Cocoon (17 page)

He watched her worriedly as he backed out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him. She knew he stood just outside the door because his footsteps stopped there.

Darn! What now?

She struggled to work her gown up and her panties down, teeth clenched the entire time, especially when she had to struggle to her feet and slide the undergarment off. Slowly, she lowered herself back down into sitting position but the muscles all sharply protested and she cried out, “Aaiii.”

The door sprang open. Scott rushed to her. “This is nonsense, Zoe,” he scolded none too gently. “Do you think I haven't seen anybody pee before?”

“Get out,” Zoe husked weakly.

“Get over it,” Scott's voice was firm. “Just consider me a doctor.”

“No.”

“I'm not going anywhere till you do what you have to. So get going.”

Weakness and pain reduced Zoe to a quivering, addled mess, so she automatically relieved herself as Scott held her wobbly head and shoulders against him.

He pulled off toilet tissue and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she whispered, and since she'd already compromised herself to shredded mortification, she finished the task as he waited. Then he repeated the gentle shift of her weight to him and assisted her back to bed, where he placed her with infinite care and precision. She was amazed that he'd taken the stress off the blasted simmering flexus muscle.

From the pillow, she looked up at him in befuddlement. “How did you do that?”

He lowered himself onto the side of her bed and smiled. The steely gray eyes warmed her and began to thaw her from the icy shock of pain. “I know all about this injury. I've had it myself and know where the pain pressure points are that set it off.”

Zoe noted that he was not bragging. Rather, he entered her world to generously gift her with his expertise. But an alarm went off. It was more than expertise that he offered

“Scott.” She wet her lips and saw his gaze go there then return to study her now wary features. She knew he saw it, but his gaze never wavered. “I can't be – look, I appreciate you for what you're doing. I really do.”

A touch of amusement sparked in Scott's eyes. “But?”

“But, I can't get involved with anybody. Not in a romantic way, at least.”

“Have I asked you to?” He smiled then. An openly male, knowing one.

Zoe had the decency to be embarrassed. “I know,” she muttered, her gaze sliding to the window where, beyond, tree limbs wore an unseasonable coat of November frost. It could be a cozy scene in her warm bedchamber with this handsome, truly decent male tending to her like she was the danged Queen of Sheba.

But.

She cut her gaze back to him and caught just a glimpse of – hunger? In the next instant it was gone. Perhaps she'd imagined it because he looked as self-possessed as any dignitary she'd ever met.

“Look, Zoe. If you want to be just friends, that's fine with me. Right now, the important thing is to get you up and on your feet. Fast.” He hesitated then but seemed to gather determination and said, “Another thing. I want to rent your duplex apartment.”

The air whooshed out of her. She peered at him to see if he was serious. “No way, Scott!”

He raised his eyebrows and cut her a severe look of disbelief. “The way I see it is this: you need someone paying rent to make ends meet a little more – comfortably. I need a nice apartment like this. The one I'm living in downtown is crappy. This is a much better place. And …” He shrugged and looked so logical Zoe wanted to slap him. “And I can be here to help you through this time. You desperately need to work through this therapy.”

“No.”

“I can guarantee that you'll be on your feet within – two to three weeks.”

“No way.”

He grinned again, that confidence oozing from his dad blasted hide. “Lease me the apartment so I can be here to help you, and you won't lose any more rent.”

“You really think you can get me on my feet and going in two to three weeks?” she asked slowly, hopefully.

“Positive. Now if you'll hang in there with me and do exactly what I tell you to, I'll get you there. And just friendship. I promise. Deal?”

For a long moment Zoe experienced a sharp pang of disappointment that he'd given in so easily. But wasn't that what she wanted? Just friendship?

Zoe looked at his extended hand. Big hand. Beautiful square fingers.

She blinked and reached for it. “Deal.”

• • •

What really astonished Zoe was that Scott was true to his word. No hanky-panky attempts were forthcoming. He'd moved into the apartment, with Peyton's help, within forty-eight hours. The initial treatment had been, of course, anti-inflammatory meds along with the RICE technique (Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate). By the third day, however, things sped up.

“You need to lightly use those muscles, Zoe. Don't overdo it, but a little stretching and strengthening will help reduce swelling and also ensures that new muscle forms properly and scar tissue is broken down and removed.”

By now, sitting and moving about slowly and carefully, Zoe raised an eyebrow. “How'd you get so smart, Burns?”

He laughed, sending off something inside Zoe that she pushed away. That darned flapping of butterflies had to go. “Zoe, I grew up on football and soccer fields, baseball lots and everything in between that involved a ball. Of course, injuries are an integral component of contact sports. So I've seen it all. And then when I studied to be a physical therapist, it all came together.”

“Why did you end up coaching?”

He shrugged. “I couldn't stay away from the action. As simple as that.”

Zoe frowned. “But – you ended up coaching rather than going into professional sports.”

“That's because I love the interaction with people. Rather than being one team player, I can train entire teams and maybe, just maybe, influence lives along the way. Does that make sense?” He sat in an easy chair in her bedroom suite, his long, powerful legs crossed at the ankles, buffed arms crossed over his flat abdomen. His face, in animation, slid into olive-complected, fierce-eyed intensity

Untamed glimpses bled through

Why did he have to be so danged masculine?

Zoe blinked and had to jog her memory as to what he'd asked. “Uh, yes. That makes perfect sense, Scott. It really does.” She shifted carefully in the matching leather chair that faced Scott's, her bare feet resting on the chair's ottoman.

Zoe loved this comfortable conversational arrangement of heavy dark furniture with splashes of eclectic colors that fit her offbeat taste.

It was
her
, from the brightly colored Indian cushions to the funky souvenir yard sale and antique barn “finds.”

Many had tried to squash Zoe into a standard mold, including her parents, but she'd never fit any of them. She felt blessed that her parents loved and accepted her as she was. But – men did not. She'd do well to remember that when her hormones went loping ahead of sound reasoning.

“Hey!” Peyton called as he slammed in the front door and deposited his coat into the foyer closet.

“Hey yourself!” Scott uncrossed his ankles and slid fluidly from lounging to sitting, elbows on knees. “Back here!”

Peyton was all smiles when as he collapsed onto the burgundy-hued leather love seat. The heavy furniture was one of Zoe's few concessions to traditional. The smells and textures reminded her so much of her father's study at home. How she still missed him.

“How'd the music session go?” Zoe asked and shifted again so as to keep moving just a little. Scott said that would help, even when sitting. He'd taught her how to move so as not to stir up the vicious muscle contractions.

“Great. I love the choir's special arrangement.”

“Yeh.” Scott grinned and gave a thumbs-up. “Can't beat Andrae's music.”

“Which one?” Zoe asked.

“‘Jesus Is the Answer.' A real groovy arrangement. Syncopation and soul beat.”

“Ohhh,” Zoe groaned. “I'm gonna have to miss. Not fair.”

“No you don't,” Scott countered. “You can walk now, and you can stand for brief periods. You have to be careful of course, but …” He shrugged and spread his hands. “You can do it.”

Zoe pulled in a deep breath and exhaled. Was it possible? She'd sure love to get out of these walls for a spell after being laid up, a very foreign experience for her. Amazon superwoman, her ex had teasingly called her. How she hated his take on her. Thanksgiving was next week. Lordy, she couldn't be an invalid during the holidays.

Not to mention she would owe dance lessons that students now missed, what with her being out of commission.
Aargh,
she hated it. Peyton had taken up some of the slack, but he couldn't do it all by himself. She had to quickly get back into the flow of things.

She nodded decisively. “Yeh. You're right. Peyton, how about going over that song to refresh me on it? Can't get up there with egg on my face, messing up all over the place, now can I?”

She carefully navigated her recovering bulk to the den and resettled there in a comfortable overstuffed chair. There, Peyton struck up the music and began singing tenor to Scott's baritone and Zoe's alto. Immediately, Scott switched to lead and the result was – well, it was beautiful.

Zoe couldn't help but grin as she belted out a lusty alto.

• • •

Thanksgiving dinner at Zoe's was noisy and festive.

Tim and Sherry had provided the turkey and dressing, while teen Ashley did homemade cranberry sauce. Zoe had coached and worked while sitting at her bar as she and Peyton prepared other traditional dishes to fit the spread. Even Scott pitched in and helped.

They'd all felt it wise not to allow Seana to prematurely jump in to handle holiday preparations, fearing dire consequences.

Seana, Barth noticed, shrank a bit from the boisterous cousin-bantering and male-ribbing racket. Even the women's softer chatter failed to engage her.

Barth held his breath until she finally began to listen to Ashley's soft voice catching her up a bit on what was happening. Ashley was sensitive to her Nana's reactions and somehow knew not to tarry at her side for long.

Space was the word now. Give Nana plenty of it.

The food was wonderful and plentiful, but Barth noticed Seana's expression of – what? Disapproval? Disappointment?

Trepidation hovered.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, ready to face it head on.

Seana looked at him. “I was thinking that I want to cook for the family at Christmas. I want to do it all, like I used to.” Her features settled into a melancholy mien.

“But honey – do you think that's wise? You've not been well and it'll be major.”

“I can do it,” Seana insisted, a stubborn set to her chin. “I want to.”

Barth nodded, something inside him flailing in protest. But – how could he say no to something Seana wanted so desperately to do for her family?

In the end, he could not. He'd just flow with it.

What was the worst that could happen?

• • •

Christmas loomed. Seana got out her old recipe stash of traditional holiday favorites. Many were from her late mother's collection as well as from her aunt Kate's, Billie Jean's late mother.

Billie Jean came in while she was pouring over the assortment of choices. “Can I help?” Billie Jean asked, sliding onto a bar stool opposite Seana, watching her curiously. Seana saw the guardedness in their scrutiny. Like Seanna was some daggum lab bug.

“No.”

“Hey, there's that dessert Mama used to make when we all got together at Grandma's for Christmas. Party Strawberries, made from coconut, condensed milk, and strawberry Jello. Mmm. Remember?”

“I remember.” Seana shifted through some more pages that she had, years ago, recorded in a journal made just for recipes.

“Yeh,” Billie Jean sighed. “I really miss those days with family. So many are gone now. Grandma and Grandpa. All our parents. Sheez! Makes me feel sad at times.”

Seana didn't reply. She simply didn't think that far any more. She knew that she had stepped one foot out of the fog. She didn't know how. But she felt the thing circling her.

Stalking.

Suddenly restless, she stood and shuffled her choices together and put them in a drawer. Then she slid the recipe journal back onto its proper shelf. She went to the den and turned on the day's ball game and sat down.

Billie Jean joined her. “Who's playing?”

Seana shrugged and drew her bare feet up under her. Why didn't Billie Jean leave?

“Shouldn't you be leaving?” Seana heard herself ask.

“Huh?” Billie Jean looked at her. Then frowned and scratched her head. “You know, I really should.” She stood and strode out of the den. “See you later, Seana.”

Seana heard her footsteps tromping downstairs.

She breathed a sigh of relief. She was alone again. Now she needed to plan her menu for Christmas. She would have to make her cakes in the next couple of days. And then the fudge. Zoe loved it. Actually, they all did.

The turkey. She went to the freezer, got it out, and put it in the bottom of the fridge to thaw. Dressing she could make ahead and freeze until Christmas Eve. She took out that recipe and began to measure ingredients and stir together.

Two hours later, Barth came in from choir practice. “What?” He looked around the kitchen at all the clutter of pans and batter-crusted bowls.

“I'm cooking. Don't worry, I'll clean it up,” she snapped as she squirted dish detergent into the sink and furiously slapped a pan into it and began to scrub.

Barth moved behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Honey? I wasn't criticizing. I'll help.”

“No. I'll do it myself.” Seana proceeded to attack the dirty pans and counters as though it was all out war. And it was at that moment. Seana knew that she had to do it. It would prove something.