Just One Night. Nancy Warren
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Pat dry after showers.”
“Great, thanks,” Rob said after the new dressing was taped to his leg. He was happy he’d got off without a lecture on being careful or some other impertinence from the man who’d been doctoring him for three decades.
But he didn’t get off that easy.
“Put your pants back on and come on back to my office. There’s a few things I’d like to talk to you about.”
Reluctantly, Rob returned to the chair in front of the desk and slumped down.
Doc Greene pushed the pad aside and looked at him intently. “How are you coping?”
“Fine.”
A beat of silence passed but Rob wasn’t going to break it. Doc continued. “You’ve been through an emotionally exhausting time. You’ve lost someone special and you’ve got a significant enough injury that it’s brought you home. All that combined is going to take a toll.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated, sounding less than fine even to his own ears. This was the man who had treated his grandmother through her few illnesses and had looked after her at the end. He licked his lips. “My grandmother—she seemed fine when I was home six months ago …” He let the unspoken question hover.
Doc sat back. No wonder patients were always kept waiting. He never rushed.
“Agnes Neeson lived a life anyone would be proud of. She kept her independence to the end.” Doc smiled. “And you know how important that was to her. She was getting frail. She had a massive stroke and died in hospital without ever regaining consciousness.” He didn’t need to consult a file. He knew all his patients and he and Agnes had been friends as well as doctor and patient.
“Would she have suffered?”
Doc shook his head. “There are no nerve endings in your brain. There wouldn’t be pain.”
“Good,” Rob said, relieved and somehow comforted. “I wish I’d been there.”
Doc nodded. “I know. Reading every issue of World Week cover to cover made your grandmother feel close to you. Nobody could have been prouder of you than she was.”
The prickling of tears horrified Rob. He cleared his throat and changed the subject fast. “There’s a Realtor who messed up the house.” He rubbed his sore leg. “She took out my grandmother’s furniture and staged the place. Everything’s different since I was here.”
“It is. I heard the place was for sale. It’s that nice young gal from Dalbello who has the listing. She’ll do a good job for you.”
Rob didn’t have the energy to talk about his confused feelings so he mumbled his thanks and struggled to his feet. Limping to the door, he realized that the doc was right. He wasn’t as okay as he tried to pretend he was.
JULIA RAN INTO BEANANZA, her favorite coffee shop. “Hey, Julia. How’s it going?” Bruno, her favorite barista, called over the hiss of the espresso machine.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she called back.
Bruno sent her a disbelieving look out of his big brown Italian eyes. “It’s raining,” he said. He wore a bill cap, one from his huge collection. She was pretty sure he was sensitive about the thinning patch of hair at the crown of his head, though maybe it was a fashion statement. Who knew?
He had a gold hoop in one ear and wore a T-shirt that said Decaf Is for Sissies.
When he’d served a hot chocolate and a chai latte to the customers in front of her, he started her drink. There was no need to ask, she ordered the same thing every day. A tall skinny latte. As though drinking enough of it might rub off and she’d awaken one day to find herself tall and skinny.
She lived in hope.
While preparing her drink, he said, “Brownies are fresh out of the oven.” As though she needed reminding, as though the smell weren’t enticing her to sin, leading her down the calorie path of doom. She could see them behind the glass case, the chocolate glistening on top, the cakey part dense and rich. “I can’t,” she moaned. “I’m on a diet.”
“Really? Who is he?”
“Why do you think I’m only on a diet because of a man?”
“Because you’ve been coming into Beananza nearly every day for three years. That’s like a thousand days in a row. And every time you tell me you’re on a diet there’s a guy.”
“Okay, there’s a guy.”
He smiled as he passed her latte over. She glanced down at the surface, as she did every morning. And laughed. He’d drawn a heart into the froth on the top of her latte.
She settled into one of the small tables to enjoy her coffee. Bruno always served coffee in china mugs unless a customer specifically asked for a to-go cup. Customers only made that mistake once. Bruno made it very clear he strongly disapproved of people carrying coffees around. He served his brew the way he believed it was meant to be drunk, sitting down and savoring it, and if you didn’t like drinking coffee his way, you could go elsewhere.
His café was always packed.
Julia had learned to appreciate Bruno’s point of view. She looked forward to settling into one of the small tables or the long bar by the windows. She would sip her coffee and read the paper or a magazine, or, as now, open her tablet computer to savor the latest email from her LoveMatch.
Hi sweetie,
She absolutely loved that he called her sweetie. It seemed so casually intimate. As though they’d been a couple for years.
The weather is hot and sticky here. I have to catch a plane soon. We’ll be looking at large pipes for a construction project. I miss you so much. I have never felt so close to someone before. I long to see you next week.
Love, Gregory
Not only coffee was meant to be savored, she thought as she read the message again, slowly. Love was meant to be savored, too. She only hoped Gregory wasn’t disappointed when they met in person.
She sent a worried glance down at her latte. Should she switch to green tea?
ROB LEFT THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE with an aching thigh from where the good doc had prodded and poked at him. He didn’t like doctors mostly because he didn’t like being sick or incapacitated.
As he limped along the sidewalk, clutching a scrawled prescription for painkillers he knew he’d never fill, he got caught in a downpour of rain. He loved the rain. After the heat and dry dustiness of the desert, the cooling water dripping from gray skies should have made him happy. Instead he felt as though the sky was suffering a massive outpouring of grief. Irritable, achy and at a loss for something to do, he just stood getting wet.
He didn’t want to go back to Bellamy House with all that designer stuff he didn’t recognize, and he didn’t want to visit the few friends he still had in the area. He wanted to get on a plane and get back to work. That wasn’t about to happen, though, until he could run a mile in six. He set his jaw, knowing he’d have to walk before he could run and not for the first time cursed the trigger-happy rebel who’d fired on him. He squinted up and down the street and saw the sign for a coffee shop a couple of blocks away. He figured that would do for a destination. He’d walk a few blocks today, a few more tomorrow, and in a couple of weeks he’d be up to running.
Crutches. As if.
He took a step toward the coffee shop and another one. Two women chattering away beneath umbrellas passed him. As he stepped around them, he stepped into a puddle and felt the cold wetness soak his sock. Yup, he was home.
By the time he’d gone one block he felt as though someone were jabbing hot pokers into his thigh. The remaining block seemed like such a long way he contemplated stopping where he was, sagging onto a bus stop bench and calling a cab. Turning his head toward the road ensured he no longer saw the tempting