P.s. Love You Madly. Bethany Campbell
“Yeah, yeah,” Sloan said. He glanced around the barren hospital room. It looked as amusing as the inside of an empty eggshell. “I’m resting right now. I’ll be fine.”
“You were supposed to be resting in Tulsa—what happened?” John demanded. “This is how you got so sick in the first place. You wouldn’t slow down. Oh, no. Not you, the iron man.”
Sloan shrugged irritably. “It crept up on me. I didn’t realize it, that’s all. It’s no big deal.”
“You’re in the hospital, but it’s no big deal. I see.”
“I lost consciousness for a few seconds,” Sloan said, sneering at the absurdity of it. “They put you in the hospital for that these days—for observation. People overreact.”
“You weren’t supposed to be running all over creation,” John accused. “You were supposed to be recuperating.”
“I felt fine. I felt great.” It was the truth. He’d jogged the day before—five miles, like the old days. His body had sung like a finely tuned string. He’d felt like himself again.
But then he’d gone back to his apartment, and his aunt had called, and she, who for years had manipulated his emotions, had wept and begged.
Now he put his hand to his forehead, which was still hot. Remembering Trina made his temples throb again. He squeezed his eyes shut against this energetic new onslaught of pain.
“So you took off for Austin,” John said suspiciously. “And you went to see—to confront—the daughter of the woman I love. May I ask why?”
It seemed like a good idea at the time, Sloan thought, his head aching harder. “I was passing through,” he lied. “I thought it might be good to meet.”
“Ha,” snorted John. “Why? Because Trina’s ‘worried’? She put you up to this, didn’t she? Her and her goddamn emotional blackmail.”
Sloan massaged his eyebrows. The old man was plenty sharp in his way. Yes, Sloan had come to Austin half to placate Trina, half to appease his own demons. Trina had helped create those demons, and for years she had nurtured them.
He’d been a fool to come here. But she’d pleaded, and her pleading worked partly because he owed her. So, for that matter, did his father. Promises had been made. An honorable man kept them.
“Olivia’s a wonderful person,” John said. “Trina’s jealous, it’s that simple.”
“Dad,” he said wearily, “why’d you even tell her about this woman?”
“Because it’s the truth,” John shot back. “Hell’s bells. I get sick of pussyfooting around with Trina. She’s fifty-eight years old. Every time something doesn’t go her way, she pulls her martyr act. Think about it, boy.”
I can’t. A mosquito just pinned me, two falls out of three. Sloan touched his aching head. Lord, he was too tired to think anything, let alone of the complexities that Trina had created in his life—and in everyone else’s. Someday when he was old and gray, he would hobble off to a hermitage and meditate until he figured it out. In the meantime, he simply wanted his head to stop thudding.
“Trina asked me straight out if I was seeing a woman,” John said defensively. “I don’t know how she knows these things. Maybe she has flying monkeys that report to her, I don’t know. But I thought, Why should I lie? I told her the truth. She kept asking. I kept telling. Until she said, ‘God have mercy on your deluded soul’ and hung up on me. Me—her own brother. Her own flesh and blood.”
“Um,” Sloan said, massaging his brows again. “So when I called, you hung up on me. Your own flesh and blood. Why? Payback time?”
“Hell, you said you’d just talked to her. I knew she put you up to it. I refuse to play her games anymore. If you were smart, you wouldn’t let her catch you up in these things.”
Sloan grimaced. His father was right; he shouldn’t have let Trina pull his strings. If he’d been well, it never would have happened. Yet, for all her carrying on, Trina had a point. John should not plunge into another marriage. He had bad luck picking women.
His father’s tone changed to one of concern. “I told you we’d talk when everybody was calmer. That time is probably not now. You sound worn out. I’ll call again—later.”
“Dad,” he said, “my main concern is that you and Trina have an understanding about certain things. For instance, there’s—”
“Later, son,” John said with surprising gentleness. “Don’t worry about Trina. Take care of yourself.”
“Dad—”
“Goodbye for now. Get some rest.”
The line hummed meaninglessly in his ear. He opened his eyes long enough to hang up the receiver, then sank back against the pillow.
Oh, hell, he thought bleakly. That’s another bloody thing. I need to call Trina—or she’ll worry.
But for a moment he needed to lie there, his eyes shut against the erratic ebb and flow of the pain in his skull. He told himself he would choose his words carefully for Trina, rehearse them to perfection.
But he did not. Exhaustion covered him like a dark blanket. He slept.
DARCY GOT OUT of the hospital elevator lugging Sloan’s leather overnighter in one hand. In the other she carried a bunch of wildflowers, a gesture she now supposed was ridiculous.
She’d made a card with a foolish cartoon face on it and had tied it with a ribbon to the clay vase. She’d pondered fretfully over the message and finally settled on the highly unoriginal but dependable Wishing You a Speedy Recovery.
She had brushed her hair and let it hang loose. She had changed her T-shirt for a white silk shirt and a vest she’d made of interesting silk scraps. But otherwise, she hadn’t dressed up. Whether he found her attractive was of no concern to her, she told herself. None at all.
Yet she was nervous as she approached his room. It was an odd, silly kind of nervousness that she connected with very young girls who have just discovered the opposite sex. She hadn’t felt it in years, and it unsettled her to feel it now.
Maybe he won’t be in his room, she thought with edgy hope. Maybe they’ll have him off somewhere immunizing his blood or x-raying his head.
His room was number 1437, and its door was open only a few inches. She raised the hand with the flowers to give the door frame a hesitant knock, but the door itself opened. She found herself staring into the eyes of a tiny, wizened little nun.
“Oh,” she breathed, startled.
The nun looked her up and down without emotion.
“Mr. English,” Darcy said in a hospital whisper. “I’ve brought his overnight case and some—” she gestured self-consciously “—flowers. Is it all right to go in?”
“He’s sleeping,” said the nun. “He shouldn’t be disturbed.”
“Oh,” Darcy repeated. She felt both relief and a strange disappointment. Behind the little nun, she could see the hospital room, and it looked so bland and joyless that she was glad she’d brought the flowers.
In the bed, she saw Sloan English’s long form stretched out beneath a sheet and thin blanket. His face was turned away from her. His brown hair seemed dark against the stark whiteness of the pillowcase.
“I’ll take these things,” the little nun said firmly. She commandeered the flowers and tried to take possession of the suitcase.
“No, no,” protested Darcy, “it’s too heavy. Let me.”
For a moment, the nun’s cold fingers rested next to hers on the case’s handle. She studied Darcy’s face as if it were a book with large print, and she could read everything in it with no