Blink Of An Eye. Rexanne Becnel
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on President Bush.
I’ve never been all that political, but it was hard to remain neutral when weeks after the biggest natural disaster in American history, so little progress had been made.
No, I take that back. Jackson Square had been cleaned up beautifully for the president’s visit. It was just everywhere else that remained a wreck.
An hour or so later when Ben showed up, his expression said everything. There would be no sharing of supplies or personnel. If people wanted help from the FEMA clinic, they had to go to the FEMA clinic.
“So here’s what we do,” Ben said as we gathered around him. “Anything that requires prescriptions or anything more invasive than stitches, we send to them. We need to assemble a fleet of cars so we can ferry people down there. Do you have a car?” he asked me.
“Sorry. It drowned.”
“I’ll ask around,” Tess said. “How about we make any patient who has a car promise to give us a couple of hours of cab service as payment?”
Ben grinned at her. “Good idea. Another thing. Another group of doctors and nurses should be arriving tomorrow, assuming they don’t get turned away at the military checkpoints. Since a lot of you have indicated you’re staying for a while longer, we need to locate more places to put them up. We probably only need five or six beds.”
“I have room,” I said. “A fold-out couch and a roof that doesn’t leak.”
“Great.” He smiled at me.
Great. I smiled back. Why don’t you come stay with me?
Immediately I ducked my head. I did not need to be sending out “I’m available” vibes to this man. For all I knew the good doctor had a sweet little wife tucked away at home. And anyway, the last thing I needed right now was to get involved with some guy. Lucky was all the male I could handle these days.
Still, it was nice to know that feelings I’d assumed long dead and buried—like sexual awareness—were still alive and ticking. It made me feel alive.
I busied myself with setting up the exam area—more bandages and sterilized instruments—but I must have been smiling to myself, because Tess shot me a curious look. “You’re in a good mood.”
“Yeah. I guess I am. I talked to my brother last night.” Now why had I told her that?
“Really? He evacuated?”
“Yes. But he’s doing fine in Baton Rouge.”
“I guess he wants you to leave here, right?”
“I decide where I go, not anyone else.”
She grinned. “You go, girl. Say, what are you doing tonight? I know you always head to your place before dark, but there’s usually some cool music stuff going on around here after dark. Why don’t you stay tonight and bunk with us?”
I started to say no, but I caught myself. Why shouldn’t I stay? It wasn’t as if I had much to go home to. Lucky was already here, so…why not? “Okay. Sounds fun, and I seriously need some fun.”
“Good. Hey, Ben,” she called. “Jane’s staying at our place tonight.”
Again our eyes met and held. “Great,” he said, and I could swear that this time it was him sending out the “I’m available” vibe.
I ducked my head when my cheeks colored, then turned back to the task at hand. Ben Comeaux was a nice guy. That’s all. It was nice that he gave so freely of his time to others, and nice that he appreciated my rusty nursing skills. Beyond that, well…
Suffice it to say, I smiled all day long—until a face from my past was carried into the medical tent, whining like a three-year-old and bleeding big time from a cut on his foot.
CHAPTER 5
“Jane? Is that you?” that unexpected, yet too familiar voice asked. “Jane! Thank God!”
When I didn’t respond, Tess nudged me. “You know this guy?”
Oh, yeah, I knew him. Or at least I once thought I knew him. But back then I hadn’t known that Tom Kinkaid was a liar and a cheat and a compulsive gambler. “My ex,” I muttered.
To him I said, “When did you get out of jail?”
“Hey.” He got this hurt look on his face. “Can’t we let bygones be bygones?”
“You want me to take care of him?” Tess asked.
“No. I’ll do it. Put him there,” I told the two guys who’d carried him in. It was weird. It was obviously Tom, my husband of six years, and yet in many ways it wasn’t him at all. He’d always been a sharp dresser and meticulous in his grooming. Now he was dirty and his face was lined with weariness and pain. Added to that, one of his shoes was covered with blood.
I picked up a scalpel. “This shoe has got to go.”
“Don’t cut it off!” Tom cried. “They’re Italian leather. Besides, they’re the only shoes I have left.”
I shook my head. Italian leather. It figured. Only the best for Tom. But where did an ex-con get the money to buy expensive Italian leather shoes? I checked the sole to see if any foreign objects protruded, then started unlacing the shoe. “If you insist,” I said. “But this may hurt.”
He squealed like a frightened pig, a good analogy, but his shoe came off fine. Except for the puncture in the sole and the puddle of blood inside, it was almost as good as new.
I couldn’t say the same for him. I hadn’t seen Tom in over nine years, but he looked as if he’d aged twenty. I guess prison was hard on a body, even the so-called country-club prisons where white-collar criminals ended up.
I propped his foot up higher than his heart, cut off his sock and began the process of cleaning the wound. “How did you do this?”
He grimaced as I probed the wound. “Stepped on a nail. A big nail. Ow! Take it easy.”
“What are you doing in New Orleans anyway?” I didn’t want to ask, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Would you believe, looking for you?”
“No.” I stared him straight in the eye. “I wouldn’t.”
He shrugged, then laughed. “Okay, okay. I came here to work at the casino. But I was going to look you up. That’s not a lie. Just my luck I arrive a week before damned Katrina.”
“Why would you look me up, Tom? To talk about the good old days?” I tossed his bloody sock into a trash bin. “As far as I’m concerned, you and I didn’t have any good old days.”
“That’s not true. That’s not true! We were in love once. You gotta remember that.”
I remembered. He’d been charming and funny and attentive, the kind of man I’d never dreamed I could have. A guy who drove a BMW, dressed like a movie star and had a great job and a great future. “I’m afraid that love died when I finally saw the real you. Look, Tom. Let’s not rehash all that. You’re hurt, I’m a nurse. Let me do my job so you can get back to your life while I get on with mine.”
“What life?” he asked. “There’s no job for me in New Orleans anymore. Katrina flushed that down the toilet. And I bet you’re not getting paid to work here. Are you?”
“It’s called volunteerism. Helping people because you can, not because you’re getting paid to do it.”
He smiled. “The same old Janie. A do-gooder to the end.”
That’s when Ben walked in. “Everything okay in here?” He gave me a look that said Tess had told him who Tom was.
“It’s a puncture wound. Pretty deep. I’ve irrigated it, and still need to check for foreign