eleven
Julia arrived at the office shortly before nine o’clock the next morning, heard the intercom give a two-ring blast, and picked it up. Fortunately, she knew the phone system from her temp days. “Julia speaking.”
“Who?” A male voice. Not Zeke.
“My name is Julia. I’m filling in for Irene.”
“I heard about that. I’m Kevin, the maintenance manager. Would you tell Zeke the backhoe broke down again? He’ll know what it means.”
“Sure thing.”
She didn’t see a phone message book, so she jotted a note on a pink Post-it. Before she finished, the intercom rang again.
This time it was Katrina Andersen, the woman who ran Katrina’s Kitchen. She welcomed Julia, asked about Irene, and left an invitation for Zeke to sample the autumn specials before she ordered menu inserts.
When a regular phone line rang, Julia grabbed her third Post-it Note. Fifteen minutes later, a clothesline of pink squares hung from the bottom of the computer monitor.
Zeke, dressed in khakis and a white golf shirt, strode through the hall door, saw the Post-its and lifted a brow. “You’ve been busy.”
She unstuck the notes and handed them to him. “They’re all for you. We’ll need to talk about how you handle calls, messages, that sort of thing, but Kevin’s message seems the most urgent.”
Zeke grimaced. “The backhoe again?”
“He said you’d understand.”
“Unfortunately, I do. It breaks down all the time, and we’re not budgeted to replace it for another two years.” He skimmed through the notes and set them back on her desk. “This can all wait. Before you settle in, let’s go meet some people.”
A veteran at learning new jobs, Julia picked up a notepad and pen and followed Zeke down the hall. For the next hour, they walked around the main building and greeted key staff members. Zeke rattled off names, giving her tidbits about each person and patting that person on the back at the same time. Almost everyone asked about Irene’s surgery, scheduled for later that day.
Julia couldn’t help but be impressed by Zeke’s easy ways. Just like at St. John’s, he made people feel important. The last stop was Katrina’s Kitchen, where they sampled fresh pumpkin bread and left with full cups of coffee.
When they returned to Irene’s desk—her desk now—Zeke told her to make herself at home. “Ashley’ll be here soon. She’ll train you on the hotel software. In the meantime, feel free to pester me if you have questions.”
“Thanks.”
He started to walk away but stopped midstep. “Does today remind you of anything?”
“My first day at St. John’s?”
“Exactly.”
Julia lifted the paper coffee cup in a kind of toast. “To the Caffé Med.”
Zeke toasted back. “As I recall, we solved the world’s problems at that back table in the balcony.”
“Everything except global warming,” she teased back. “That was beyond us.”
They both smiled at the memory and maybe at the hubris of thinking they could save the world. She and Zeke used to leave St. John’s together and go to the Med to study or meet up with friends from Bread on the Water. They’d shared a lot of good times in that old café. Hard times too.
Their gazes lingered for a few more seconds. She wondered if he was going to say something else, but he turned abruptly and went to his office.
Julia dropped onto Irene’s chair, surveyed the contents of the desk, and tried not to think about Berkeley and how sure of herself she’d been when she transferred to the huge school as a junior. Before that, she had commuted to Cal State Northridge near her parents’ home. The school was comfortable, but she’d been bored with her high school friends and hungry for adventure.
Well, she’d had the adventure. Been there. Done that. Had Max to prove it. If she’d learned one thing since becoming a mom, it was that love wasn’t the fickle thing she used to imagine.
Holding in a sigh, she downloaded Tiff’s wedding files from Dropbox. As promised, Ginger had emailed a list of names to be added, including notes like, “Aunt Ethel is in a wheelchair” and “Uncle Gene is allergic to shrimp.” The menu issues were predictable. Finding a ceremony site that could accommodate five hundred people in various stages of health was another problem altogether, a huge one she needed Zeke to help her solve.
She worked on the wedding until after five o’clock. Zeke was in and out all day, but there wasn’t time to talk except for a quick word when Irene’s husband called. She was out of surgery and doing well.
On Wednesday afternoon, Ellen and Max arrived and settled into the cottage. Julia finished Tiff and Derek’s website, prepared for a Carter Home Goods Skype meeting on Thursday, and met with Zeke to make a list of possible ceremony sites. He blocked off Friday afternoon for taking her around to check out some of the options.
Busy days. Rushed conversations. She still hadn’t told Zeke about Hunter. Between his schedule and hers, the opportunity just hadn’t presented itself.
On Thursday, Julia looked at the clock and wondered if she could work the conversation in that day. Or maybe not. They were supposed to pick up her mom in five minutes for a quick look at the Travers family mansion. The back patio was a potential site for the rehearsal dinner, and Julia wanted Ellen’s ideas. Max, fully recovered, was participating in the hotel’s children’s program.
The glass door to the office suite swung wide. Holding it open, Zeke stood in the threshold. “Would you mind meeting me at the house? I have to swing by the pro shop.”
“Not at all.” The mansion was located behind the same gate guarding the cottages.
Zeke took off, and she called her mom.
“I’m on my way.”
“I think I’ll walk,” Ellen said. “It’s a gorgeous day, and the house isn’t far.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you in a few.”
Ellen loved Julia and Max to pieces, but after the ear infection, ten screenings of Cars, packing for a month-long trip, and making a long drive with an impatient four-year-old, she craved solitude. Inhaling deeply, she left the cottage in a rush but slowed when she imagined Ben’s voice in her head.
“Not under you, slowpoke!”
They’d traded that jibe a million times. She looked up at the clouds, blew him a kiss, and resumed her brisk pace with the hope of burning off yesterday’s French fries.
The Travers’ mansion, white stucco and shaded by giant oaks, loomed in the distance. Seeing it gave her a little thrill. She felt teenage and silly, but she enjoyed the little rush that came when she thought of that signed picture of George Travers.
Expecting Julia and Zeke any minute, she decided to walk up the long driveway and wait for them on the porch.
Tires squealed on the concrete driveway. She whirled, expecting to scold Zeke for speeding, but instead of a hotel SUV, she saw a white Corvette charging straight at her. She bolted for the lawn, but her toe caught on a brick and she went down in a heap. Brakes screeched in her ears. Hot exhaust filled her nose, and pain shot through her head and right leg. A peculiar numbness overtook her mind, a feeling she recognized as shock.
A car door slammed, then a man in cowboy boots and a black shirt dropped to his knees at her side. “Don’t move, miss. You’re hurt.”
That voice . . . it seemed to come from a dream. In spite of her dizziness, she turned her head and looked into a pair of brilliant blue eyes set in a craggy face. Blinking, she saw stars, or more correctly, one star. George Travers was peering down at her. Worry was etched across his brow, and he was . . . taking off his shirt?
This couldn’t be happening. George Travers? Her teenage crush? Her heart did an odd little dance as if she were sixteen again, which she wasn’t. Not by a long shot.
She tried to sit up, but he laid a hand on her shoulder and gently pressed her back to the grass. “Stay still, darlin’. You’re bleeding.”
Ellen could barely think, let alone move. Her head was pounding now, and she couldn’t stop staring at George Travers. The George Travers. Ben would have teased her unmercifully about her tongue-tied reaction. She was too old to be a fangirl, but George Travers was better looking now than he had been thirty years ago. And in better shape too. His shoulders were broad enough to cast a long shadow, one that protected her from the sun and shaded her eyes from the glare.
She opened her mouth to speak, but she could only stare at the white T-shirt hugging his chest. He either chopped wood for fun, or he worked out in a gym.
Not the least bit self-conscious, he wadded up the black shirt in his hands and wiped blood off the side of her face. “You smacked your head pretty good.”
“I’m—I’m all right.” She reached to hold the shirt for herself.
He let it go, studied her for a moment, then took his phone out of his pocket. “I’m calling 911.”
“No. Don’t. I’ll be fine in a minute.” She managed to sit up to prove it, but a wave of nausea leveled her and she lay back down. Her ankle throbbed with every beat of her heart, and so did her head. “I can’t believe this.”
“Me either.”
Fighting nausea, she closed her eyes and moaned. “This is a dream, or you’re really George Travers.”
“It’s not a dream. And if I may be so bold—” His voice took on an edge. “Who are you? And why are you in my driveway?”
“It’s a fluke.”
“Uh-huh.” His tone made her feel like a groupie. “You just happened to go through a locked gate and walk half a mile?”
“No.” She looked up, felt blood ooze, and pressed the shirt tighter against her scalp. “My daughter’s planning Tiff’s wedding. I’m helping her. She’ll be here any minute with Zeke.”
“You’re Ellen.” He sounded pleased.
“That’s right.” She felt even more ridiculous. “Thank you for the autograph. It was very nice of you.”
The steely glint in his eyes transformed into a lively twinkle. “Glad to do it, Ellen.”
Her name lingered in the air, soft and resonant like a song lyric. A sweet shiver rippled through her, which was absurd, considering the circumstances. Still queasy, she pressed the shirt more firmly against her scalp and tried to move her ankle. Pain shot up her leg, and she winced.
George peered into her face. “I’m taking you to the ER.”
“No.” Not a hospital. Since Ben’s death, she couldn’t stand them.
George put his hand on her shoulder. “Ellen, darlin’, we aren’t negotiating. You could have a concussion, and that ankle is swelling into a tree stump. You need a doctor.”
“You’re right. It’s just—” She couldn’t finish.
George took out his phone again. Before he could use it, Julia pulled up behind the Corvette.
Flinging open the car door, she cried out. “Mom! Oh my word—”
“I’m all right. Really.”
Julia skidded to her knees, stared into Ellen’s face, then placed her hands on the bloody shirt. Ellen lowered her arm.
“What happened?” Julia asked.
“It’s crazy. I was—I mean—and then . . .” Ellen looked to George for help.
“She surprised me.” His eyes met hers and held tight. “I came around the corner like Richard Petty, and she ran to get out of the way.” He indicated the row of bricks lining the driveway. “She tripped and went flying.”
Julia gripped Ellen’s hand. “Mom, I know how you feel about hospitals, but we’re going right now.”
“No.”
A white SUV pulled up behind Julia’s Outback. Zeke climbed out and strode toward them. After George filled him in, he crouched next to Julia. “Ellen, it’s good to see you, but I’m sorry about the circumstances. We’ll get you taken care of.”
Julia turned to him. “The Carter meeting is in an hour. I hate to miss it, but I have to take care of my mom.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“What meeting?” George asked.
Zeke told him about the Carter account. “We’re Skyping this afternoon to work out some details for Mr. Carter’s visit.”
Ellen shook her head. “Julia should be there. The Carters are old family friends.”
Julia scowled the way she did at Max. “Mom, forget it. There’s no way I’ll leave you with a broken ankle.”
“It’s not broken.”
“You don’t know that,” Julia insisted.
“Ladies!” George put his hands on his hips. “There’s a simple answer. I’ll take Ellen to the ER. Julia, we haven’t met, but I’m George Travers.” He offered his hand.
“Yes, I recognized you.” She shook back, then gave Ellen a smug little smile. “My mother’s a fan.”
Ellen turned six shades of red. “Julia, really.”
With an even brighter twinkle in his eyes—they were more silver than blue—George looked down at her, winked, then faced Julia. “It just so happens that I’m a fan of beautiful women, so your mother and I are on equal footing.”
Good grief! He could certainly turn a phrase, but Ellen didn’t feel beautiful at all. She felt like a fool. A fool in pain and bleeding all over George Travers’ shirt. A fool who did not want to go to the hospital with a stranger, especially a stranger who was famous and more handsome now than he was on the covers of his old CDs.
But Ellen needed to consider her daughter and grandson too. Julia had an obligation to Zeke, and the children’s program ended at three o’clock. If Julia took Ellen to the ER, they’d have to bring Max. Not a good place for a four-year-old. Ellen hated moments like this one, when she felt helpless and middle-aged. And alone.
Torn in two, she looked up at George. His eyes met hers, and somehow she knew he understood, because he too was middle-aged and a little worn out by life.
“I’ll go with you,” she told him. “Thank you.”
George and Zeke helped her up, each one taking an arm. Julia reminded her to take her health insurance card. Ellen almost snapped back that she wasn’t a child, but without the reminder, she would have forgotten. As George helped her into the Corvette, Zeke left for the office, and Julia went to the cottage to fetch Ellen’s purse.
Five minutes later, Ellen was on her way to the ER with George as a chauffeur, her foot on a pillow, and a fresh towel to hold against her scalp.
“This is crazy,” she said. “I’m supposed to be helping Julia, not the other way around.”
George stared out the windshield, his chin slightly raised. “God works in mysterious ways.”
Ellen thought so too, but she couldn’t speak over the lump in her throat. Those mysterious ways included Ben’s death. She was done grieving him in that initial, razor-sharp way, but at times like this, when she was alone and in need, the grief expanded like a water balloon, heavy in her chest and ready to break.
George steered around a wide curve. When the road straightened, he glanced at her. “You can tell me to mind my own business, but I have a heart for a certain subject. May I ask you a question?”
She couldn’t imagine what he’d ask. “Sure. Why not?”
“Yes. I am.” Considering George’s music and his reputation for being blunt, the question didn’t surprise her, nor did she consider it intrusive. Her faith defined her, and she had a tattoo to prove it.
“Then you know what I’m about to say.” He kept his eyes on the road. “God’s got this covered. He knows what you’re going through—all of it.”
It was the kind of thing Ben would have said. “Thank you. I needed the reminder.”
“I need it every day. You probably know my story.”
“Most of it.”
“Just so you don’t get your news from the National Enquirer.” He said it with such disdain that she hurt for him.
“No,” she said. “Your songs tell your story. My daughter was right when she said I’m a fan. I enjoy all your music, both old and new.”
“It’s been a long, hard road. But here I am now, mistakes and all. We worship a pretty amazing God.”
“Yes, we do.” And she had to admit, George Travers was a pretty amazing man.
He stopped the Corvette in front of the glass wall of the emergency room. “I’ll get a wheelchair.”
Ellen took in the smoky glass, the red signs, and the people hurting the way she had hurt for Ben. “No. I can’t. It’s just—” She bit her lip.
George laid a hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong, darlin’?”
“I’m fine. It’s just—” She couldn’t bear to think about Ben, so she searched for an excuse. “I hate wheelchairs.”
“That’s easy to fix. You can lean on me instead.”
Lean on me. Ben used to say that to her. Tears rushed into her eyes, and she relived the day of the heart attack, the terror and the stunned prayers, the five days of hope that had ended with a flat line on the heart monitor.
She fought a sob, but it broke free and she began to weep. Babbling apologies, she explained the tears to George.
“Ah, darlin’. I’m so sorry.”
He put his arms around her and held her while she cried. George’s aftershave wafted to her nose, and the warmth of his skin pressed through the T-shirt. He wasn’t Ben, but he radiated a kindness exactly like Ben’s. George held her close, saying nothing yet somehow telling her he understood. He wasn’t Ben, but he came closer than any man she’d ever met.