By Your Side (28 page)

“My mother,” Fletcher interrupted. “I need to talk with you.”

“Of course. Sure
 
—come in,” Macy told him, fear creeping in as she stepped back. “Dood, down.”

She reached for Fletcher’s hand. “Has something happened?”

“Maybe.” He drew his hand away from hers. His eyes seemed more stormy gray than blue. “I just came from Elliot Rush’s office. He said something about you being a millionaire.”

She grimaced, hunted for words, but Fletcher kept talking.

“He said you’re investing in buying life insurance policies from people who have terminal illnesses.”

What?

Macy’s brows scrunched as she struggled to understand. “Look. I can explain about the money. I should have
 
—would have. Only it’s so complicated . . .” Her knees weakened without warning. “What does this have to do with your mother?”

“She got a letter from his office. A brochure about viatical investments. When I asked Rush about it, he
implied
 
—
rubbed my nose in it
 
—that you’d shared medical information about Mom’s cancer diagnosis. And about her . . .” His voice choked. “Her projected prognosis. So you could add her life insurance policy to your investment portfolio.”

Oh no . . . “Wait
 
—”

“No. I won’t wait; I need to know.
Right now.
” Fletcher’s lips were a grim line. “Is it true? Did you do that, Macy?”

P
LEASE,
L
ORD .
 . .
Fletcher’s gut twisted as he sat on the edge of the couch, waiting for Macy to return from closing the dog in her bedroom. He’d nearly heaved into Rush’s jungle of landscaping as he headed back to his Jeep. Then prayed all the way over here that the pompous little man had lied. It had to be a lie. But that look on Macy’s face . . .

“He’s contained,” she reported, taking a seat next to Fletcher. “We’re safe.”

He wished that were true.

“Talk to me.” Fletcher captured her gaze, confirmed the guilt on her face; he hadn’t imagined it. “I’m going crazy here, Macy. Explain this.”

“The money . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment. “That part’s true. There’s this fund that my . . . biological father set up through a lawyer. I never wanted it. But . . .”

“You let Rush manage it,” Fletcher finished, remembering what she’d said that day on the freeway. She’d said that her interrupted dinner with Elliot Rush was a business meeting. “He invested your money under your direction.”

“No. I didn’t even want to talk about it. I just wanted him to handle things. Do what he thought was best.”

“Like viatical investments.” Fletcher’s jaw tensed. “Because there’s such a ‘good return’ on the investment.”

Macy looked almost as sick as he felt. “He only mentioned viaticals a few weeks back. I told him I didn’t like the idea. On principle
 
—I’m a nurse. I took an oath to help save lives.” She hugged her arms around herself, rocked forward. “In all these years, I’ve never even touched that money, Fletcher. Not a dime. I hated the thought of it. It was a humiliating payoff from a man who wished I’d never been born.” Macy trembled. “But then they found mold in the house I’m buying. I didn’t have the money to fix it. So I borrowed it from the trust. I told Elliot to work his magic with investments to replace what I used.”

“‘Magic’?” Fletcher asked, disgust stomping on any empathy he felt for her story. “You mean trading on people’s lives? Making yourself a beneficiary to life insurance policies and then
 
—what? Gambling that those people die fast? So you don’t have to make more monthly premium payments?”

“No.” Macy’s face paled. “That’s not what
 
—”

“Did you tell him to make those investments?”

“I . . . Maybe.” Her voice dropped to a halting whisper. “I’m not sure. I think I just gave him free rein. All I was
thinking about was getting the house. I didn’t ask for any details.”

“But you offered some. Plenty. Information about my mother’s cancer.”

“No.” Macy’s eyes held his. “I swear, if Elliot did that
 
—approached Charly
 
—I didn’t know anything about it.”

“But you talked to him about her condition. That’s how he knew?”

“In conversation maybe. Your mom didn’t hide the fact that she had AML. I might have said that I felt bad for her . . . for you. I didn’t say anything about her prognosis or
ever
imply her condition was terminal.” Macy touched his arm, wincing when he recoiled. “I swear, Fletcher, I’d never give Elliot the go-ahead for something like that. I’d never consider trying to benefit from your mother’s situation.”

“But it’s okay to gamble on the lives of strangers. Buy anonymous life insurance policies and cash in. You think that’s fair.” Fletcher wanted to shake her. No, he wanted to get as far away from her as he could. “A house is more important than human life? You’re fine with . . . betting against hope?”

“I can’t look at it like that.” Macy lifted her chin, blinked against gathering tears. “I need this house. For my sister. Elliot’s making it happen. I have to trust him.”

“Great.” Fletcher shoved himself up from the couch. “I’m going.”

“Wait, Fletcher. Please.” Macy began to rise. “You need to understand
 
—”

“No.” He raised his palm. “I don’t understand. I don’t even begin to get you, Macy.”

“Please . . . wait.”

He jogged to his Jeep, gunned the engine, and sped away without looking back.

Macy glanced toward the window, shadowy now as the sun dipped toward the horizon. She swallowed a mouthful of green tea; it might as well have been used bathwater. She couldn’t taste and wasn’t all that sure about breathing, either. It had been two hours since Fletcher’s Jeep roared off, and she’d sent a minimum of six texts to his phone. All unanswered. She took another sip from her cup, trying to ease the ache in her throat. Elliot hadn’t responded to her voice mail either. He probably thought her tone sounded accusing. And didn’t want to deal with her questions so soon after butting heads with Fletcher.

Macy could well imagine that ugly scene in Elliot’s office. Why on earth had he said those things to Fletcher
 
—done all of that? Was it payback for the embarrassing confrontation on the freeway? Elliot had been humiliated, beyond furious. Plus, it was clear he wasn’t happy with the fact that she’d been seeing Fletcher socially. But neither was an excuse for revealing Macy’s private financial information. And for telling Fletcher she’d violated his mother’s privacy
 
—breached confidentiality. Illegal and heartless. She’d never knowingly do something like that. But the way Fletcher had looked at her . . .

Tears welled again. It seemed impossible that only short hours ago she’d been happy, practically overcome with cheesy bliss. So much so that she’d been willing to risk
telling Fletcher how she felt about him. How she loved the way he made her feel, happy and hopeful and
 
—

“You’re fine with . . . betting against hope?”

Macy set her cup down, swiped at a tear. She had to buck up, get a grip. Even if she’d had a chance to tell Fletcher about her sister’s pregnancy, she wouldn’t have made him understand that owning the house was even more important because of that. He wouldn’t see that Leah needed a home, a real home. Fletcher Holt couldn’t understand because he’d always had those things. A home and a family who loved him. Things that were almost unimaginable to people like Macy and Leah. Someone like Fletcher couldn’t know what it felt like to never really belong
anywhere
.

“I don’t even begin to get you, Macy.”

It was true. She’d been a fool to hope for anything else. And to start to believe . . .
what?
Macy scraped her teeth across her lower lip, feeling the ache in her throat return with a vengeance. It was true. She’d almost fallen for it all: a man who could love her for who she was, and maybe even a God who wanted what was best for her. She reached up, once again found the dyed stripe in her hair. She’d almost bought into the fairy tale. What a fool. The fact was, God didn’t get Macy either. He wanted as much to do with her as Lang Wen did. Her hard-knocks life had proven it over and over, taught Macy the most valuable lesson of all: the only thing she could fully count on was herself. Period. And despite what had happened today, her own plan was still moving forward.

Before Fletcher arrived, she’d contacted Elliot’s associate, the real estate broker. They’d made an appointment to meet at the Tahoe Park house tomorrow. She’d signed
the papers to get the mold removal started. He’d agreed to give her an opportunity to take some photos of the house
 
—from the little brick oven in the kitchen to the bedroom that could be Leah’s and the tree in the backyard that would be a perfect spot for a child’s swing. Macy already had her sister’s promise she was coming to Sacramento, but the photos would help Leah get it on a heart-deep level. She’d see that she and her baby would have a real home.

Macy reached for the brass door set she’d brought out from her bedroom. She would ask the contractor to install it. It had been as much a part of their foster mother’s home as the scent of warm oatmeal cookies. Nonni might have been gullible about a loving God who knew all of his children down to the number of hairs on their heads, but she knew everything there was about making a lost and lonely child feel wanted.

“Welcome home, Macy girl.”

Macy nodded. It was time to pay it forward.

She lifted her phone from the coffee table, checked once more for messages that weren’t there. And then reached for her tea again. She’d finish it, then work on her to-do list
 
—things to accomplish as escrow ticked forward and preparations for Leah’s move to Sacramento. It all needed to be done, and without Fletcher it would be easier to stay focused.

Without him.
Macy’s heart cramped. Right now they should be together at Lake Tahoe . . .

“No. Thanks,” Fletcher told the waiter, raising his voice over shouts from a raucous darts tournament that drifted
onto the brewery’s deck each time the doors opened. “I’m good here.” He nudged a half-eaten potato skin, frowned at the beer he’d ordered
 
—flat, untouched. “You can take this away. The beer too. Bring me some coffee. Black.”

Fletcher couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a beer. Never much liked the stuff. But it seemed like a good idea tonight, the same way driving to Tahoe City had. He’d been wrong on both counts. Thin air combined with a little beer buzz should have been a feel-good prescription. But it was obvious that nothing would make today feel better. He drew in a breath of pine-scented evening air and exhaled slowly, trying to diffuse the gut-churning disappointment.

He wasn’t a tissue match for his mother. Not even close, according to the percentages and science-speak accompanying the HLA results.
“Even with a parent or sibling, it’s only a one in four chance of being a marrow donor, at best.”
His mother’s words on the day he’d had the blood drawn. She’d tried to warn him, but Fletcher had been confident he would beat those odds as handily as he’d aced his firearms qualifications. If his mother needed a marrow transplant, it would come from him. But there it was, in black-and-white: no match.

The waiter set his coffee in front of him, steam rising in the cool air.

“Thanks.”

The letter had been waiting for him when he arrived home from Macy’s place
 
—couldn’t have been lousier timing. Not only had he failed a major opportunity to save his mother’s life; his girlfriend’s money manager was trying to place a wager on her early death.

Fletcher closed his eyes against an image of Macy’s face, the reaction when he confronted her about Rush’s viatical brochure. She had looked confused, then horrified. Genuinely. He wanted to believe it, but he kept remembering what she’d said about the “acting lessons” from her mother. How she’d survived when they were forced to live on the streets. From homeless orphan to a trust fund millionaire? How was he supposed to take that in? And reconcile it with the woman he’d come to . . .
love?
Had he really been headed down that path?

Fletcher didn’t know anything for sure anymore. Except that . . .
I don’t belong here.
He turned to look out across the deep-blue expanse of Lake Tahoe, to the snow-topped peaks beyond, still visible in the waning light. The chill breeze lifted his hair. June, and it wasn’t much over forty degrees. And so dry a spark had arced from his finger when he reached out to close the door of his Jeep. It was foreign . . . No,
he
was the foreigner here. Homesick. And after today, he only wanted
 
—

His phone signaled a call. Jessica.

“Hey,” Fletcher said, cell against his ear.

“Well now, if this isn’t a for-sure miracle,” she laughed, the honeyed sound so very familiar. “What are the odds? Me thinking of you. And you actually picking up.”

“I’m here.” Fletcher glanced toward the snow. “Where are you, exactly?”

“Not where I want to be. I’m at work. On my break
 
—at the tables outside Houston Grace. By the ER. You remember.”

Fletcher swore he could hear the thrum of summer cicadas. “I remember.”

“I was thinking of that time I got an itch to run the beach on Galveston Island. After my p.m. shift. And you insisted on driving me. Insufferable, overprotective bully that you are,” Jessica teased. “Picked me up right here.”