Waiting for Wednesday (8 page)

James was out of her life now and she’d moved on, but she truly did believe his words were genuine.

“I accept your apology.”

“I can’t tell you what it means to me to hear you say that,” James said. “I was on my way to pick up some lunch. Would you like to join me?” She fought against the urge to laugh in his face. While she may have accepted his apology, she would never forget what he’d done to her. Never forget the hell he’d put her through.

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He smiled and she was shocked to see what looked like blatant desire in his eyes.

He’d never wanted her. Sex with him had been an unpleasant chore…for both of them.

James’ ability to find fault with her extended from housework and daily routines to the bedroom as well. He pointed out every flaw with her body. She’d worried after her divorce that James had killed all her desire, but one minute in Tristan’s presence had proven that fear unfounded.

“Maybe we could spend the afternoon together. Catch up.” She shook her head. “No thanks. I really need to get back home.”

“Home? Where are you living?”

“I’m staying with some friends until I find a place of my own.” Her answer was purposely evasive.

“You look great, Lane.”

She looked around, uncomfortable under his intense stare. She had nothing left to say to him. “I suppose I should be going.” She rose and turned to leave when the silence between them stretched out uncomfortably.

“You left a few things at the house,” he added quickly. “I kept them for you.”

“You didn’t have to do that. I took everything I wanted.”

“I have your grandmother’s picture.”

She took a deep breath, shocked by his words. When she’d returned to their house the morning she’d checked out of the hospital, she hadn’t been able to find the picture.

In her haste to escape town, she hadn’t had time to do a thorough search. It was the only thing she’d managed to hold on to throughout her twisted childhood. It was quite simply her most precious possession, the only thing that had ever given her some sense of identity. She didn’t remember her grandmother well, but she did recall that the woman loved and cared for her as best she could.

“I want it back,” she said.

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“I knew you would. That’s why I kept it. Why don’t you give me your phone number? We’ll work out a time for you to swing by the house to pick it up.” She nodded, giving him her cell number. She’d thought the picture lost to her for good.

“I’ll call you.” His grin was wide and she was struck by the odd notion she’d just offered her throat to the vampire. James had won her over with the same boyish good looks and charm on their first date. The difference was, now she knew it was all an act.

“Goodbye, James.” She headed back toward the pub, walking nearly six blocks before she managed to calm her racing heart. She wondered if, by returning to Baltimore, she hadn’t tempted fate just a bit
too
far. First with Tris and now with James.

* * * * *

“How about one more, Mr. Collins?” Lane coaxed, guiding her patient through his daily exercises.

“How m-many times do I have to tell you to call me P-Pat?” She grinned. He’d extended the same offer every Wednesday as she’d sat at the bar talking sports with him or Tris. She’d always refused, saying it would feel strange.

However, this was the first time since his stroke he’d protested her calling him Mr.

Collins. Even though his words were still slurred, she felt like hugging him. Each day, she watched more and more of the boisterous man re-emerge.

“I’ve told you a million times, Mr. Collins. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to call you by your first name.”

“Why the h-hell not? I’ve told you to.”

She grinned and let the discussion drop. “You know you aren’t fooling me by trying to pick an argument. You’re going to finish your exercises—all of them.”

“Slave driver,” he muttered as they resumed their work. He was all bluster. She’d never seen anyone so determined to recover and she suddenly understood where Tris got his stubbornness. He was very much like his father.

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“How does your leg feel today? Any numbness?”

He shook his head. “You’re a good n-nurse. Not m-many women would p-put up with me.”

She grinned. “Thank you. Funny though, I don’t remember you saying that earlier when I was making you do your speech exercises. Seem to recall you telling me to buzz off.”

“F-feel like a damn fool. I know how to t-talk.”

“You’re right. You do. In fact, you talk too much. Now stop trying to distract me.

You’re not finished with your workout.”

He chuckled at her joke and continued his exercises. He was quiet for several minutes before starting a new line of conversation. “Your p-parents must be very p-proud of you, Lane.”

His comment seemed to come out of the blue and the shock of it caught her off guard. “I didn’t know my parents.” She shrugged lightly, trying to blink back the tears that had snuck in and attacked her. “I’m a foster kid.” Mr. Collins frowned and shook his head. “I’m s-sorry,” he slurred. “Did I know that?” She knew of all the lingering effects of his stroke, the memory loss bothered him the most.

She shook her head. “No, I’m sure you didn’t. I don’t tell a lot of people.”

“Tristan knows.”

She nodded, unsure if his comment was a question or a statement. “He knows.”

“He’s a g-good man, my Tristan,” Mr. Collins said and Lane had to swallow against the lump in her throat. No man loved or doted on his kids more than Mr. Collins. After a week in his company, she thought she should be used to hearing him sing their praises, but it never failed to touch her.

“Yes, he is. We’re very good friends.” She was unsure how else to respond.

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Mr. Collins nodded. “He’s a h-hard worker. He’ll make some lucky girl a g-good husband.”

Lane laughed, leaning over to kiss Mr. Collins on the cheek. “You aren’t trying to set me up by any chance, are you?”

Mr. Collins chuckled. “You c-could do worse, my girl.”

“I have.” The words slipped out before she could think better of them and she watched the older man frown.

“Your ex-husband h-hurt you.”

She shrugged. “Yes,” she whispered. “He hurt me.”

“Tristan nearly k-killed him that day he came to the b-bar looking for you.” Lane gasped. “James came to the bar? When?”

“Year ago. Took Ewan
and
Sean to p-pull Tristan off the man. I’m thinking now we should have l-let Tristan finish.”

She grinned. “Oh my. You Irish are a bloodthirsty lot, aren’t you?” He laughed and nodded. “I th-think we are at that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now we’re going to—” A noise at the bottom of the stairs distracted her.

“Ewan and Tristan,” Mr. Collins said when they heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. “Always sound like a h-herd of cattle, those two.” Lane was surprised to discover the man was correct as Tris and Ewan entered the room.

“’Bout time,” Mr. Collins said. “Woman’s about to d-do me in with her infernal exercises.”

Lane put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows. “Throwing me under the bus, old man?”

They all laughed and she watched as Tristan studied his father’s face.

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“You up for some ESPN, Pop?” Ewan asked. Tristan’s brother had gotten into the routine of spending an hour with his pop each afternoon, watching sports highlights on TV.

“H-hell yeah. I missed the end of the Orioles g-game last night.” Mr. Collins raised his hand before anyone could speak. “D-don’t tell me how it ended.” Ewan laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He followed his pop down the hallway to Mr. Collins’ bedroom. Pop still walked slowly and with the assistance of a walker, but he was decidedly steadier on his feet. He and Ewan watched the television in the older man’s room as he almost always fell asleep after his exercises. Lane was touched by Ewan staying with his pop even after he fell asleep.

Tris looked at her and she noticed he seemed uneasy. “Pop seems chipper today,” he said, pausing awkwardly.

“I told you he was getting better.”

Tris nodded and dropped onto the couch, rubbing his eyes wearily. “So you did.

Fuck, I’m tired.”

She sat beside him, deciding it was time to confront him about his absence from the apartment, especially when he took his hands away from his face and she saw the pain in his eyes.

“So, what’s up with you, stranger?”

He swallowed heavily. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much this week. It’s been really busy down at the pub.”

“Ah, has it?” She let her question hover, certain he could tell from her tone she didn’t believe him. “From my perspective, it seems like you’re avoiding this apartment like the plague.”

Originally she’d assumed he was working longer hours to cover for his pop, but as she observed the time each of his brothers and sisters devoted to their father, she began 64

Waiting for Wednesday

to suspect his absence was based on something else. She could see by the guilt in his features, she’d been right. “Why, Tris? Is it me?”

“God no. I’ve missed you like crazy this week.”

“Then what?”

“Did I ever tell you how my mom died?”

Lane shook her head.

“It was cancer. Her death was slow and painful.”

“Oh Tris.” She placed her hand on his cheek as she recalled him mentioning that he’d only been fifteen when he lost his mother. She couldn’t imagine how hard it had been for a young boy on the verge of manhood to watch his mother suffer so, knowing there was nothing he could do to help. Tris was a born protector, like his father. How hard must it have been for them to stand by and watch, helpless to defend a woman they clearly adored? “I’m sorry.”

“She went through chemo and for a while we thought she was going to recover.

Then it came back. She wanted to die at home, so we took turns taking care of her. She died on my watch.”

“
What
?”

“She was sleeping a lot at the end. The pain was unbearable so the doctor gave her morphine. I was sitting with her. Her breath was raspy, labored. It was like there was a rattle in her chest.”

Lane nodded. She’d heard the sound many times over the years as she worked in the hospital with dying patients.

“I was sort of drifting off to sleep in the chair when I heard it. Or rather, I
didn’t
hear it. The room had gone quiet. She’d stopped breathing. There wasn’t time to call for help or to even say goodbye. She just…stopped.” 65

Mari Carr

Lane felt tears streaming down her face and she fought to find some words to comfort Tris. Her mind kept coming back to the fact he’d been avoiding the apartment, avoiding his pop. “You don’t think it was your fault your mother died, do you?” He shrugged. “No, not really.”

“Not really? Tris, your mom was sick—
very
sick. There was absolutely nothing you could have done.”

“Maybe not, but I can’t do it again, Lane. I can’t watch another parent die. I’m not strong enough for that. Maybe I will be in fifty, sixty years from now.”

“Your pop’s not dying.”

Tris nodded and when he looked at her again, she noticed a glimmer of hope. “He really did seem better today.”

She smiled, wiping the tears from her face. “I told you so.” He reached out and drew her close. She buried her face in his chest and she felt his heart beating fast and hard against her cheek. He rested his head against hers. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bastard this week.”

She hugged him tighter. “You haven’t been a bastard at all.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” she replied. “Me too.”

* * * * *

Lane stared at the clock the next afternoon and wondered if she could squeeze in a short nap while Tris and Ewan took their pop down to the restaurant for a little while.

Today was Mr. Collins’ first day out of the apartment and she knew he was looking forward to the opportunity to get back to his beloved pub and his friends.

There was an afternoon Orioles doubleheader and they thought it might do the old man some good to watch a bit of it with his mates. She wished she had the energy to share his enthusiasm about watching the game.

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She’d been living on four or five hours of sleep each night since her arrival in the apartment, in her attempts to hide her strange problem. Last night, after Tristan’s confession, she’d tossed and turned, unable to put the image out of her mind of a fifteen-year-old boy sitting with his dying mother. As a result, she’d slept less than two hours.

“You look like shit.”

Lane looked up and realized Tris had come down from his room. “Thanks.” He plopped on the couch next to her. “What gives?”

“Didn’t sleep well last night. Worried about your pop’s first venture downstairs.” Tris frowned. “He’ll be fine, right? Because if you think he’s doing too much, too soon—”

She immediately regretted her lie. “Oh no, he’s perfectly capable of going downstairs. Don’t mind me.”

Ewan and his father came down the hall before Tris could make any further comment.

“You ready?” Mr. Collins asked and Lane grinned.

“I think I might let you guys get started without me,” she said. “I have a few things to do up here.” Like sleep. “I’ll come down later.”

“Okay,” Ewan said. “But you’re running the risk of missing a helluva game.”

“I won’t be long,” she promised. Just two hours. If she could just sleep two hours…

Tris bent down to kiss her on the cheek and his look said he wasn’t finished with their conversation.

Great.

She observed their slow progress down the stairs, holding her breath during a large part of their descent, only breathing easy again when she heard Mr. Collins greet his friends as he disappeared from her view.

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She’d started down the hallway, dragging her feet, when her cell phone rang. She almost ignored it, but turned back to the living room to retrieve it from the coffee table.