A Doctor in His House

No, he thought. It wasn’t that kind of familiarity. It had been triggered by seeing her beside him in the car, as if he’d had her as a passenger in his vehicle before.

He couldn’t think about it now … 2564 … 2570 … This was Dr. McKinley’s house right here, nicely done up but not too feminine or fancy. Cream and dark green paint, newly stained timber on the front porch.

He turned into the first of two driveways. “Do you have a key to your brother’s house?”

“No, but I know where he keeps one. Could you … get it for me?”

“If you tell me where it is.”

She described the location, somewhat less obvious than under the doormat or sitting on top of the frame. Fourth planter pot to the left of the driveway, under the dark gray rock. She waited in the car while he unlocked the front door—the big Victorian was divided into two apartments, and he guessed that Andy’s was 2572, not 2572A—then he had to come back to help her out. She clung to him and leaned on him as if he was the only fixed point in the whole universe, but at least she was walking on her own, this time.

Suddenly, holding her in his arms once again, recognition came. It elbowed its way past the changed hair color and style, the pale face beneath the large sunglasses, the weight loss, and came fully into focus.

It was Scarlett.

Scarlett Sharpe.

Shoot! Damn! It really was!

Scarlett Sharpe was Andy McKinley’s sister?

Daniel didn’t know if she had recognized him. He thought she was probably in such bad shape that she hadn’t. He must have said his name to Andy, but had she been listening? Had she made the connection? Did she remember? What had he said? Too much?

He felt a wash of anger and embarrassment and regret and yearning and vivid memory, as well as a sense of unfinished business. He fought to keep any of it from showing then realized that she wasn’t going to be picking up on those kinds of emotions, when she was struggling to take one step in front of another.

“I can’t leave you alone here,” he said, trying so hard to keep the reluctance from coloring his voice, so that it ended up sounding completely wooden instead.

“Andy won’t be long.”

“All the same.”

“I’m okay. I just need to drink some water and lie down.”

He was torn by a level of uncertainty and indecision that didn’t happen nearly so often anymore, but which had once been very familiar. How much to give away? How much to trust? What to offer? What to say?

He’d been twenty-four years old when he and Scarlett had known each other before. Six years on, twenty-four seemed like it was just a couple of years beyond boyhood. In so many ways back then he’d been older than his years. In other ways, far out of his depth, with his emotions so powerful and simple that they frightened him.

Lord, he didn’t enjoy some of those memories …

Which was good, because memories weren’t relevant right now.

“I’m going to wait with you until your brother arrives,” he told her, making a decision he didn’t intend to change.

Scarlett didn’t reply.

They made it up the steps and through the door. “Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“Couch.” Apparently because she didn’t think she could make it any farther, even though he was carrying her again.

He helped her to lie down, finding a red silk pillow for her head. “Could you close the drapes?” she asked weakly. “The light is so bright.”

It wasn’t.

Not to his eyes, anyhow.

But he did as she’d asked, and it seemed to help her. She lay with her eyes closed, still wearing her sunglasses, and less tension stiffening her thin frame. She’d had more weight on her six years ago, for sure. He remembered how her body had felt in his arms, and it hadn’t been scarecrow thin like this, it had been lush and soft, almost plump in places. Recognition might have come sooner if she hadn’t changed so much.

“Can I fetch you the water you wanted?”

“Bottle or tap, I don’t mind. A big glass. It’ll help.”

He went through the adjacent dining room and into the kitchen and ran the faucet into a glass he found upturned in the dish rack, not wanting to check in the refrigerator or open the kitchen cabinets in someone else’s house. When he brought the filled glass back to her, she said in a thready voice, “Is it okay if I don’t try to sit?”

“It’s fine.” He brought the glass awkwardly sideways to her mouth, and it was such a personal action it gave him the jitters. Would she want this from him?

She seemed to prefer the drops spilled down her cheek to the thought of movement. “Thanks. You can go now. Please. Don’t feel you need to stay.”

Did she know who he was?

There was no reason for it to matter, not when she could barely move, and he wasn’t going to ask, or tell her. Not yet. Not unless it seemed truly necessary.

“I’m not leaving.”

She stayed silent for a long moment, as if assessing his determination, and whether to protest. Finally she told him, “Thank you.”

And then they just waited.

Chapter Two

This was Andy now, thank heaven. Scarlett heard his car, then the thump of hurried feet up the steps and onto the wide, wraparound apron of the porch. He barreled through the door and into the front room. “Daniel, thanks so much for staying. Scarlett, how’re you doing?”

“A little better,” she said, putting some chirp into her voice. “My vision is the main thing. Really can’t see.”

“Can I take a look?” She heard him sit on the coffee table in front of the couch. Daniel must be hovering in the background. She couldn’t hear him. They’d been silent together for probably fifteen minutes or more before Andy had showed up. She hoped Daniel put it down to the fact that she was feeling so bad. Hoped he still didn’t know who she was. But really she had no idea. She wasn’t in a position to discern anything about what he was thinking or feeling. He’d never been a man of easy words.

Right now, she was just glad that Andy was here.

“Open your eyes,” Andy ordered.

She did so, to be greeted by blurring and multiple images and blinding light.

“Your pupils aren’t contracting,” Andy said. “That’s why it feels so bright. You’re not focusing at all.”

“Tell me about it!”

There was a pause. “Still biting your nails, Scarlett?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” But she hid her raw-tipped little fingers in the curl of her hand, self-conscious.