By Your Side (25 page)

“But we’ll get it fixed, no problem,” Macy promised, watching Leah’s face on the phone screen. “Elliot has bids from like six contractors.” She pushed aside a memory of his intrusive and controlling diatribe. She’d made herself clear; he’d back off. They’d pretend it never happened. “The mold will be gone, and it’s a good excuse to change the paint colors anyway. Neither of us are the basic beige type. What do you think about
 
—?”

“I can’t. I can’t think about that. Not now.”

Pink. I was hoping you’d say pink and giggle like a little girl whose dream is coming true. It’s finally happening, sis. Happily ever after . . .

“It’s okay,” Macy assured her. “You need more time. I get that. We’ll have fun with those details later; no rush. The contractors will be busy for a few weeks. You just need to finish up there. Get healthy.” Her eyes swept the phone screen. “You do look better, sweetie. More rested. The withdrawal symptoms have eased up?”

“I guess so. Yes. And I’m trying to eat better now. Take good care of myself.” Leah twisted a hank of her curly hair, tipped a little closer to the screen. Her wide eyes looked painfully vulnerable like those puppies peering from cages on the SPCA commercials. “Sean thinks he might get his time reduced to sixty days. And he talked the landlord into holding the apartment for a while. He had to sell his truck for the money. But he did it.”

Great.
What was Macy supposed to do, hang a banner? This was ridiculous. Sean the Forger figured nowhere in
the equation. He was the regrettable past. The Tahoe Park house, mold-free and freshly painted, was the future. Leah’s bright future. Then nursing school and
 
—

Her sister cleared her throat. “Macy?”

“Yes?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Y
OU COULD HAVE SLEPT IN.
Should I feel guilty?”

“Absolutely
 
—
mmph
 
—not. ’Scuse me,” Macy mumbled around her last mouthful of an Adalberto’s Mexican Food breakfast burrito. Fletcher must have been at their window before dawn. She grabbed for her paper napkin, noticing how the pale sunlight from the window played over his sleep-mussed hair. Her pulse ticked upward at his smile. “I’m always hungry.” She hated that saying it made her think of Elliot. At least they’d smoothed things over when he called late last night.

“And I thought you’d be getting ready for work.”

“Last-minute change.” She’d asked for the day off, claiming a family emergency. It was the truth. Leah’s news had hit her like an undefended gut kick.

“So you can go to Tucson.”

“My flight leaves at ten thirty.” Macy hadn’t mentioned the pregnancy. Or that awkward meeting with Elliot. Fletcher was a fixer, and these were Macy’s thorns. “My sister’s only a few days from finishing up with rehab. We need some real face time.”

“I get that.”

They were speaking in stage whispers to keep from waking Sally. The Dood had already mooched a good portion of Fletcher’s second taco.

Macy pushed up the sleeves of the baggy sweatshirt she’d yanked on over her pajamas. “And while I’m gone, you’ll be working overtime.”

“Looks like it.” Fletcher stuffed their paper trash into the take-out sack. “If that new information pans out
 
—the old Buick seen parked at the Stockton nursing home over the past few months
 
—it won’t take long to put together a list of possible suspects.”

“Good.” Macy fought an involuntary chill. “I’m so done with all of this.”

Fletcher’s eyes held hers. “As long as that doesn’t include me.”

“You?”

Her skin warmed as he slid closer on the couch.

“You’re not done with me?” he whispered, watching Macy’s eyes.

“No.” She smiled slowly, very aware of the effect his closeness was having on her senses. “It’s not every day you meet a guy who can find a good burrito before sunrise.”

“Ah.” He smacked a fist against his chest. “Bold kick to the heart
 
—score for the lady.”

“And . . .” Macy was surprised by the sudden quaver in her voice. “Someone who’s willing to take the time to get me. Maybe even be okay with who I am.”

Fletcher was silent for a while, watching her eyes. “It’s more than
maybe
,” he said finally, a mercy that allowed Macy to exhale. “I think you’re amazing.” He took hold of her hand, lifted it to kiss her fingertips. “And I think I’ll probably offer to paint that old house you’re buying
 
—lug all your sister’s boxes in.”

“Fletcher . . .” Macy’s voice choked. He couldn’t have said anything more perfect. How could she tell him that? Let him know that, impossibly, he’d begun to make her feel hopeful about things in a way she’d never known before?

He crooked a finger under her chin. “When do you get back from Tucson?”

“I’m staying overnight; there’s a family apartment at the center. I arranged for it,” Macy whispered, realizing that almost as much as she felt the need to see Leah, she was already missing this man. “My return flight arrives in Sac tomorrow at 4:10.”

He kissed her forehead. “I don’t start work till three today. I can drive you to the airport. And I’m off tomorrow. So when I pick you up, we’ll go out to
 
—”

“Elliot already hired an airport van. He has some sort of arrangement with the owner of the company.” He’d also insisted on using his air miles to purchase her flight. He’d been profusely apologetic and never once mentioned Fletcher’s name. She saw no point in rebuffing his kindness. Or provoking the issue by canceling on him now. “But I should be back here by five thirty at the latest. And
 
—”

“You’ll be hungry.” His thumb traced her jaw very gently.

“A woman can’t live on airline pretzels.” She sighed as his lips touched her cheek.

“Can’t risk it then,” Fletcher whispered, the faint stubble of his beard tickling her skin. “I’ll make reservations. One of the guys told me about a great place overlooking Lake Tahoe.”

“Really?” she asked, leaning away. “Tahoe?”

He chuckled. “You can wear hiking boots with your skirt.”

She wouldn’t. But Fletcher seemed very okay with that idea, which was staggeringly wonderful. “Sounds perfect.”

“Great. That’s settled. And now . . .” Fletcher dipped his head low, and in less than a heartbeat his lips found hers. His hands slid to the back of her head, drawing her closer as the kiss deepened. Tender, warm . . . dizzying.

Macy didn’t care. Dizzy was fine
 
—she only wanted the moment to go on and on. She needed to trust that happiness could really happen, that her heart was safe. She wanted to dare to hope, finally, that everything could be okay.

She stretched her arms around him, felt the warmth of his broad back through his shirt. And returned his ardent kiss measure for measure.

“They’re kicking me out,” Seth told Taylor, leaning against the doorframe of the triage office. “I talked the transporter into letting me out of the wheelchair in the lobby. I wasn’t going to risk a flashback to the last time I was in your fine department.” He grimaced and rubbed the front of his
powder-blue polo shirt. “That cardiac monitor left some pitiful divots in my chest hair.”

“Ouch,” Taylor said, wrinkling her nose. It was good to see Seth upright again. Beyond the stubble of auburn-brown beard growth and some shadowy lines of fatigue around his eyes, he looked no worse for wear. Downright handsome, according to several floor nurses. Taylor would tend to agree. And Seth’s humor was intact, always a positive sign. “Can I assume this means you passed your treadmill test?”

“Flying colors. Well, more lumbering than flying.” He scraped his big palm across his hair, lifting a thatch that left him looking disarmingly boyish for a man pushing forty. “Finding my running shoes
 
—and making some time to fill them
 
—is on my new to-do list.” He flexed his knee. “You probably wouldn’t believe it, but for an old guy with a limp, I used to log some serious miles.”

“I believe it. I think you’d accomplish anything you set your mind to.” Taylor smiled, meaning it sincerely. “All the while giving everyone else the credit.”

“Well . . .” He shook his head, then met her gaze. “That’s why I stopped by here. To say thanks for all you did for me yesterday. I probably gave you a hard time, but I appreciate it, Taylor.”

“I . . . You’re welcome,” she told him, knowing he’d call her on it if she pulled the modesty card. The man practically read minds. “Even though I was a contributing factor, since you ate that molten fudge brownie just to make me feel better.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” His laugh ended in a groan. “I should know better. Half of what we tell our crisis survivors
about dealing with stress has to do with taking care of themselves. You know the drill: eat right, get enough sleep, exercise . . . do the things that make you feel good.”

“A case of ‘Chaplain, heal thyself’?”

“Can’t just talk the talk.” He glanced out toward the hallway to the waiting room. “Am I holding you up with triage?”

“No worries; they’ll signal me.”

“So yeah,” Seth continued, “I’m going to pay better attention to things, make a list of where I can cut back.” He caught the reflex pinch of her brows. “Not with California Crisis Care. That’s too important to me. In fact . . . I’ve been asked to head up some training in San Diego.”

Taylor stared at him. There was no way he could know she’d been considering
 
—

“It could work; it’s not like Donovan’s Uniforms can’t run without me. I’ve got an assistant manager at the Midtown store who’s been shouldering a lot of extra work since Dad was forced to cut back.”

“Because of his emphysema.” Taylor had seen the man visiting Seth, carrying a portable oxygen concentrator over his shoulder. Similar coloring as Seth’s, same dark eyes. But thin, barrel-chested, with a grayish cast to his skin
 
—the textbook picture of a COPD patient.

“Dad’s stubborn, but he’s doing his best to follow his doctors’ recommendations to ease up a little,” Seth confirmed. “Anyway, this Midtown assistant should have been promoted to manager a long time ago
 
—doesn’t need me breathing down his neck. I could go to San Diego.” Seth’s eyes wrinkled at the edges. “Beach jogging . . . easier on the knees.”

“You’re going to move?”

“I’m going to commit to thinking about the teaching situation. It wouldn’t require a move, at least not outright.”

Taylor could only guess that his father’s health was a big factor. And maybe that alleged relationship with the CSI staffer? She wasn’t about to ask.

“I have family near La Jolla, not far from there.”

“Small world.”

The triage light flashed overhead.

“That’s my cue to make an exit.” Seth extended his hand. “Thanks. You’re good people, Taylor Cabot.”

She returned his warm handshake. “You too.”

He’d have to talk with her again about locking the front door; his mother had always been far too trusting. Fletcher halted at the doorway to the kitchen, the distant voices confusing him for a moment. Then he smiled: his mother and father on Skype, their voices blending together in that warm, laugh-peppered burble he’d heard all his life. He peeked in.

“Halibut,” she was saying. “In fish tacos, with cilantro, guacamole, and shredded cabbage, the way you like it. From the frozen fillets you sent.” She shook her head. “The doctor said more protein; he wouldn’t buy my suggestion that Thena’s pecan brittle was just as good.”

“Those blood tests . . . When is our next round?”

Our.
Fletcher caught the thinly veiled worry in his father’s strong voice.

“I have blood drawn next week, I think. I’d have to check.
I’ll let you know, John
 
—I promise.” She touched the frame of the laptop gently with her fingertips, the way Fletcher had seen her touch his father’s face a thousand times. “We’ll be okay. I’m sure of it.” She chuckled softly, tipped her head like a flirting teenager. “Getting you back here is the best medicine. Even pecan candy is no substitute.”

Fletcher waited until they said good-bye and walked in as she was closing the laptop.

“Burglar,” he said, pointing to the front of his uniform. “Walked right in
 
—the TV and Grandma’s silver are already in my van.”

“I didn’t . . . I did?”

“Practically wide-open.” He sighed, thinking there was no way he could take a hard line with this woman. “Working on that scrapbook again?” he asked after crossing the room to give her a kiss on the cheek. Stacks of photos, scissors, pens, indecipherable bits of artsy stuff. Fletcher picked up a photo and laughed. “Does Dad know you’re immortalizing his epic fail at ballroom dancing?”

“It was worth my broken toe. He tried it for
me
. It says a lot about the kind of man your father is.”

“What’s this?” Fletcher asked as Charly went to fill a coffee mug. He lifted a thin, stapled sheaf of papers from a stack of mail and read the first lines. “Reverse mortgage?”

“People do it,” she said, carrying the mug back to him. “Helen in our Houston neighborhood, Granny Astrid at church, and
 
—”

“Old people,” Fletcher interrupted. “Widows and . . . You’re not really looking into this?”

“I don’t know.” She attempted a casual shrug that was
about as successful as his father’s fox-trot. “Our real equity is in the Houston house, so we’d have to be living there to qualify.”

“Dad has at least another six months with this project. And your medical care is here, Mom. You couldn’t move back to Texas until
 
—” His heart froze. “You’re not giving up on the treatment?”

“Of course not. I’m only being realistic, Fletcher.” Something in her voice sounded too much like the day they knew that baby mockingbird they’d rescued was dying. “I’m only considering options.”