The woman on the porch thrust a casserole dish into her hands.
Gillian glanced down at it. “Mrs. Fenton, really, it’s too much?—”
“Nonsense,” the woman—apparently Mrs. Fenton—replied. “Vernon needs proper food to recover, not that bar food he subsists on. And you look like you could use a decent meal yourself.”
Gillian’s eyes flicked past Mrs. Fenton and landed on me. Something crossed her face—surprise, relief, anxiety, all in quick succession. She shifted the dish to one hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Diego.” My name emerged softly, almost a question.
Mrs. Fenton turned, her face brightening. “Oh! Look who’s here. One of our brave firefighters. Did you come to check on Doc too?”
I nodded, climbing the remaining steps to join them on the porch. “I wanted to see how he’s doing.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” Mrs. Fenton patted my arm. “You boys do so much for this town. Tell Doc I said hello.”
“I will.” Gillian’s eyes didn’t leave my face as Mrs. Fenton returned to her car. I could read the exhaustion in the shadows beneath them, the way she held herself a little too straight, like she might crack if she relaxed.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Grumpy.” Her mouth quirked in a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Doctor told him to rest, which means he’s trying to do everything but. You’d think being a doctor himself, he’d behave better.”
For a moment, we looked at each other, the weight of the unspoken hanging between us. At last, she stepped back, gesturing with the casserole.
“Do you want to come in? I was about to...” She trailed off, as if she wasn’t sure what she was about to do.
All I knew was that I wanted to say yes.
I followed Gillian back to the kitchen, where evidence of the town’s generosity covered nearly every surface. Casserole dishes, foil-wrapped plates, and pie tins created a mismatched landscape across the countertops and table.
“I don’t think I’m going to have to cook anything the entire time I’m here.” She set Mrs. Fenton’s contribution among the others. Her attempt at humor fell flat, undermined by the exhaustion in her voice.
I wanted to ask how long “the entire time” might be, but instead watched her methodically rearrange containers to make room in the fridge. Her movements were efficient but sluggish, like she was operating on fumes. She probably was. I doubted she’d slept last night, either.
“How’s Doc doing now?” I leaned against the door frame, giving her space.
“Better, I guess.” She didn’t glance up from her task. “They confirmed it was a TIA, like you suspected.” Her hand paused on a container lid. “The doctor was pretty clear that if he doesn’t make serious changes, the next one could be... worse.”
“And Doc’s taking that well, I’m sure.”
That earned me a snort. “He’s being completely pissy about it. Within half an hour of getting home, he tried to sneak out to open the bar while I was in the shower.”
“Sounds like Doc.”
“He can’t keep doing what he’s doing.” She finally turned to face me, arms crossed protectively over her chest. The morning light through the kitchen window caught the copper in her hair, but it also deepened the shadows under her eyes. “The doctor said no stress, no late nights, no lifting. Basically, everything running a bar involves.”
Her voice cracked on the last word. She cleared her throat and looked away, blinking rapidly.
“I’m sticking around for the next couple of weeks to try to get something sorted out. After that...” She let the sentence dangle unfinished between us.
I nodded, absorbing what she wasn’t saying. Two weeks. Long enough to handle this crisis, then back to her real life. Back to a world where our paths didn’t cross.
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
She gave me a tired half-smile. “I’m fine. Just need to figure out a game plan.” Her hand drifted to her phone, which buzzed with a notification. She glanced at it, winced, and silenced it.
“Still saving the corporate world one merger at a time?”
“Trying to.” She tucked the phone away. “Though I might have to renegotiate my workload while I’m here.”
