A Chance of a Lifetime (22 page)

“I need a magic wand.”

It was Saturday evening, Lucy's bake orders for the following day had doubled from the week before, and she and Joe were now facing a mountain of dishes to wash. Even though she'd cleaned as they went along—mostly—the time constraints and lack of help besides Joe's had combined to overwhelm her. Add aching feet, legs, back, and one shoulder, and she was pooped.

“I have a magic wand.” The response came from Joe, teasing and lascivious and naughty, and it made her stop for a moment and just look at him. Not a lot had changed since their big kisses last Monday night. He still got her up at dawn to walk; he still showed up at her house soon after she got home from work; he still lifted, carried, and pitched in without complaints; and he still ate most of his meals with her. But now he touched her, and not the old arm punches or chokeholds they'd been used to. Sometimes he curled his arm around her when they were sitting close enough, and there were times when he held her hand just because. And he was as generous with his kisses as he was with everything else.

Happy mercy,
everything
had changed, and it made her feel fifteen years younger and like she was falling in love for the first time.
You sound giddy,
her mom had said when they had their weekly chat a few days ago, and Lucy's response in the privacy of her bedroom was to pump her fist and silently shriek,
I am!
Who could be blessed with the miracle of a second love and not get giddy about it?

He walked around the huge worktable and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Nearly a week, and it still shivered through her. “Is any of the debris in the dining room maybe hiding a chair?”

“Nope. Just garbage the construction workers didn't haul off.”

Joe held up one finger, signaling her to wait, then disappeared through the store room and outside. It took him a few minutes to return, a lawn chair under one arm. He unfolded it in a corner out of the way, gave her a bottle of water from the fridge, a protein bar from his hip pocket, and gestured as if it were a throne.

“Why do you carry a lawn chair in your trunk?”

“I'm a coach. I never know when I'll need to sit down.”

“You're a coach. You don't
get
to sit down.” She pressed her hands to the small of her back. “Joe, I can't sit here and be lazy while you do all the cleanup.” Even as she was protesting, he lowered her into the chair, pulled out a box to support her feet, and tore open the protein wrapper for her.

“I'm just tired,” she went on. “Coming down here every night, working all afternoon and evening today, still walking twice a day, and going to work…” She took a bite of the protein bar, and her eyebrows rose. “Hey, that's pretty good. I bet I could learn to make this.”

 Shaking his head and grinning, he turned to the sinks. He'd already started the dishwashers, but there was plenty to wash by hand. Then the table had to be cleaned—she couldn't even reach the middle of it to scrub—and then they had dozens of sweets in the cake refrigerator waiting to be snuggled into their wrappers or boxes. A couple more hours, she could go home, beg off the evening walk, take some Motrin, and dislodge Norton and Sebastian from the couch so she could lie there and recuperate. Possibly until work called Monday morning. Preferably with Joe at her side.

She polished off the protein bar, drank half the water in one swallow, and breathed heavily. She was recovering her second wind. Sliding to the edge of the seat, she braced her hands on the arms and started to push up. A stab of pain through her right shoulder made her gasp and sink back down.

“What's wrong?” Joe asked.

Gingerly she rubbed her shoulder. “I think I overdid it trying to prove that I could whip cream without a mixer. Just give me a minute, though, and I'll help you.”

He gave her a long look before dipping his hands back into the soapy water. “Do you know how much my mom would pay to see me washing dishes all on my own, without anyone twisting my arm? This is a rare sight here, Luce. You might even want to take a picture for posterity.”

Trust him to make her laugh even when she felt like crap. Pulling out her cell, she snapped a couple of shots, and then, since watching him do anything was pretty much a pleasure, she tried to resettle in the chair, though the ache in her back just wouldn't let her get comfortable. Lord, was she so feeble that she couldn't handle long hours in the shop? Her feet hurt, her neck was stiff, her shoulder throbbed, her back hurt. She had gotten so disgustingly out of shape over the last seven years. Instead of canceling tonight's walk, maybe she should ask Joe to double it, and she should probably give in to his regular requests that she work out at the gym with him. Rock-hard muscles looked fine on him, she'd told him, but she liked being soft. She didn't want to look ripped.

“So soft that you can't even bake eight dozen cookies and a few trays of muffins and rolls without wearing out,” she muttered beneath her breath.

Voices at the back door startled her into looking that way, and when Patricia, Marti, and Carly walked into the kitchen, Lucy's brows arched high. “What are you guys doing—” Dismay turned her toward Joe. “You asked them to come clean up after me?”

Patricia tucked her purse out of the way, then hugged Lucy. “We've all offered repeatedly. Joe just took us up on it. You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired.”

Watching them, Lucy did a mental scan of her symptoms. Shoulder—better. Back—still aching. Feet—thoroughly protesting the remaining extra pounds on her body. Neck—stiff, but she'd endured worse. Chest—not hurting exactly, just kind of fluttering in disapproval at the rest of her. Oh, and a bit of a burn right in the middle of her breastbone, like the beginning of a case of heartburn. Everything else checked out fi—

Chest?
When did her chest get involved in this? She grabbed at the likeliest explanation: heartburn, too much hot salsa at lunch, topped off with tastings of too much ultra-rich frosting. That was all it was. All it could possibly be.

“What are we doing here?” Marti asked as she circled to the sink with Carly on her heels.

Lucy heard Joe running through the list of chores but only distantly. Her skin had grown clammy, and her heart was thundering, as if it were trying to escape her body. She didn't blame it. She'd want out, too, if all her other systems were going haywire.

Nona's voice—the grandmother who'd always looked out for her favorite granddaughter—spoke sternly in her head.
You're having a heart attack, child. Go to the hospital.

A
heart attack
? That wasn't possible. Heart attacks were for elderly people, frail people, people who'd already lived full lives and had health issues. She was only thirty-four. Other than her blood sugar and cholesterol being a little high, and her weight being more than a little high, she was in good health. Despite her own minor problems, she had no family history of heart disease. She was active. She was
young
. She had years to go before she could conceivably have a heart attack.

But deep inside she knew it was true. She'd had acid indigestion before that could have eaten through cast iron, and it had felt nothing like this. She'd suffered panic attacks before, too, in the months following Mike's death, and they'd been nothing like this. She'd had her heart
broken
before, shattered into tiny pieces that had never fit back together right. Not. Like. This.

But what if she was just overreacting? After all, she was listening to her dead Nona's voice. And there was no rule that said every case of indigestion, every panic attack, had to feel exactly the same way. Maybe she was just trying to do too much. Maybe subconsciously she was more worried about this business venture than she realized. And what if she said,
Guys, I'm having a heart attack,
and they called 911, and the paramedics took her to the ER, and everyone got worried and scared, and it turned out not to be a heart attack at all? How foolish would she feel then?

Nona snorted.
How foolish will you feel dead?

Good point. Pressing her hand to her chest, Lucy leaned forward again but didn't try to stand. “Joe.” He was laughing at something Carly said and didn't hear her.
“Joe.
”

When he turned to face her, all handsome and charming and so damn happy, something else in her subconscious rushed from the back of her mind to the front: She loved him. Was in love with him. He wasn't her best bud anymore, wasn't the pest of a little brother. She
loved
him.

Oh, God, she'd prayed to fall in love again, to marry and have babies and someone to grow old with, but sometime around her thirtieth birthday, she'd began to wonder if it would ever happen. Even if it had, she'd thought it could never be the same as before. Mike had been so important: her first boyfriend, her first love, her first husband. He was the man she'd been destined to spend the rest of her life with. Even another true love wouldn't be able to measure up to him.

But she'd been blessed with a second chance. She loved Joe, in different ways maybe but every bit as much as she'd loved Mike. If her chest wasn't hurting, her heart would be dancing with joy.

Blast it, it wasn't fair. She needed time to do something about that.

The amusement slid from his face, and he got really serious really fast. Drying his hands, he came to her, crouching in front of her. He picked up her wrist, held it a moment—counting her pulse, she realized—then grimly asked, “What is it, Luce?”

She glanced at her friends, gathered behind him, and a tear or two seeped into her eyes. “I love you guys, you know?” She wouldn't die or even come close to it, damn it, without saying that. Her voice caught as the pain intensified, making breaths harder to come by. “You don't know how much I hate saying this, but…my chest hurts.”

Fingers gripping Joe's like a lifeline, gaze locking on to his stricken face, she whispered, “I think I'm having a heart attack.”

Joe hadn't known Marti could whip her phone out of her skin tight jeans so quickly, or that Carly needed only a second longer. Marti dialed 911, and for the first time ever that he'd known her, her voice was wobbly and shaking as she asked for paramedics. Carly had moved away to the end of the table and was talking in a low, urgent voice to Therese, and Patricia stood behind Lucy, hands on her shoulders.

His own chest ached, all the way down into his gut. He'd heard of sympathetic labor pains. Was there such a thing as a sympathetic heart attack, because his chest was so constricted he could hardly breathe. Muscles in his thighs tight, he lowered to his knees on the thick mat and cupped Lucy's hands in both of his. He couldn't keep a smile steady, or his hands, but he tried. “Aw, my heart gets kind of fluttery around you, too,” he teased gently. “This isn't just a ploy to get more pictures of me doing kitchen work to send to my mom, is it?”

An unsteady smile curved her lips. “I am definitely sending the ones I got to all the Cadore women just as soon as I get a chance.” Her voice was airy, her breathing shallow, her grip cutting off circulation to his fingers.

“You do that, you might as well post them on Facebook and every other social media platform out there. I don't know if it's genetic, but Cadore women can't keep anything to themselves.”

The wail of a siren came sooner than he expected. He found relief in its approach, but it also acted like a spark to the fire of anxiety inside him. As long as it was just them and their friends in the room, it
could
be no big deal, a little scare, a case of better-safe-than-sorry. Once the paramedics arrived, it would be real. Real pain. Real risk. Real danger.

He'd never been a fan of institutionalized religion, but his parents had taught them all the power of prayer. Even as he grinned at Lucy and said, “You'd better not flirt with the paramedics,” inside a scared little voice was jabbering,
Please don't let this be serious. Please don't let her die. Please, God…

The siren grew ear-splittingly loud, then abruptly stopped. Joe glanced around, and Patricia opened her eyes from prayers of her own. “Carly and Marti went outside to meet them.”

There was a rustle of noise, the thumping of wheels, as two female paramedics came into the kitchen with a gurney. Lucy, her face pale and damp, looked from them to Joe and managed a grin. “No flirting, right?”

He kept his gaze on her. “With who?”

Pretending earned him a smile before she reluctantly released his hands so the paramedics could take his place. They introduced themselves as Samantha and Jessica and broke out their gear as efficiently and capably as Lucy did—well, everything. Their manner was casual, putting Lucy at ease, doing absolutely nothing for Joe. When Patricia sidled up next to him and slid her arm around his waist, he held on to her tightly.

 Samantha and Jessica checked her vitals, ran an EKG, and filled out a medical history. After a moment, one of them glanced up at Joe. “Mr. Hart?”

“Cadore.”

“Are you her husband?”

“Not yet.” The words slipped out without any thought, and they made Lucy look at him. This time, the widening of her eyes had nothing to do with discomfort. She looked all gentle and sweet and…yeah, that was a bit of wonder there. His chest tightened even more.
Please, God, we need Lucy too much to let her go.
I
need her.

“He's her significant other,” Patricia said, then gestured to include Carly and Marti. “We all are.”

“You're a lucky woman, Lucy,” Jessica said. “Can you move over here to the gurney? Just take your time, and Sam and I will help you.”

Joe had to fight the urge to pick her up and lift her onto the gurney. Instead, he watched as intently as he did when one of his players got up off the field after a hard hit, looking for signs of pain or injury. She actually looked about the same as she had the first day they'd started exercising together: pale, sweaty, disgruntled. That day, though, it hadn't been the workout so much as the 6 a.m. start time.