Three Wishes Page 8

  She had made it to the lounge on her own. Aside from the bend in her middle, she was remarkably steady. Even tired, she could have made it back to her room on her own. But she let Tom help her into bed, let him straighten the covers and pull them up. She watched him put the folder on the table where she could reach it when she was ready, watched him pull a book from the knapsack.

  “That thing’s full of goodies,” she mused.

  His face brightened, rendering him devilishly handsome. She could see why he was called a lady-killer. “As a matter of fact.” He reached in again and produced two take-out containers. “Pudding. One for you, one for me.”

  She was touched. He had brought a sweater and a book, which meant that he was staying. And now pudding.

  Thinking that he might stay longer if he had both puddings, she touched her stomach and said, “That was so sweet of you. But the chicken filled me up. Honestly.”

  He set one container on the bedstand and opened the second. “Don’t like tapioca?”

  He put it down and was reaching for the other, when she said, “I love tapioca, but I’m stuffed. Really. You eat it.”

  “This one’s Indian pudding.”

  She took a quick breath. “Indian pudding?” Indian pudding was her favorite.

  He upped the ante. “There’s a microwave in the kitchen. I could heat it for you.”

  She was sorely tempted.

  “Then, once it’s hot, I could raid the freezer and add a little vanilla ice cream.”

  That did it. “Just a very, very, very little.”

  He gave her a smile that warmed her all over. Watching him head for the kitchen, she decided that she didn’t need three wishes as long as Tom Gates was around.

  On Monday night, he pulled a pair of wool socks from his knapsack. They were soft, clean, and large, and clearly his, which made them more special than if he had spent a fortune on fancy slippers. They warmed her feet perfectly.

  On Tuesday night, just when she was starting to feel hungry, he showed up with a meal from the diner and said, “Flash recommended the Yankee special, but the risotto sounded lighter and too good to pass up. Interested?” Was she ever, and not for the Yankee special. The Yankee special was a pot roast reminiscent of the kind her grandmother had made every Thursday without fail, and while Flash’s pot roast was light-years better, memory had her avoiding the dish. Risotto, on the other hand, she loved.

  On Wednesday night, he brought her a book. It was one of the advance reading copies his agent had sent, a legal thriller that tackled the issue of privacy and had made him think, he said, as many of the others hadn’t. He thought she might enjoy it and was interested in her opinion. Would she read it? he asked. Like she would ever say no.

  On Thursday night, when the walls of her room were starting to close in, he helped her steal past the nurses’ station for a quick trip to the rooftop deck. Her pace was slow, but the freshness of the night justified the effort. She felt that she had never in her life seen so many stars. They seemed to fill the sky in ways that suggested a million worlds beyond.

  Friday morning, a full week after the accident and an hour before her discharge, she formally met Dr. Simon Meade from St. Johnsbury. He examined her and removed her stitches. Then he drew up a chair and in a kindly voice broke the news that she would never be able to have a child. “When we reconstruct people’s insides like we did yours, their bodies develop scar tissue,” he explained. “It gets in the way of conception.”

  Bree was startled. “No children? Ever?”

  “I can’t say the chances are zero, but they’re pretty slim. You haven’t had any yet, have you?”

  She shook her head.

  “And you’re how old?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “You’re less fertile now than you were ten years ago. Put that together with scarring, and you have a problem.”

  Bree hadn’t been thinking about having a child. She hadn’t been feeling desperate about it, hadn’t heard any biological clock ticking. So she was surprised when her eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “This is the worst part of my job. The good news is that you’re alive. If you’d been left lying in the snow, you’d have bled to death.”

  She knew that. And she was grateful. And she really hadn’t had her heart set on having children.

  Still, there was an awful emptiness, a sudden sense of loss.

  “In every other respect, you’re healing well,” the doctor went on. “I agree with Dr. Sealy. No reason why you can’t go home. Take it easy for the next few weeks. Add activity a little at a time. Listen to your body. It’ll tell you what you can do.”

  She continued to stare at him through tear-filled eyes.

  He rose from the bed, gave her hand a pat, and smiled. “I have to get back to St. Johnsbury. This is a long way to come to make rounds.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “Well, then,” he said, “good luck to you.” He turned toward the door.

  “Dr. Meade?” When he looked back, she said, “What if I lie perfectly still?”

  He seemed confused.

  “If I lie perfectly still, will less scar tissue grow?”

  “No. Scarring is a natural part of healing.”

  “There’s no way to prevent it?”

  “No.”

  She swallowed again, took a breath, thought of the benevolent being of light, and felt less alone. It was all right, she reasoned. So she wasn’t destined to be a mother. She supposed it made sense. She hadn’t grown up in a house full of kids. She didn’t have a maternal role model, or even a husband. She wouldn’t know what to do with a child of her own. Besides, she didn’t want to be tied down, after being finally free after so long.

  So fate had simply formalized what her instincts had always known.

  She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, took another breath, and smiled at the doctor, who lifted a hand in farewell and turned again toward the door.

  That was when she saw the mole on the back of his neck.

  Once the breakfast rush at the diner was over, Flash came to the hospital and drove Bree home. She didn’t tell him what the doctor had said, didn’t see the point, since she didn’t know how she felt about it herself. All her rationalization notwithstanding, there was still an unexpected emptiness. So she pushed it from her mind.

  The weather helped. The sun was bright and the air warm; the roads were dry. It was the type of autumn day she loved, the type when the smallest pile of raked leaves, heated by the sun, perfumed the air for miles. If the jostling of the Explorer as it barreled along caused her discomfort, it was soothed by the rush of the breeze past her face.

  The roads grew progressively familiar. Not a thing had changed while she had been gone, it seemed. The Crowells’ rusted Chevy still sat in the tall grasses of the field beside their house, the Dillards’ front lawn was still filled with pumpkins for sale, the Krumps’ three-year-old triplets still clustered on the big old tire that swung from the sprawling oak at the side of their house.

  Everything was just as it had been prior to the snow a week before—just the same, yet different. The trees looked larger, the sun brighter, the colors richer. The smiles of the people they passed were broader, their waves higher. Even Bree’s old Victorian seemed less prim as it welcomed her home.

  She went up the front walk hugging the bubble bowl that Julia Dean had sent. The few flowers left in it were so feeble that Flash had wanted to leave it behind, but Bree wouldn’t hear of it. Julia’s arrangement had been the first splash of color she had seen, waking up in her hospital room. Then, it had seemed a link between the world she had glimpsed beyond and the earthly one to which she’d returned. Her need for that link was greater now than ever.

  Chapter

  5

  Tom was unsure of his place, with Bree suddenly home. Each time he drove past her house that first day, a different car was parked there. Talk at the diner revolved a
round who was sitting with her when, who was cooking for her when, who was cleaning for her when. Directly or indirectly, most everyone in town had a role.

  For the first time in years, he thought about his own hometown, small and so like this one. He hadn’t appreciated it then, but he did now. Having lived in the city, having been one of those who were too busy—or self-important—to care about a neighbor’s woes, having felt the brunt of isolation during his last few months there, he found it heartwarming to see Panama rally around Bree. A schedule was drawn up to ensure that during those first few days, at least, she was never alone.

  No one asked him to take a turn. So he approached the group that surrounded Flash, making final arrangements. Jane Hale had known Bree since childhood, LeeAnn Conti had worked with her for years. Dotty Hale and Emma McGreevy, both a generation above, spoke for the town. Liz Little was simply a friend.

  “I’d like to do my part,” he said. “I feel responsible for her needing the help.”

  All six regarded him with eyes that ranged from cautious to cold—a sobering experience for a man who had once had the power to charm by virtue of simply walking into a room.

  “Thank you,” said Emma, with a curt smile, “but we take care of our own.”

  He absorbed the rebuff as his due. But it didn’t stop him. “I’d like to be considered one of your own.”

  Emma looked at his fading shiner and the livid line beneath it. “After half a year? I think not. Besides, we don’t need help with Bree. We have it all arranged.”

  “All but the nights,” he said, when she would have closed the circle and shut him out. He had overheard enough to know where they stood. “You’re still working that out. I can help.”

  Emma fingered the short strand of pearls that circled her neck. “You wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “Bree says he does,” Jane said in a quiet voice.

  Dotty scowled at her. “What’s there to do in a hospital? This is at home.”

  “I can help there, too,” Tom said.

  “Can you cook?” asked Liz.

  Emma waved a hand. “No need for him to cook. We have plenty of food.”

  “It’d be nice if he could heat up what’s there.”

  Emma tried shaking her head. “No matter. He can’t stay with her.”

  Jane dared a soft “Why not?”

  “Good God, Jane,” Dotty flared, “how can you even ask that? He said it himself. He’s responsible for putting her there.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” offered Flash. “She doesn’t blame him.”

  “Still,” Dotty insisted, “looking at him will only remind her of bad things.”

  “He’s famous,” said LeeAnn, with a curious glance Tom’s way.

  Emma granted. “More like infamous. Goodness, LeeAnn, Dotty’s been waving those articles in front of your nose for a week now.”

  “Do you really want Bree to spend the night with a womanizer?” Dotty asked.

  “Alleged womanizer,” Tom corrected. “Just because the tabloids loved writing about me doesn’t mean everything they said was true.”

  Dotty brushed his comment aside. “You can’t stay with her. It isn’t proper.”

  “Why not?” Jane asked again.

  “Because . . . he’s . . . male.”

  “So’s Flash,” Liz said, “and he’s spending the night.”

  “Bree’s like my sister,” Flash reasoned. “I’ve known her for years.”

  “So have you,” Dotty told her daughter. “You’re a selfish one, wanting him there to spare you the work.”

  “That’s not it at all. I do want to help. In fact, I can sleep better at her house than at ours. You wake up all the time.”

  “Do I tell you to get up with me? I do not. It’s not my fault you sleep so lightly every little noise spooks you. Good God, Jane. I’m your mother. You complain about me, you complain about Bree . . .”

  Tom saw Julia Dean watching them from a booth. She looked torn, as though she wanted to join the group but didn’t dare. What with the way they weren’t welcoming him, Tom didn’t blame her. What with the way Dotty was going after Jane, he really didn’t blame her.

  “The thing is,” he said to end the last, “you all have other things to do during the day. I don’t. I can sleep all day if I want. Look at you, Liz. You can’t sleep all day. You have three young kids.”

  “But I love Bree,” Liz said. “She house-sits with our cats whenever we go away, and she never lets me pay her for it. I owe her this.”

  “Me, too,” Tom said, but Emma was moving on, paper and pencil in hand.

  “All right. It’s Liz tonight, LeeAnn tomorrow night, Flash Sunday, Jane Monday. Abby wants Tuesday night, and then we’ll regroup.” Throwing a smug look Tom’s way, she drew a line across the bottom of the list, and that was that.

  But Tom couldn’t stay away. He left the diner at eight, saw two cars in Bree’s drive, drove past and down the turnpike to the mall, where he rented a movie. Reversing the trip, he arrived back at Bree’s shortly after nine. The two cars had been replaced by Liz Little’s Suburban. Satisfied that Bree was in capable hands, he went home and put the movie in the VCR. He watched it for half an hour, before turning it off and snatching up the keys to his car.

  Bree’s Victorian was a behemoth of a house. It was tall and lean, made all the more so by its setting on a rise. Staid was one word Tom might have used to describe it, stark another. In the absence of a moon, not even the dim lamplight seeping from the lower-floor windows added cheer. The house felt cold. He never would have matched it with Bree.

  Climbing the front steps, he crossed the porch to knock softly on the old wood door. After a minute’s wait, he gave another knock. He was about to go around to the back, when the door opened.

  Having fully expected to see Liz, he was startled to find Bree. She looked so waiflike in the meager porch light, with dark eyes in a pale face, framed by long, dark, damp hair, and the rest of her lost in her huge fleece robe, that something tripped inside him.

  “Hey,” he half whispered. “I didn’t mean to get you up. Where’s Liz?”

  Bree’s voice wasn’t much louder than his, though he suspected she had sheer physical weakness to blame. “On the phone. One of the kids is sick. She’s talking with Ben.” She reached for his arm and drew him in, then closed the door and leaned against it.

  He stayed close. “How do you feel?”

  “Tired. Friends keep coming. And I’m grateful. But it’s hard to say no when they want to talk.”

  “Go on to bed. I’ll talk with Liz.”

  For an instant, looking up at him, she seemed on the verge of tears, and for the life of him he didn’t know what to do. What he wanted to do was hold her, but that didn’t seem right. So instead he simply asked, “Are you okay?”

  She swallowed, nodded, and eased away from the door. He followed her as far as the bottom of the winding staircase, and then it took everything he had just to watch, instead of walking beside her or even carrying her up. But they weren’t at the hospital anymore. This was personal stuff.

  When she had reached the top and disappeared down the hall, he looked around. The foyer in which he stood was large and opened to an even larger living room. Furnished in dark woods with frayed fabrics, both areas looked tired. Like the outside of the house, they didn’t fit Bree.

  Liz Little’s voice came from the back of the house. Following the sound, he found himself in a kitchen that was old but functional and clean. Liz had the telephone cord wrapped around her hand and was saying, with what sounded like dwindling patience, “On his forehead. Hold it flat on his forehead until the strip changes color.” She paused. “I know he won’t lie still, but believe me, it’s easier doing it this way than the other way.” She paused again. “Well, hold him there. Come on, Ben,” she pleaded, “you’re a whole lot stronger than he is. You can immobilize him for two minutes.” She listened, pushed a hand through her hair, spotted Tom. She held his gaze while she said, �
��Yes, I’m thrilled that he wants me, but the fact is that I’m not there.”

  “Go,” Tom mouthed. “I’ll stay.”

  Liz declined his offer with the wave of her hand. “No, Ben, he doesn’t specifically need me. He needs one of us, and you’re there. It’s good for him to know that you can take care of him as well as I can.” She paused. “Of course you can. You’re a great parent. Besides, wasn’t that a major reason why we gave up our old jobs and came here, so you could be with the kids more?” Another pause, then a frown and a cry. “I do love my kids. I’d be home in a minute if I thought Joey was very sick. He was fine when I left.”

  When she paused this time, Tom actually heard Ben yelp.

  Liz’s eyes went wide. “Oh, yuck,” she finally said. “All over you?” She made a face. “Okay, sweetheart, sit him in a tepid tub. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  She hung up the phone and looked apologetically at Tom. “You don’t mind?”

  “Not if you don’t.” He was counting on Liz being more accepting of him than the others. She had been an outsider herself not so long ago. “Bree’s gone to bed. I’ll just sit around down here.”

  Liz rummaged in her bag. “There’s enough food to feed an army,” she said, with a glance at foil-wrapped bundles on the counter. “I’ll settle things at home and come back.”

  “No need. I’m here until the next person shows up.”

  “That won’t be until ten tomorrow morning.”

  “Ten is fine.”

  Liz came up with her keys. “The others will kill me.”

  “Tell you what,” Tom said. “Come back at nine, and they’ll never know.”

  She stared at him for a minute. “That’s sly.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  For another minute she stared, then she opened the back door. “You really wrote those books?”

  He nodded.

  “How many in all?”

  “Six.”

  “I can’t imagine writing one, let alone six.”

  “Then we’re even. I can’t imagine cleaning up after a sick kid.”