A Match Made in Texas. Arlene James
askew, and the stupid thing was choking him.
Seeing the problem, the little nurse leaned close and reached behind him to pull up the fabric of his shirt, loosening the pressure on his throat. She smelled clean and sweet, like the air after a spring rain, and Stephen felt a sudden longing. In some ways, that longing made him think of his boyhood and his mother, but the feeling was in no way childlike. He suddenly wondered just what the next several weeks might hold. Who was this petite, Bible-quoting lovely, anyway, and why did she make him feel clumsy and ignorant?
Waiting until she straightened, he turned a bland face up at her and asked, “What should I call you? Nurse seems a bit impersonal.”
“Kaylie will do.”
“All right, Kaylie. And I’m Stephen. Or Steve, if you prefer.”
“But not Stevie,” she said, a quirk at one corner of her lips.
“Not Stevie,” he confirmed. Stevie had been a boy whose parents had tugged him this way and that between them, an innocent who had ceased to exist decades ago, mourned by no one, not even him, though he had been that boy. “So, Kaylie,” he said, changing the subject, “tell me something about yourself.”
“Not much to tell. What do you want to know?”
He really wanted to know if she was married or involved with anyone, but he had more game than to ask outright. “Well,” he said, pondering his options, “so, um, where do you live exactly? I know you don’t live here.”
She shook her head. “No. No, I don’t live here. I live with my father, about three miles across town.”
With her father? Interesting. Odd, but interesting. What woman her age lived with her father? That brought up another question.
“And, uh, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
That was about what he’d figured, despite the air of inexperience about her.
She leaned forward, her hands clasped behind her back, to ask, “And you?”
“Twenty-eight.” Felt more like eighty-two of late. He put on a smile and said, “I take it you’re not married. I mean, since you live with your father.”
“Uh, no, not married.”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Dating?”
She blinked at him, tilting her head. “Forgive me, but I don’t see how that is relevant.”
Feeling thwarted and a tad irritated, he waved a hand. “Sorry. Just making conversation. I can’t help being a little curious, though, since you live with your father still.”
“Not still,” she said pointedly. “Again.” He waited for her to go on, and after a slight pause, she did. “My father is seventy-six years old and suffered a heart attack a few months ago. I moved in to take care of him.”
“What about your mother?” Stephen asked.
“Deceased.” The way she said it told him that the death had been fairly recent.
“Sorry to hear that.”
Lifting her head, she beamed a soft smile and said, “Thank you.”
That smile took his breath away, rocked him right down to the marrow of his bones. The sincerity, not to mention the beauty, of it was downright shocking. No one in his world was that open and genuine.
After a moment of awkward silence, she glanced around the room, before blurting, “My brothers expected it of me.”
Knocked back into the conversation, Stephen cleared his throat and marshaled his mental processes. “They, ah, expected you to take care of your father, you mean?”
She nodded. “They’re all older, and I’m the only girl, and a nurse, too.”
“I see. What if you hadn’t wanted to take care of him, though?”
“I did!” she exclaimed quickly.
“Did?”
“Do!” she corrected. “I do want to take care of him.”
“But?” he pressed, certain that some caveat existed.
She bit her lip then fluttered her hands. “You have to understand that he’s been widowed twice over the years, and since he left the church, he’s been at loose ends.”
“Left the church?”
“Retired, I should have said. Retired from the church.”
Carefully, to prevent any misunderstanding, Stephen asked, “He worked for the church?”
“He’s a minister,” she said, confirming Stephen’s worst fears. “Or was a minister. Is a minister,” she finally decided with a sigh. “He just isn’t active in ministry right now.”
Stephen’s mind reeled. So she was not just a Christian, she was the daughter of a Christian minister! “With three brothers, no less.” He hadn’t realized that he’d muttered that last aloud until she addressed the comment.
“Yes, well, two are half brothers, to be precise, and a good deal older. Bayard’s fifty-five, and Morgan’s forty-two.”
“Fifty-five!” Stephen echoed, shocked. “My mother’s only fifty-three.”
“My mom would be fifty-eight. She died two years ago.”
“So your dad was nearly twenty years older than her.”
“Yes. It just didn’t seem that way until she got sick. He aged a dozen years during the weeks of her illness, and he hasn’t been the same since.”
“My father hasn’t been the same since my parents’ divorce,” Stephen said, to his own surprise. Realizing how personal the conversation had become, he quickly changed directions. “What was it you sent Aaron after?”
She ticked off a list of items. “Hand sanitizer, antibacterial soap, lip balm, sterile gloves, syringes…The doctor called in a new prescription, by the way, injections that should help you control your pain better.”
Stephen let that go without comment, but he was desperately tired of all these drugs. He felt as if he was sleeping—
and dreaming—his life away. The dreams, unfortunately, were not pleasant ones. Kaylie, he noticed, tapped her chin, staring at him as if trying to read his mind.
“I wonder if I should have asked for leverage straps?”
“Leverage straps?” Stephen parroted. “Whatever for?”
“To get you up and down more easily,” she explained. “I’m not very big, you know, and you’re—”
“Six foot four,” he supplied, “and over two hundred pounds.”
“Exactly.”
“Still,” Stephen pointed out, “we’ve managed pretty well so far, and I’m only going to get better, you know.”
“Hmm, I suppose.” She continued tapping her chin, the tip of her finger fitting nicely into the tiny cleft there. More a dimple, really, Stephen had begun to think it a charming feature. “Maybe I should’ve asked for a lap tray, too,” she murmured, staring down at the remnants of his breakfast.
“Now that I’ll go with,” Stephen said. “Why don’t I call Aaron and add that to the list? No, wait. I don’t have a cell phone any longer.” His had been destroyed in the accident, along with his car and half his house.
“You can use mine,” she said, producing a small flip phone from those seemingly bottomless pockets.
“Better yet,” Stephen said, “let’s text him. Then he has it in writing.”