Authors: Lisa Jackson
If She Only Knew (6 page)
Marla slowly let her hand relax and heard soft footsteps sidle to the bed. “Marla?” Alex asked, gently. “Honey, can you hear me? Just move your hand, sweetheart. Let me know that you're okay. God, I've missed you.”
He sounded so sincere. She wanted to believe him. Oh, God, she wanted to trust that he loved her. He picked up her hand and held it in his.
“Squeeze my finger if you can hear me, darling. Come on. Give it a try.”
Marla willed her fingers to move, but her hands were stiff, her muscles unable to bend or shift.
“I think . . . I think I felt something,” Alex said.
“Good. Oh, maybe she's finally waking up.” Eugenia's voice was closer. “Marla? Can you hear us, dear? Just nod, or open your eyes.” A pause. Marla couldn't move, felt herself losing the frail hold she had on consciousness. “Honey . . . ?”
With a sigh of disgust, he let her hand fall onto the bed. “It's no use.”
“Of course it is,” Eugenia said calmly. “We just have to be patient. She'll come around.”
“And if she doesn't?” Alex said coldly.
“Then . . . we'll have to adjust. All of us. It'll put a crimp on things, but it won't be the end of the world. Don't borrow trouble. You saw her hand move, felt her try to squeeze your hand. This is progress.”
“If you say so,” he grumbled, obviously disbelieving.
Bayview Hospital was one of the city's finest, or so he'd been told, but as Nick walked down the carpeted hallways where recessed lighting played on copies of famous pieces of art, and nurses, doctors and aides hurried by at a clipped, professional pace, his skin crawled. He'd never liked the feel of a hospital. Any hospital. The odors of antiseptic, talc from the latex gloves, and disinfectant burned in his nostrils. Piped-in music, meant to be soothing, scraped against his nerves, and the smiles of patients, visitors and staff all seemed tarnished and false. In Nick's opinion, not much good ever happened at a hospital. This one wouldn't likely alter his position.
But he was here. Like it or not. And he was going to do his damned duty.
Gritting his teeth he made his way up in the elevator to room 505 and found the door slightly ajar. Soft musicâan instrumental version of an old Beatles pieceâplayed from hidden speakers in the corridor that was surprisingly empty of nurses, aides or visitors. But then maybe his brother had segregated this wing for his wife; after all he was some kind of muckety-muck on the board of this hospital. Samuel Cahill, then his son Alex after him, had donated enormous amounts of money to Bayview's building fund, all through the Cahill Foundation. So, Alex could probably call the shots here when it came to his wife's care. Just the way Alex liked it.
Nick pushed the door open to the darkened room where a patient, Marla, he presumed, was lying in a hospital bed. She was alone. Alex hadn't shown up yet, but then, Nick was a few minutes early.
The room was pretty much standard. Polished metal bed rails reflected the dimmed illumination from a single fluorescent fixture recessed in the ceiling. An IV, like a thin sentinel, stood guard at her bedside, dripping glucose water and God-knew-what-else into her veins. Bouquets of cut flowers, boxes of candy, and potted plants gave splashes of color to the otherwise drab surroundings. Cards from well-wishers overflowed from a white wicker basket with a bright orange bow. Half-drawn blinds were slanted enough to cast shadowy stripes over the bed.
Gritting his teeth, Nick strode to the bed and felt like a damned intruder. Marla was lying on her back, her face bruised and swollen beyond recognition, her jaw wired. “Jesus,” he whispered.
This was Marla?
His gut clenched. He'd told himself he was long over her, that the anger and pain of her betrayal had been buried years before, but standing over her as he did now, he couldn't help but feel a sliver of empathy for the pathetic creature who was his sister-in-law. Damn, she looked bad. Barely alive. Her head had been shaved on one side and there were visible stitches in the dark stubble.
His fingers curled over the rail. As he stared down at her he remembered the woman she'd once been, all the beauty and pure feminine allure that had been Marla Amhurst in that carefree time before she'd become Mrs. Alexander Cahill, before she ceased to be his lover and became his brother's wife.
The memories he'd locked away were suddenly unleashed and recollections of a young, long-legged, flirty woman who oozed sex appeal and knew it, came to mind. God, she'd been intriguing, with mischievous green eyes, haughtily arched brows and cheekbones that wouldn't quit.
Now she was reduced to this, a battered hospital patient, lying half-dead in a cold bed, hooked up to monitors and an IV, unaware of the world around her; a far cry from the woman who had snuggled under the rumpled covers of an iron bed in a cozy cottage in Mendicino and teasingly kissed the tip of his nose before giving him a naughty wink and slowly working her way downward.
“What happened?” he said, gripping the rails of the bed. “Damn it, Marla, what the hell happened?” Shaking his head, he dismissed his nostalgic memories. They were all lies anyway. She'd used him. Pure and simple. And he'd let her.
The damned thing of it was, he would probably do it again. In a heartbeat.
No matter how wretched she looked right now, in a drab cotton gown that she would have disdained as a rag, Nick had to remember the woman within. “How the hell did you end up here?” he whispered.
Behind her lids, her eyes moved.
Wasn't she supposed to be in a coma? The hairs on the back of his neck rose. “Marla?” he whispered, his throat nearly closing on her name. “Marla?”
Slowly, as if with all the effort in the world, her eyes opened a crack and then wider. She stared straight at him, impaling him with huge black pupils ringed by a tiny slice of green.
His heart jolted.
She squinted, blinked, but continued to keep him in her line of vision.
“I thought you . . . I'd better call a nurse or a doctor.” His knuckles turned white as he gripped the rail.
She lifted a hand to touch his and struggled to speak, but her lips moved over teeth that were laced together with wires and the words when they came were muffled. Nonetheless they rang distinctly through his brain and touched a nerve.
“Who are you?” she demanded, eyebrows drawing down over those harsh green eyes.
So she didn't remember. A thorn of disappointment cut through his soul but he ignored it. His gut clenched. “I'm Nick.”
She dropped her hand and gave off what he supposed was a sigh. Still no hint of recognition lighted her gaze. “Nick?” she whispered with obvious difficulty. “The . . . brother?”
So she did know. “I think you refer to me as an outlaw.”
She didn't respond.
“You know, as opposed to in-law,” he explained, lifting a shoulder. “Your in-law.” Nothing registered in that swollen black and blue face. “It was a joke.”
“A bad one.” Her eyes began to close again. “A really bad one,” she mumbled around the wires, her voice fading.
“I'll come up with something better next time,” he said and she didn't respond. “Marla?” Oh, hell, she couldn't drift off again! The last he'd heard she hadn't woken up at all; that's what Alex had said on the phone earlier when he'd suggested they meet here in the hospital room, which, as it turned out, hadn't been such a hot idea.
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket and walked out of the room in search of a nurse. Being alone with a woman who seemed to drift in and out of consciousness wasn't his idea of a party. Especially when that woman was Marla Amhurst Cahill. He glanced over his shoulder to the open door and saw her lying, unmoving, on the bed. She looked real bad. But, now that she was rousing and healing, that would soon change.
No doubt she'd be beautiful again.
Not that he cared.
What was the old saying? Once burned, twice shy? Well, he'd already been burned big time. This time he'd be shyâshy as hell.
Chapter Three
“I'm telling you she woke up, stared me straight in the eye and asked me who I was,” Nick said, still unnerved. Leaning against the window casement in the sitting room of the hundred-year-old mansion where he'd grown up, he yanked at the collar of his shirt and glanced at his mother. “I was explaining what had happened to a nurse just as Alex flew in. Once I filled him in, I left. I figured he and his wife might want to be alone. They have a lot to catch up on.”
“Well, thank goodness she's had a breakthrough,” Eugenia said from her favorite high-backed chair. “I've been so worried, you don't know. This has been a nightmare, Nick, an absolute nightmare.”
“It's not over yet.”
“Oh, I know.” She shook her head and not one strand of apricot-colored hair moved.
The phone jangled in another part of the house, but Eugenia didn't budge, just glanced toward the archway leading to the foyer of the house. Located on Mount Sutro, with a commanding view of the city and Bay, the gated estate with its imposing houseâCraftsman rather than Victorian, he'd been reminded more than a dozen timesâhad been a source of pride to every member of his family. Except for him. He hated it.
The phone jangled sharply again, then became silent. “Carmen must have gotten it,” Eugenia said. “Probably reporters or the police. Ever since the accident, they haven't left us alone. Some even camped out near the front gate for a while, until another more interesting story came along.” She rolled her eyes. “I never thought I'd see the day when I was glad there was some political scandal afoot at the governor's office.”
“The price of fame,” he said.
“Yes, well . . .” She cleared her throat and fiddled with the strand of pearls around her neck.
Quick footsteps hurried down the hallway and within seconds a slim woman with shining black hair and almond-shaped eyes rounded the corner. Dressed in a crisp white blouse with the sleeves rolled up and narrow black skirt, she offered Nick a confident smile as she carried a cordless phone to his mother.
“It's Mr. Cahill from the hospital.”
“Good.” Eugenia took the proffered phone and waved her fingers in Nick's direction. “Carmen, this is my other son. Nicholas.” She looked over the top of her glasses. “Carmen just about runs this place. What with everything that's going on, I don't know what I'd do without her.”
Carmen smiled. “It's just part of the job,” she said, pumping his hand with a surprisingly firm handshake. “Glad to meet you.”
“Same here.”
Eugenia was already speaking into the phone, her eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, focused on Nick. “Yes, but . . . Nick said . . . yes, well . . .” She let out a long, defeated breath. “I suppose you're right.” For as long as he could remember his mother had deferred to a man, first to his father and then to Alex. He guessed it was happening again.
“Fine. Yes . . . you want to talk to him? . . . No? . . .” She shook her head in Nick's direction to silently tell him he was off the hook. For the moment. “That'll be all right, then. Yes. We'll be here . . .” She clicked off the phone and set it on a beveled glass table. Her lips twitching downward, she glanced at her watch. “He's on his way home from the hospital. Unfortunately, Marla didn't waken again.”
“What?” Nick scowled. “Why not?”
“I don't know. Alex said she was totally unresponsive. Not only to Alex, but to the nurses and Dr. Robertson as well.” Eugenia's shoulders drooped a bit and she stared out the window. “I suppose this is to be expected.”
“Like hell.”
She lifted a plucked, gray eyebrow. “Swearing won't help.”
“Sure it will,” he grumbled as Carmen, who had obviously been lingering on the other side of the archway, came back into the room.
“I didn't want to disturb you earlier when you were resting,” she said to Eugenia as she picked up the phone and stuffed it into her pocket. “I took messages and left them on Mr. Cahill's desk in the den.”
“Do you remember who they were?”
“Mrs. Lindquist again and Mrs. Favier.”
“Cherise,” Eugenia said icily. “Of course. Anyone else?”
“Someone from a newspaper and an attorney, a woman, who said she represented Mrs. Delacroix's estate.”
“Wonderful,” his mother said, the little lines around her mouth more evident as she pursed her lips. “Just what we need. Well, Mr. Cahill will deal with them when he gets home.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Carmen, would you mind getting me some tea . . . Nick, anything?”
“Maybe later.”
“It'll just be few minutes.” Carmen flashed a quick smile and hustled toward the kitchen.
“Efficient girl, but we're going to lose her,” Eugenia observed. “She's going to night school, studying to be a bilingual teacher. It was my suggestion that she continue her education, after I met her at Cahill House . . . well, you know about that.”
Of course he did. Cahill House had been established nearly a hundred years ago for girls who found themselves “in trouble.” A board of directors ran the philanthropic establishment and a Cahill had always been chairman of the board. Some things just didn't change. And that, in Nick's opinion, was the problem. Samuel had served on the board and now so did Alex. A large donation was made every year in the Cahill name.
“I wish people would quit calling. Everyone knows Marla's still in the hospital . . . oh, well, Joanna Lindquist's a friend, but a horrid gossip and I suppose you can't stop attorneys and then there's Cherise . . .” Eugenia's eyes met Nick's. “I assume that Alex told you that Fenton's children are coming around again.” She rested her chin on her hand and Nick noticed the age spots, evidence that his mother wasn't too stubborn to grow old.
“I heard. Cherise even tracked me down. Wants to see Marla.”
“I'll bet. If she does, there's a reason behind it, let me tell you. I've never really believed in the old âbad blood' theory, but those two are enough to change my mind.” She pushed herself out of her chair and walked stiffly to the window where Nick was sitting. “Well, there's nothing I can do about it. Alex will have to deal with Monty and Cherise. If they want to sue us, so be it. They haven't a leg to stand on.” Straightening the hem of her suit jacket, she added, “They're like vultures around a dying lamb, you know.”
“Except no one's dying,” he said, making sure he caught her drift.
“Not yet,” she teased with a deep chuckle as she took her chair again and Carmen brought the tea service, poured Eugenia a cup and, after asking if she needed anything else, left.
“Tea?” Eugenia asked, as there were extra cups on the tray.
“No thanks. I think I need something stronger.”
“Help yourself.” She took up her cup.
“Later.” Nick walked to the fireplace and from beneath Eugenia's chair came a low, nervous growl.
“I wondered when she'd come to life,” his mother said, then leaned over the arm of her chair. “Coco, hush!”
A little scruff of a white-haired dog stuck its nose out of the shadows. Glittering black eyes regarded Nick with distrust. Again the tiny beast growled.
“Just ignore her,” Eugenia advised. “Coco's all bark and no bite.” She let one hand trail off the arm of her chair, her manicured nails tracking through the dog's fur, her gold bracelets clinking softly. “You're just a coward, deep inside, aren't you?” she asked in a higher pitched voice, then glanced at her son again.
“So, where are your bags?”
“On my way back from the hospital, I took a room at the Red Victorian.”
“Oh, for the love of St. Mary, you checked into a hotel? When your family lives just up the hill?” Eugenia threw up a hand as if she couldn't understand what went on in her younger son's head. “You can stay here, in your old room.”
When hell freezes over,
Nick thought. This place held too many ghosts from his past, and soon Marla would be returning. He glanced around the sitting room. A few new chairs had been thrown in with the antiques and period pieces he remembered. This house had survived two major earthquakes as well as the rigors and tests of several generations of Cahills. The shake and brick walls, pitched roof and original windows exuded old money and San Francisco elegance at its finest. Or worst.
Nick thought. This place held too many ghosts from his past, and soon Marla would be returning. He glanced around the sitting room. A few new chairs had been thrown in with the antiques and period pieces he remembered. This house had survived two major earthquakes as well as the rigors and tests of several generations of Cahills. The shake and brick walls, pitched roof and original windows exuded old money and San Francisco elegance at its finest. Or worst.
Nick wasn't certain which.
He felt no sense of homecoming in this behemoth with its chandeliers that dripped cut glass and glittered against hardwood floors that gleamed with the soft patina that only comes with age and the scuff of expensive shoes. Carved paneling, painstakingly tooled by a meticulous German immigrant over a hundred years earlier, had darkened with age.
Yep, it was quite a place. If you liked a house that seemed to have no soul.
The front door opened and Alex strode into the foyer. He dropped his briefcase on the lowest step of the staircase. Yanking off his gloves, he glared through the archway at his brother. “You said Marla was awake,” he accused, his gray eyes harsh and disbelieving.
“I said she woke up and stared at me, said a few words and fell asleep or whatever you want to call it again.” Nick wasn't about to be intimidated.
“Well, she never so much as moved while I was there and I stayed over an hour.” Alex unbuttoned his coat. “Dr. Robertson told me waiting around was futile. They'll call if there's any change.” Tossing his coat over the banister, he walked into the sitting room. “Helluva thing, isn't it?” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. “After over six weeks of nothing, not one solitary sign of life, Marla opens her eyes, speaks to
you,
then relapses into a coma. All in the five minutes you were there.” Alex crammed a cigarette into his mouth and, with a click of his lighter, lit up.
you,
then relapses into a coma. All in the five minutes you were there.” Alex crammed a cigarette into his mouth and, with a click of his lighter, lit up.
“It's a start, Alex. Just be patient.” Eugenia set her cup in its saucer, then stood as Alex planted an obligatory kiss against the smooth parchment of her skin. Even in four-inch heels, she was a head shorter than her sons. Her apricot-tinted hair was fixed in place, her suitâalways some designer suitâimpeccable, without so much as a wrinkle.
“Be patient? Hell, I have been!” Alex yanked on his tie and shot a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. Raking stiff fingers through his hair, he grumbled, “Christ, it's frustrating. Frustrating as hell.” He leaned a shoulder against the mantel where gilt-framed pictures of the family cluttered the mantelpiece. Resting one arm on the smooth oak, he let his fingers dangle toward the grate. Smoke from his cigarette curled lazily towards the ceiling. “This is a disaster,” he whispered in a voice that was barely audible. “A goddamned disaster.”
Nick said, “I thought you said she woke up once before.”
“No.” Alex shook his head, drew hard on his cigarette and his lips twisted as if at a private irony. “She whispered your name, but she never regained consciousness that I know of. Her eyelids didn't so much as flutter. It . . . it was like some kind of weird dream she was having.”
“Dream?”
“Or something. I don't know. I'm just sick of this.” Alex massaged his forehead with his fingertips. “Hell, I want a drink. You?” He nodded toward his brother and crossed the room to a rosewood cabinet with beveled mirrors across the back. Inside were the finest blends of Scotch, bourbon and rye whiskey that money could buy. Alex dug a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the antique cabinet.
“Maybe we should wait at the hospital,” Nick suggested.
“Nah. They said they would call.” Alex threw a look over his shoulder, and the first hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “The nurse kinda threw me out again. I guess I was being . . . a little what did she call it . . . âunfeeling and argumentative,' yeah, that was it. The upshot was that I pissed her off. So what do you want?” he asked Nick.
“Scotch. On the rocks.”
“Mother?”
“Nothing for me,” she said tartly, but then she'd always been a little bit of a teetotaler, never imbibing more than a glass of wine, which, Nick assumed, was a direct response to their father's deep-seated love affair with gin. She held up her cup. “This'll do.”
“Did you talk to the doctor?” Nick asked.
“Yeah. I met with Phil Robertson in the hospital roomâbefore I pissed off the nurse. He thinks that Marla's coming around. It might be hours or days, he couldn't say, but, and this is important,” he extracted a couple of bottles, “when she does wake up and all her vital signs are normal, Robertson will release her.” With a flick of his wrist, Alex twisted open the cap of a new bottle. “I've already got a live-in nurse and a relief nurse waiting.”
“Good news all around,” Nick said, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he stared through the window at the lights of the city. Rain spattered the glass, drizzling in rivulets that inched down the panes and smeared the view.
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