A Man She Can Trust. Roxanne Rustand
It was a question intended to keep her there—perhaps as a buffer—because every last detail of Warren’s day was clearly documented in the interdisciplinary notes section of his chart.
“Quite well,” Grace murmured. “His vitals have been normal for the past twenty-four hours. I’d like you to take a look at his IV site, though. I think we’ll need to restart it sooner than scheduled.”
Jill moved to the bed and smiled in greeting, then inspected his arm. “She’s right, Warren. Vanco is hard on the veins. We’ll have to change your IV at least twice before you’re done.”
Warren scowled. “Do whatever you damn well please and then leave me alone.”
“Dad—”
“It’s okay,” Jill said, sparing Grant a chilly glance and then turning her attention back to Warren. “No one likes being here. Right?”
He fixed his stony gaze on the wall just over her head.
The similarity between Grant, Jill and Warren almost made Grace smile. They were strong, intelligent people—and all of them had definite opinions. When the three got together, sparks flew.
Grace silently commiserated with Jill above the patient’s head, then gathered her tray of supplies and slipped out the door.
GRANT LEANED BACK in his father’s ancient, leather-upholstered desk chair and smiled. “So you’re saying you want to rewrite your will again, Mr. Walthan?”
Hal pursed his lips and studied the ceiling, apparently deep in thought. “Mebbe.”
“You’re not sure.”
“I’m thinking about it. My fool grandson…” The old man’s heavy neck wattle jiggled as he shook his head in disgust. “Tattoos.”
“Tattoos.” Grant drummed a forefinger on the thick client folder he’d pulled. It held at least four other versions of the man’s will, all drafted within the past year, all disinheriting one family member or another. “You want to disinherit him because he got tattoos? They’re pretty common these days.”
“He’s got snakes crawlin’ up one arm. A black widow spider crawling down the other.” Hal drew his bushy white eyebrows together. “Not the kind of appearance the town expects of a Walthan.”
“Pretty soon you’re going to run out of relatives. And, if it appears you’ve been capricious, unduly influenced by anyone or have made some…unusual…decisions, there could be family members who try to contest.”
“Your job is to make sure that can’t happen.” The elderly pharmacist set his jaw. “Then just let ’em try.”
Grant jotted a few more notes on the legal pad in front of him. “I’ll write up a new draft, then. When you come back in, I’ll ask you to go over each of your wishes—with a witness present—and I’ll videotape proof that you appeared to be of sound mind. I’ll also ask you for a handwritten summary.”
Hal nodded decisively. “You’re a good man. Thorough. Never should have left town, if you ask me.”
Over the past week, a cadre of the old-timers had trooped into the office, one after another.
Grant had the distinct feeling that a campaign was afoot, after three had given him marital advice, two had told him that he’d been negligent in leaving his father’s practice last fall, and every last one of them had made sly, oblique comments about Doc Jill Edwards being far too pretty to—as crotchety old Leo Crupper had put it—“wither on the vine.”
Grant steeled himself for the inevitable pep talk from Hal. And sure enough, the old guy hesitated at the door and turned back, one gray brow raised.
“The missus doing well?”
“Fine. Just fine.” At least, Grant thought so. He hadn’t seen her for a week now, except for the occasional glimpse of her Sable.
He had a feeling Jill wanted to avoid him just as much as he wanted to avoid her.
Hal fixed him with a piercing look. “You aren’t getting any younger.”
Well, at least he took a different approach from Warren’s other cronies. Who’d probably, now that Grant thought about it, been sent by Warren himself.
“None of us are,” Grant replied.
“You got no kids,” Hal said bluntly. “No grandkids for Warren, and there’ll be none for you either, down the road, if you wait too long.”
Remembering how many grandkids Hal had already disinherited—and then added back into his will—Grant just smiled. “They are a joy, aren’t they? Every last one of them. No matter how unique.”
“Er…exactly,” Hal gave him a narrow look, then stood in the doorway as he shouldered into his coat. “When should I come back?”
Grant flipped the page on the planner lying open on the desk. “Tomorrow’s Friday, and I need to take off early. How about next Tuesday. Another ten o’clock?”
“Good enough.” He clenched his fingers into the thick crown of his beaver-fur hat. “How’s Warren?”
“Much better. He got his IV out yesterday and has started rehab. He’ll be home in a week or two, and not a minute too soon. He’s been climbing the walls.”
“Bet he has. Man never misses a day on the golf course from Easter ’til Thanksgiving, barring snow. He isn’t one to sit around.”
“Well…he’s agreed to take it easy for a few months, if I stay to help out.”
“You’re a good son, coming back like this to take his place. A real good son.”
Grant rounded the desk and walked him to the front door, then flipped the Open sign in the door to Closed as Hal headed down the sidewalk toward Waltham Drug.
At the open doorway Grant took a deep breath of icy, pine-scented air. Thankful, he admitted to himself, that he’d had a reason to come back home to Blackberry Hill for a while.
A couple of blocks down the street, on the corner of Birch and Main, he could see the front corner of Jill’s office, and that brought back all the reasons why he shouldn’t have.
Clean breaks were the best. Especially when there was no hope of ever changing the past, and no wish to create a future.
Yet he’d run into Jill almost every day at the hospital when he’d stopped to visit Dad.
The irony was that apparently they’d both been changing their schedules to avoid each other—and for once in their lives, they had been in perfect harmony.
But in a few weeks Dad would be on his feet and out of the hospital, and then there’d be no need to intrude on Jill’s territory. And that would make life a heck of a lot easier.
PROCLAIMING THAT HE was bored silly on the Skilled Care unit of the hospital, Warren had called the law office at eleven o’clock, noon, one o’clock, and then—apparently he’d been napping—not until almost four.
Grant glanced at the caller ID, amused, as he tapped the speaker button. “Hey, Dad.”
Warren sucked in a sharp breath. “There’s not a client with you?”
“Your friend Hal left a few minutes ago.” Swiveling his chair, Grant looked out the window at the early winter darkness. “Even if there was, I’d guess most people around here know that you and I are related. I’ve been calling you ‘Dad’ since I was in diapers.”
“Doesn’t sound professional.”
Grant had visited Warren every day when he was in the ICU in Green Bay, and had figured he would settle down once he was transferred back to Blackberry Hill. But with each passing day it was becoming more obvious that he viewed his ongoing hospitalization as a form of incarceration.