Jazz’s health improves with each passing day. Although she continues to run a fever and tire easily. While she doesn’t appear to have any permanent damage, the doctors warn she’s not yet out of the woods.
Keeping Jazz entertained is a challenge. She plays games and watches movies on her new iPad and works the activity books—puzzles as well as hidden picture ones—I buy for her in the lobby gift shop. Cecily visits with more library books and a picnic basket of baked goodies, and Katherine brings a lovely bouquet of flowers she cut from her own yard. Jack continues with his nightly visits, but now he arrives with dinner for three. On Saturday, he sits with Jazz while I go home to do our laundry.
On Sunday morning, when Jazz asks if her mother knows she’s sick, I have my answer prepared. “No, sweetheart. Mr. Brian and I decided not to tell her. Your mommy is sick too, but in a different way.”
She furrows her little brow. “What do you mean? Does she have many-gi-tus, too?”
“Not meningitis,” I say, pronouncing every syllable. “You know how your mommy sometimes drinks the gold stuff in the tall bottle that smells bad?”
Her upper lip curls. “Wine. She gets drunk a lot.”
“That’s because something, deep down inside of her, is making her unhappy. And the doctors are helping her figure out what that is so she’ll feel better.”
“I know what it is. She misses Billy.”
Oh really? That kind of grief for someone who’s only a friend? “Jazz, do you know how long your parents have been married?”
She holds her hands out, palms up, as if to say she doesn’t have a clue.
“Of course you don’t,” I say, mussing her hair. She’s a six-year-old kid. I’ll need to pose my questions to a more reliable source.
By the time Dr. Flowers releases Jazz midday on Monday, we are both eager to go home. An orderly pushes Jazz’s wheelchair to the main entrance where they wait while I go to the parking lot for Billy’s Jeep. I’ve been tempting fate by driving without a license. I have two weeks to go until my sixty days is up. I’ve yet to learn how to parallel park, and my driving coach is still under the weather.
I’m unlocking the Jeep when I spot Brian hurrying across the lot. I call his name. Slowing his pace, he makes a detour toward me.
“Jazz is finally being released. We’re on our way home. I’ll tell her you stopped by. Maybe you can visit at the cottage.”
He rakes his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m thrilled for both of you. But I’m not here to see Jazz. I came with Opal. I finally convinced her to see her doctor late last week. He ran some tests. It appears as though she may have leukemia.”
I deflate, as though I’ve been punched in the gut, and I collapse against the Jeep. “Poor Opal. I’m so sorry, Brian. How’s she handling the news?”
“It hasn’t sunk in yet. She just found out this morning. I brought her in for more tests.”
“Please tell her I’m thinking about her, and I’ll be in to see her in a couple of days, as soon as I get Jazz settled.”
“I’ll tell her,” Brian says. “I’m sure she’d appreciate a text.”
I give Brian’s arm a squeeze. “Hang in there.”
I drive around to the main entrance and help the orderly load Jazz into the Jeep. On the way back to the farm, I think about Opal. How scary for her to be facing such a serious medical crisis at her age. At least she has her wonderful son to take care of her. I’ve grown to love Opal. Her quirkiness brings joy to my life. I would hate to lose her when we’re becoming friends.
Jack brings a large pie from Ruby’s Italian Pizzeria for dinner, and we sit at the table like a family. Jazz, her appetite not fully recovered, takes only a few bites of one slice. She yawns and lays her head on the table. She showered as soon as we got home from the hospital and is already in her pajamas.
“I’ll put her to bed while you clean up,” Jack says lifting the little girl into his arms.
He’s gone for a while, and by the time he returns, I’ve finished putting away the leftovers and loading the dishwasher.
“Jazz perked up when I tucked her in,” he says. “She begged me to read her a bedtime story. I ended up reading three.”
“Is she asleep now?”
“Oh yeah! Out cold.” He begins opening and closing cabinets. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“I would love one, but I don’t have any.”
Locating two wine glasses, he sets them on the counter and walks to the back door. “I brought a bottle with me, but I left it in the car. I didn’t want to upset Jazz. You know, because of her mother’s drinking problem and all.”
I smile at him. “Thank you for being sensitive to her feelings.”
Jack has been my rock this past week. I’ve grown accustomed to sharing everything with him. I told him about my conversation with Jazz regarding her mother’s whereabouts, and when he returns with the wine, while he’s opening the bottle and filling the glasses, I tell him about Opal having leukemia.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But Opal is a strong woman. If anyone can beat it, she can.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Jack and I take our wine into the living room and sit close together on the sofa. “It’s nice to be home,” I say, tucking my feet beneath me.
He places an arm on the cushion behind my head. “It’s good to have you alone. Can we go on our date soon?”
I smile over at him. “That depends. Do you know any responsible babysitters?”
He laughs. “A sitter for the sitter. I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head, but I’ll ask around.”
“Cecily might be willing to keep Jazz, if I can drag her away from Lyle long enough.”
He takes my wine glass from me and sets it on the coffee table beside his. “I can’t wait until our date to do this.” Cupping my head, he draws me close and kisses me, his lips soft and gentle against mine. My stomach tumbles and heat radiates through my body. Our lips part and tongues meet. He tastes like pizza and wine and something deliciously sweet that I identify as lust. I yearn to rip off his clothes and straddle him naked. But the mature me—the one evolving from the responsibilities of managing a multi-million-dollar renovation project and nursing a critically ill child—controls this impulse.
I jump to my feet and run a hand down my shorts, straightening them. “I’m sorry, Jack. I can’t risk having Jazz walk in on us.”
He stands to face me. “I understand about Jazz. And I respect that. But, did you not feel the attraction between us just now? Because I’m pretty sure the earth just moved.”
I laugh out loud. “Yes! I felt it.”
“Then why are you pushing me away when we have a chance at something special?”
I place my hand on his cheek. “I’m not pushing you away. This week . . . having you by my side during Jazz’s crisis . . . I want that kind of close relationship in my life. Someone I can count on. Someone I can grow with. But I’m the queen of screwing up relationships, Jack. I have the track record to prove it. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to take things slow.”
Relief crosses his face. “I’m willing to take things slow as long as you promise to be honest with me. But I sense there’s something more. Something else holding you back.”
I cross the room to the bookshelves. My eyes roam my father’s collection of books and memorabilia. I’ve combed through everything once. What if I missed something? What if there’s an important clue here about my family?
I turn my back to the bookshelves. “You’re right. Something else is holding me back. I need to figure out who I am before I commit to a relationship.”
For the rest of the week, I work out of the cottage kitchen. When Cecily and Kathryn stop by with updates on their various projects, I make them sanitize their hands with Purell and wear surgical masks to avoid spreading germs. Jack brings dinner most nights, except on Wednesday when I cook my mother’s baked ziti recipe. At night, after he leaves and Jazz is in bed, with Billy on my earpods, I meticulously comb through the bookcases, looking for clues to my family history. When I find nothing, I quietly scour the bedroom so as not to wake a sleeping Jazz. Tucked inside a Bible in the bedside table drawer, I discover an unframed photograph of Hannah and Billy at a party. His arms are around her waist, and she’s gazing into his eyes, two young people very much in love at what appears to be a college band party. Hannah was twenty-four when she gave birth to me. I hug the photograph to my chest. Does this mean I’m a product of a long-lasting relationship and not a one-night stand? On the other hand, if they once meant something to each other, why prevent me from being a part of my father’s life? I return the photo, a reminder of my mother’s betrayal, to the drawer.
Earlier in the week, when I called the doctor’s office to schedule Jazz’s two-week follow-up, the nurse made the appointment and then advised me to let Jazz determine when to resume her normal activities. By Friday, she is feeling much better and hasn’t had a fever since leaving the hospital. When she begs to go for her first session with the reading tutor, I reluctantly agree.
Carrie Anderson lives in an adorable house two blocks from the inn. Considering her petite size and childlike manner, I sense she and Jazz are a good match and that Jazz will blossom under her tutelage.
Carrie leans down to speak to Jazz at eye level. “After we read awhile, if it’s okay with Stella, I’d like to take you to story time at the library and then to the pharmacy for lunch.”
The Hope Springs Pharmacy on Main Street has the original 1960s-era soda counter. I’ve heard plenty about it, but I’ve yet to eat there.
Jazz clasps her hands. “Can I please, Stella?”
I smile. “As long as you promise not to overdo it.”
Carrie winks at me. “I’ll keep an eye on her. Okay if I drop her back at the inn around one?”
“That would be great.”
I’m grateful to have the morning free, a first since Jazz got sick. I hurry back to the inn for my bicycle and ride all the way to the hospital to see Opal. It’s a warm day, and I’m sweating by the time I get there. After asking the elderly volunteer at the information desk for Opal’s room number, I stop by the lobby gift shop for flowers.
When I arrive at Opal’s room, a nurse informs me she’s too sick for visitors. I’ve spoken to Brian nearly every day this week, but he never mentioned her condition was so dire. I leave the flowers with the nurse and take the elevator down to the lobby.
Jack takes Jazz and me into the mountains for a picnic on Saturday, and on Sunday, we go fly-fishing. I struggle to get the hang of casting, but Jazz is a natural. She catches three trout to add to Jack’s two. I hook one but fail to reel it in.
“Can’t we stay a little longer?” Jazz begs when it’s time to go home.
I hip-bump her on the way to the car. “Not today, Jazzy. If we’re lucky, Jack will bring us fishing another day. After I’ve had a chance to practice casting.”
“I’ll set you up with a rig, so you can practice down at the lake,” Jack says to me, and to Jazz, “When we get back to the cottage, you can help me clean the fish.”
This brings the smile to Jazz’s face. Her feelings for him are nothing short of adoration.
The fish is seasoned perfectly, and I insist he give Cecily his recipe for our menu. We’re like a small family gathered around the pine table. Our threesome feels right, like we belong together, and I have to remind myself that Jazz is not my child. Nor is Jack my husband. It’s been a perfect weekend, and I’m sad to see it come to an end.
Late that night, I’m alone in the living room, listening to Billy’s music when I finally find my first clue—lyrics from a song written about Jasmine.
Jasmine, sweet as a summer blossom,
Wherever you go,
Whoever you’re with,
You’ll always be in my heart,
My Jasmine, my love.
I google the song title. According to Wikipedia, the song was released in 1991, twenty-three years before Jazz was born. I would guess Naomi is in her late thirties, definitely no older than forty. Which means Naomi would’ve been eleven at the time. Which means Naomi named her child after one of Billy’s past lovers. Why would she do that?
The clue doesn’t provide answers. It only creates more questions.