Uncovering Her Secrets. Amalie Berlin
get to know her now, everyone changed as they matured, and he’d get used to the new her. It had been the joking about Jason that had got to her. She didn’t need to explain herself or her current relationship status—or that the only man in her life was her convertible, which she’d named Belvedere for some unfathomable reason...
If she had been interested in Jason—which she wasn’t—that wouldn’t be cheating on Preston. But in the moments after he’d teased her about it that’s what she’d felt like. That’s what it still felt like. And if that told her anything, it was that though her methods in the past had not been right, she really did have to go to extremes to stay away from him. She hadn’t set eyes on him for five years, and she still felt like she belonged to him. So stupid...
Twenty minutes later Dasha climbed into her car.
To hell with running today. She should visit Marjorie and Bill. No call duty tonight, but tomorrow she’d be on and planning anything on a call weekend never worked out.
Plus, she wanted to go. Sort of.
Every time she visited, Marjorie was a little further gone. Asleep a little longer. Voice a little weaker. And it became a little harder for Dasha to hold on to the scrap of hope that she’d turn this disease around.
She’d heard about miraculous cures, inexplicable spontaneous remissions, but she’d never witnessed one. Now she stood at the edge of losing her second mother. The trauma surgeon who’d tried so hard to save Dasha’s mother, and who had cried with her when she hadn’t been able to. And who’d remembered Dasha and taken her under her wing after she’d selfishly thrown Preston to the wolves to make sure she could get to St. Vincent’s.
And she was once again being selfish by thinking about how Marjorie’s imminent death affected her. Me, me, me.
Flowers. She should get flowers.
Or donuts.
Or both.
At least it was something to do, kept her from feeling helpless.
Half an hour later Dasha slipped into the bedroom and joined Bill, sitting by the bed, watching Marjorie sleep. She made her customary check of the equipment and room, making sure everything was as it should be, and then plopped onto the arm of his chair.
“He’s giving you a run for your money, eh?” Bill murmured.
“That obvious?” Dasha whispered back, not wanting to disturb Marjorie.
“The sigh gave it away.”
“Didn’t realize I’d sighed.” She slouched, dropping her bag onto the floor. “He just sort of dredges up everything again. I’d like to stick with the here and now, but it’s looking less and less likely that I’ll be able to do that.”
Bill winced. He knew everything Marjorie knew, and Marjorie knew it all. All the way down to her getting out before she’d ended up turning into her mother—devoted to a man she could never have.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t hit him. He kind of hit himself after we had some kind of showdown over my bag, though.” Yeah, that would help him not worry. Perfect. “I don’t know exactly how that happened, but he was joking around with me. I don’t know why he was. Maybe because of Jason.”
“Jason giving you trouble?” Bill’s frown didn’t express a lack of worry. Still not helping.
“Not exactly. He’s just worried about Preston causing trouble. And Preston kind of caught Jason talking about him.”
“Heaven help us. Did you get it sorted out?”
“I think so.” Dasha shrugged. She really wasn’t going to mention Nettle.
“I’m sorry I can’t be there to help with the situation,” Bill said.
“Don’t. It’s nothing you should apologize for. You’re right where you need to be.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s nothing you should have to get involved with anyway. My doing. All mine.” She thought for a moment and added, “And his father’s not helping. I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of them, but he said some things that makes me think they have a kind of feud.”
“The senior Monroe meddles,” Bill murmured. “We were surprised when you got the fellowship. Davis had arranged for it to go to Preston. All he had to do was show up that day.”
Dasha’s jaw dropped and her stomach curdled. “Why...you never said anything.”
“Would you have felt better?” Bill asked, leaning forward in the chair so he could hold her gaze better as they talked.
“No.” It didn’t really change anything. If anything, it would have made her less certain of Preston’s opportunities. “Probably worse.”
Bill nodded, not elaborating. They’d been protecting her. She still never expected that from anyone, even after the past years of being included in Marjorie and Bill’s lives, even with those she loved, she never expected protection.
“I think I need to stretch my legs.” He stood, and then gestured her to slide into the seat...and off the arm of his favorite chair. “Will you stay?”
She nodded, his revelation spinning in her head.
“Later I’m making my famous takeout,” he said as he wandered toward the door, talking to himself now more than her. “Mexican, I think. Feels like a taco kind of day.”
It felt more like a burrito day to her. Wrapped up, confined, lots of messy stuff hidden beneath a pretty, soft, white, flavorless case.
Why tell her now? To protect her? To give her extra fortitude she’d need to handle whatever Preston threw at her? Or maybe because he’d just known she was ready to hear it. How nice would it be for a relationship man to get her that way?
She’d have to let them know her better for that to happen.
Did Preston even know about the fellowship? Might explain why he thought that Davis was manipulating her into giving him the job.
Well, if he didn’t know, she couldn’t tell him. It didn’t matter, not really. She’d done what she’d done, and saying that he would have gotten it because of his father just sounded like a cop-out. She hadn’t known, she’d just assumed he’d get it because he was better than her. And then she’d consoled herself with the knowledge that he’d have tons of other opportunities, and she needed St. Vincent’s.
No good could come from telling him. Best case scenario, it would just give him something else to resent his father over.
“You’re frowning.”
Dasha looked up when she heard Marjorie’s voice, and then rose to go sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m practicing looking serious and formidable.”
“What are you really thinking?” Marjorie smiled.
“Thinking other less productive things.” Dasha smoothed the blankets down, tucking and tidying. “I got the invitation for the winter ball today. I’m thinking of getting something classy to wear in honor of the fancy-pants hotel where it’s held. You know, slit up to here and down to there, and covered in sequins. I’m thinking orange with lime-green accessories.”
“You should be thinking escorts and not trying to scandalize me with your fluorescent monstrosities,” Marjorie murmured.
She was smiling, though. Dasha would probably wear that hideously described dress if it would make Marjorie smile. “Hair teased out high enough for squirrels to nest in.”
“And a top hat.”
Dasha’s turn to laugh. “Hair teased into the shape of a top hat.”
“Enough foolishness now. How are you doing with Preston?”
“Oh, well...I really have no idea. Mercurial as ever. Evasive then charming. Antagonistic and then playful. I really have no idea.