The Wedding Gift. Sandra Steffen
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don’t you tell me what you already know.”
I knew the sound of your heart beating before it was yours, and the way it felt beneath the palm of my
hand.
If only she could say that out loud. But she couldn’t do that without explaining how she’d discovered his identity.
Her memories of that horrible day never recurred in their natural order. Instead they flashed back randomly from out of the blue, blindsiding her every time. There was the E.R. doctor’s grave expression, the screech of a gurney, the specialist they called in to confer. Dread. Her frantic race to reach Aaron in time, the sting of her own tears. Dread. The discordant hiss and rattle of the machines doing what Aaron could no longer do, the results of the tests, the bitter taste of coffee. Dread.
It went on for hours and hours. Gradually the seconds slowed then stopped altogether. It was over. One moment she’d been saying goodbye, and the next she was engulfed in a void so vast it sucked the air from her lungs, the sound from the room, and color from every surface. Summer believed Madeline had been having a panic attack. Madeline only knew that the pressure building in her chest had forced her from Aaron’s bedside and sent her clamoring for the stairs.
Up and around and up and around she’d gone until she’d burst onto the hospital roof where a helicopter was readying for takeoff. She crept close enough to feel the wind from the blades, the whomp, whomp, whomp matching the horrible pressure in her chest. The hospital staff scurrying about paid no attention to her. Since she was wearing scrubs, she probably blended right in. She dazedly stepped aside as two men raced toward the helicopter. One carried a cooler; the other was talking on a cell phone.
“ETA one hour,” he said as he veered around her. “Prep Riley Merrick for surgery. His new heart is on the way.”
The next thing she knew the helicopter was lifting. It hovered overhead, turned then disappeared in the midnight sky. All that remained in the ensuing stillness was the whomp, whomp, whomp of her heart and the whisper of Riley Merrick’s name.
There were strict laws protecting patients’ identity. Even if it was legal, did she have the moral right to tell him about Aaron? Transplant recipients were always given the opportunity to obtain information about their donor. If Riley had wanted to know, he would have gone through the proper channels via his surgeon and the hospital. For whatever reason, he hadn’t. Madeline didn’t see what choice she had but to allow him to continue to assume she was here because of his mother.
“Are you still awake?” Riley asked, bringing her from her reverie. Hearing her sigh, he said, “Why don’t you tell me something about you.”
Seconds passed while she tried to think of something to say, a place to begin. “I’m normally an open book. My fiancé used to say I told everyone I meet my life story.”
“I noticed you aren’t wearing a ring,” he said.
“Who ended it?”
“I guess he did.” “You guess?”
“He died.”
This was when most people voiced one of the stock phrases for which there was no response. I’m so sorry to hear that. He must have been terribly young. Time heals.
But Riley asked, “How long were you engaged?”
Concentrating on the blue dash light and the way it illuminated his hands, she said, “I knew I was going to marry him in the fifth grade.”
“I thought that only happened in third world countries and biblical times.”
In a hundred years Madeline hadn’t planned to laugh. Riley rarely said what she expected. The sensation of being caught unawares was new and mildly exciting and other things she would have been able to identify if she hadn’t taken her little trip to Margarita-Ville tonight.
Riley was smiling, too. When he looked at her, something changed in the very air she breathed. A delicate connection was forming between them. It sent a flutter of nerves to her stomach and the flutter of something else slightly lower.
They rode the remaining three blocks to the Gale Motel in silence. She got out of the car by rote after he parked, rifled through her purse until she found her key card and arrived at her door at the same time he did. Suddenly she froze.
“Something wrong, Madeline?” His voice was a low vibration that drew her gaze. The light over the door cast half his face in shadow. His hair fell across his forehead and his hands rested lightly on his hips as if he was as comfortable here as he was sitting on a bar stool or walking on narrow beams thirty feet off the ground.
He was good at this.
He leaned closer, not close enough to make her think he might kiss her, but close enough for her to smell his air-cooled skin and beer-warmed breath. Beneath those scents was the living breathing smell of risk.
He didn’t touch her—he wasn’t quite a rogue. Instead he stayed within reach should she choose to touch him—he wasn’t quite a saint, either. He was something dangerous in between.
Risk. Danger.
She panicked.
Shoving the key card into the slot, she blurted, “Thanks for the ride. I mean that. Good night, Riley.” A second later the door closed behind her.
It wasn’t long before she heard a car start. She didn’t have to look through the peephole to know he had gone.
Breathing shallowly, she studied her room. Her suitcase was open on the low dresser, her toiletries strewn across the faux marble vanity. She almost didn’t recognize her own reflection in the mirror above it—her hair mussed, her face flushed, her lips parted slightly.
What was happening to her?
This trip was supposed to bring her a sense of peace, of completion, of closure. It felt more like a desperate attempt to make sense of something beyond mere mortals’ comprehension.
If Aaron were here, he would say, “I told you so.”
She missed that about him. She missed everything about him, from the way the sun touched his hair with gold to how his smile lit up his blue eyes. She missed his optimism and the way he always thought the best of everyone. She missed hearing about his students’ escapades. She even missed the way he’d cracked his knuckles in church and dumped sugar straight from the sugar bowl into his coffee.
Moving slowly lest she detonated an explosion in the pit of her stomach, she stepped away from the door. She was turning the dead bolt when she noticed she was still wearing Riley’s jacket. Emotion swelled inside her as she brought the sleeve to her nose. It was unsettling, for the man stepping boldly into her mind wasn’tAaron—this man had dark wavy hair, deep-set eyes and a stance that had attitude written all over it.
The door to Madeline’s room was propped open, a cleaning cart blocking the entrance. Riley stood outside, looking in. The bed was freshly made, ready for the next guest. Madeline was nowhere in sight.
He was too late. She was gone.
Built of cinder block fifty odd years ago, the Gale Motel had a total of eight rooms on one floor. The roof was patched, the windows aluminum factory issue. The place completely lacked architectural appeal. But wild horses couldn’t have kept him away this morning.
“I’m too late,” he said as he untied the dog’s leash from the railing. “The desk clerk said Madeline checked out thirty minutes ago.”
The dog stared up at him as if to say, “What are you going to do about it?”
There wasn’t much Riley could do about it. He didn’t know her phone number, where she lived or where she worked. He supposed he could always ask his mother then dismissed the idea as quickly as it formed. He’d had a few beers with a pretty woman. Hours later he’d had one amazing dream about her.
End