From Humbug To Holiday Bride. Zena Valentine
as good as I’m going to get. They’re wrong. I’m going to get better. I’m going to get much, much better.”
“I believe you.”
“You’re the only one who does.”
“Well, you called me,” he sighed. “I didn’t think you had kept the number.”
She reached over with her left hand and used it to raise her limp right hand. There, written across her palm was his telephone number in ballpoint pen, smudged but legible, as if she had traced over it many times. “It’s been there for weeks. Every day after my bath, I go over it again so it won’t fade, so I’ll always know where it is,” she said.
Something lurched in his chest when he looked at her palm and thought of her outlining his phone number in her flesh every day and only calling him in the middle of the night when she was desperate. He raised her chin and looked into her glistening eyes. He saw that something in her had been defeated, and even though she had consistently rejected his efforts to help, he was now apparently her last resort.
He remembered the day Maralynn had died. He’d stayed with her all night long, sitting beside her bed. At the time he’d felt there was something bleak and desperate about a hospital in the middle of the night when sounds echoed only occasionally through the halls, amplified by the absence of people talking and moving about. He’d thought then that it was best to be asleep. It had seemed to him that if you didn’t get to sleep before darkness descended on the hospital, you would not get to sleep at all.
He tried to imagine what B. J. Dolliver had gone through, and he decided she had agonized for a long time before she’d called him. He suspected her pride would not have let her call unless she was overwhelmed with fear.
“I can’t stay here,” she said.
“When did you get the pamphlets?”
“Two days ago. They expected me to make a decision by now. I think I’m supposed to be gone. I told them I could pay for the room if my insurance doesn’t cover it.”
“Why did you wait so long to call me?” he asked.
He watched her raise her chin in a weak reflection of defiance. “I vowed I would not call you at all.”
“But what about that?” He gestured toward her limp hand with his telephone number written on her skin.
“I never intended to use it,” she said after a long silence.
He sighed. “Your destructive pride driving you to the wall.” He looked at her. “How do you expect me to arrange something in less than twenty-four hours?”
“You believe in miracles. I know you do. I don’t know anybody else who believes in miracles,” she said in a tearful, jerky voice.
Deep in thought, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and ambled to the windows. There was only one place he wanted to take her, and it was probably the last place she ought to be. He could let her sleep on the daybed in his office, and probably Mrs. Billings and the children could help. He didn’t think some people in his congregation would like the idea, but then he didn’t like the idea much himself. And although Mrs. Billings would be thrilled at first to have her heroine under their roof, he was sure B.J.’s rough edges would wear her welcome thin in quick order.
It was an idea bordering on insanity, he realized. She wasn’t his responsibility. She was dangerous to him, in fact, a threat to the orderliness of his full, rich life. How could he even think of taking her home, now that he found himself attracted to her?
Still, there seemed nowhere else for her to go. She was terrified of a nursing home, so terrified that she had finally swallowed her pride and called him. What he feared most was her feeling defeated and helpless and taking an easy exit to avoid a fate worse than death. He remembered Mrs. B repeating Deborah’s fears, although until now he had assumed they were both mistaken. He had to know.
“What if I can’t find a place?” he asked.
“You said you would.” For the first time, he sensed the flatness in her husky voice.
“If I can’t, then what?” She hesitated. He listened closely to her voice, to each nuance and pause. His back to her, he kept his eyes shut to sharpen his perceptions of her. “Then what?” he insisted, not kindly.
“I won’t go,” she said, and he barely heard her.
“If I walk out this door today and say I can’t help you, what will you do?” She didn’t answer. “What will you do?” he demanded, letting frustration edge his words.
“I’ll wave goodbye,” she said, and although he recognized she was trying to be flippant, he caught another meaning in. her choice of words, and he wondered exactly what his options were. Was he being manipulated? Would she put a finish to the job if he left her now? It seemed unlikely since she was so determined to get well. But what if he was wrong?
He opened his eyes to see the shadowy street below illuminated by splashes of gold from streetlights and faint reflections from the pink horizon in the east. Dawn was breaking. Trying to focus his thoughts, he rubbed his chin, then clasped his hands.
What should I do? What’s my direction?
He reminded himself that he’d never been good at analyzing things, always ending up going in circles. The bald, fearsome truth was that he found it exciting—the thought of having B.J. close by in his home, under his protection, within reach of his touch. He hoped that it was his heart and mind speaking and not some other part of his anatomy.
He thought about Mrs. Billings having been a registered nurse most of her life, and he thought about the medical aids still in the house from his wife’s illness—the tub rails, the upstairs hall rails and the wheelchair ramp stored in the barn that served as a garage. They were all there, the pieces that fitted as if meant to be.
When he turned to look at B.J., she was lying still. Finally asleep, he thought. He left her then and found the cafeteria open. He drank some coffee, walked around the neighboring streets, watched the sunrise and finally visited the chapel.
The halls were alive with the usual daytime sights and sounds when he returned to the vicinity of B.J.’s room. He wanted to talk to her physician, Dr. Wahler, who was not available.
The nurse he had met before was at the station, however, and as free as ever with her opinions. “She’s being unreasonable,” she said, shaking her head sharply. “It isn’t a retirement home. It’s a convalescent center. Of course there are elderly people, but not entirely, and therapy can be continued. Or private nursing can be arranged for her.”
Hamish didn’t like the way she frowned and pursed her lips, as if she was exasperated with her patient.
“She can probably afford it, three shifts a day, installation of aids in her condo.” Her shrug was like a dismissal, and Hamish left her to call Mrs. B.
“I hope you’ll bring her home,” she suggested.
“There are other places for her to go. I don’t know whether to recommend a convalescent center or private care,” he told her.
“Neither is a good choice,” Mrs. B insisted. “Both are for people who have no one.”
“Well, that fits B. J. Dolliver pretty well. And it’s her choice to be alone,” he reminded her.
“So, who’s the one person who has successfully ignored her no-visitor plea?” she challenged.
When he did not reply, she charged ahead, “Who’s the one person she called when she needed help? Who’s there now trying to help her?”
He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes against the obvious. It was what he wanted. And feared. B.J. in his home day and night, needing him, goading and arousing him while she healed under his family’s care. B.J.—making him feel alive, so alive.
“It’s your decision, Hamish, but if you’re