A Man She Can Trust

Yet now she was going home to an empty, cavernous house, with only a demented cat and the whispers of old ghosts to keep her company.

“Quite an exciting life you lead,” she muttered to herself as she pulled out of the back parking lot, waited for several cars to pass, then turned north on Main.

The deep tire ruts in the snow grabbed at her tires as she drove slowly enough to keep ample distance between her and the car ahead.

The single stoplight in town turned yellow at her approach and, despite her best intentions, she glanced at the Edwards Law Office on the opposite corner.

She drew in a sharp breath.

Dressed in khaki slacks, a blazer and a shirt open at the throat, Grant was at the open door, talking to a woman who stood with her back to the street.

The woman rested her hand on his forearm for a moment, then stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. She turned and hurried down the steps to an all-too-familiar red, vintage Cobra parked in front.

At the car, she turned back and waved at him, her long, too-bright auburn hair whipping in the wind.

Jill’s heart gave an extra, hard thud. Natalie.

The old hurt welled up inside her and she sat frozen through the green light until the car behind her honked.

She hadn’t wanted to believe the rumors last fall. Even now, perhaps this wasn’t what it seemed. But Natalie’s advances a moment ago certainly hadn’t been rebuffed.

Since Grant had come back to town, he and Jill had carefully tried to avoid each other, but small towns didn’t allow for a lot of space. Seeing him again had made her feel a little…wistful. Made her start reviewing the past. Made her second-guess all that had gone wrong.

But those regrets were a waste of time.

Grant could do whatever he liked, with whomever he liked, and it didn’t matter one bit. He was a free man.

And seeing the woman who’d destroyed the last hope for their marriage drove that fact home with blinding clarity.

CHAPTER FOUR

JILL PAUSED AT the door of Patsy’s hospital room to study the rainbow of crayon drawings taped to the wall, the untidy bouquet of flowers on the bedside table.

Zoe’s work, Jill thought sadly. The four-year-old loved to handle the flower arrangements delivered to the room, beaming as she plucked one bloom after another and presented them to her mother.

What was it like, seeing your mommy lying so still in this hospital bed, with the steady snick of an IV pump marking off the seconds?

Patsy’s head turned on the pillow, her weary eyes lighting with recognition. Her hand dropped to the white cotton blanket, and a small tape recorder fell from her grasp.

Jill caught it just before it hit the floor.

“Thanks,” Patsy whispered. “I’m…trying. So hard. I need…time.”

The effort to speak clearly exhausted her, and Jill felt renewed anger at the doctor who’d originally misdiagnosed this poor woman. The HMO system that had refused to cover the tests that might have caught her cancer earlier. And especially, at the callous husband who’d walked out on her right after her diagnosis.

No one deserved to die young.

And no one deserved life more than this young mother of three who, until recently, had operated a day-care program in town and had selflessly reached out to others in need.

Jill fingered the stack of audio cassettes on the bedside table. “Your children will treasure these.”

Patsy’s gaze veered to the tapes, then back to Jill. “The kids will have my memories…of them when they were small. I want them to know…how much I love them. That I’ll love them forever.”

“They’ll never have any doubt.”

“Zoe won’t even remember me, really.” Patsy winced and fell silent for a moment. “She’s so young.”

“But she’ll have these tapes, with your voice. She’ll have photos. Do you have home movies?”

“Some.” A faint smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. “I’m always on the other side of the camera, though.”

“How about getting some film of you and the kids here—maybe down in the lounge? You could be reading to Zoe, or telling some old stories from when you were young. I’ll bet we can get one of the nurses to run the camera.”

“K-Kurt got it.”

In a divorce that had been far from equitable, if the rumors were true. “Then I’ll bring in mine,” Jill said briskly. “How about that? I’ll bring it in tomorrow, and leave it at the nurse’s station with a few extra blank cassettes.”

“Not sure I’m ready for prime time,” the younger woman said, touching the wisps of her thin hair. But the grateful expression in her eyes spoke volumes.

“There are people who will never be beautiful, no matter how perfect their hair. But you? Your kids will treasure every moment. And once the tapes are transferred onto DVDs, the copies will last forever. Or so I was told,” Jill added with a smile, “by the young guy at the electronics store who sold me a DVD/VHS dubbing machine.”

“Thank you.”

She was so clearly exhausted that Jill glanced at the clock on the wall. “I need to let you get some rest, so you’ll be ready when the kids arrive.” She picked up the chart at the end of the bed and studied the nurse’s notes and lab reports. “You know that you can still request hospice if you change your mind?”

“No. I want home…to be happy for them. Not a place where they watched me…die.”

“Hospice can get you back here before that point, if you still want to,” Jill said gently. “They’ll help you be comfortable, and they’ll help your children deal with all of this.”

Yesterday Patsy had refused to even discuss it. Now, she blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “For them, then…if it will help.”

“I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

“I could go home and stay for a little while? With this?” She lifted a fragile hand toward the IV pole. “And I…could come here when…when…”

“Everything, just as you wish.” Jill put the chart on the window ledge and sat beside Patsy on the bed. She took one of her hands. “The nurses tell me you’ve been refusing your morphine.”

“Makes me too…fuzzy. I need to visit with my kids.” She managed another faint grin. “Alison says it makes me sound drunk.”

Her nine-year-old daughter probably knew about that kind of behavior all too well, given who her father was. The thought of that jerk—an arrogant, self-righteous dentist who’d had an affair with his hygienist, then abruptly moved to Green Bay and filed for divorce—set Jill’s teeth on edge. “But what about your pain control?”

“Okay.” Patsy sank deeper into the pillow. Her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing deepened.

Her heart heavy, Jill watched her for a moment, then she picked up the chart and headed for the door.

Even after two years in family medicine, she still found it impossible to accept that a stroke of terrible luck could strike anyone, anytime.

Patsy’s husband hadn’t asked for shared custody. He hadn’t arranged a single visit since he’d walked out.