up at the ceiling. “We can’t rely on Kay. Insurance will only cover so much.” He hesitated, as if choosing his words with care. “What’ll this do to us, Meg?”
She set her book on the lamp table. “I don’t know.” She considered the question. “It’ll either drive us further apart or bring us closer.”
“You could just walk out of this whole situation.”
“Bud and Marie are my family, too,” she said, realizing the truth of that statement. In fact, they were her only family.
He patted the seat beside him. “C’mere.”
She didn’t want to be sweet-talked or patronized. Nor did she want to hear about Brenda. This wasn’t something that could be solved with a cuddle. Despite her misgivings, though, she moved to the love seat, nestling beside him. His arm went around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest. “About Brenda…” he said.
Her mouth went cottony. “You’ve already explained. Maybe she’s just the demonstrative type.” Helpless to stem the spate of words, all intended to keep from hearing the worst, she continued. “You work closely with her. I know that. Of course she wanted to express her sympathy and—” He shut her off with a kiss designed to tell her how he felt. And it succeeded. Finally she surfaced. “But—”
“But?” He cupped her face in his hands. “I’m married to you. I’ll grant you Brenda is an attractive woman, and she comes on too strong, but—”
“You’re vulnerable.”
He rubbed his thumb across her temple. “Yes, Meg, I am.” He lowered his forehead to hers. “That’s why I’m counting on you.”
In an attempt to overcome her girlhood disappointments and to feel good about herself, Meg had spent most of her adult life tending to others, especially her children, and participating in all those community and school activities. Yet now, in her husband’s embrace, she realized it was his opinion that mattered most. But after years of feeling ignored and taken for granted, could she do what he needed her to do? Could he count on her? Could she count on him?
Only time would tell.