Page 38 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Jack ran upstairs and made quick work of drying himself off and changing, then raided his mother’s closet for clean clothes. The shower was still running when he returned. He edged the door open, just far enough to drop the linen pants and T-shirt he’d brought. Music stopped him short. Humming. Clementine was humming “Can’t Help Falling in Love”—the song he’d sung to her in his shelter. He closed his eyes and exhaled. Maybe she’d forgive his behavior after all.

He gripped the door to close it, but she said, “Jack?”

“Just leaving you clothes. There’s a library down the hall. Head there when you’re ready. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.” As soon as he explained to his mother why he had to tell Clementine the truth.

He could see Clementine’s outline through the foggy glass. Head. Shoulders. Hips. She pressed her hand to the glass and dragged it down. The steamy heat slipped through his bloodstream.

“See you in the library,” she said softly.

“The library,” he murmured and escaped before he blurted how badly he’d like to join her in the shower.

He found his mother where he’d left her, curled up in a chair in his father’s room. She rubbed her eyes. “Was that Imelda?”

“No. It’s a friend.”

“Marco?”

His father moaned in his sleep, and both their heads snapped toward him. Eric, their day nurse, lowered his Billboard magazine but didn’t move. “You folks need to quit with the hovering. The new treatment is tough, but he’s strong. He’ll pull through.”

It didn’t feel that way when Jack’s sister had called him, frantic, at three a.m., whispering things like vomit and shaking and I’m so scared. He’d tested his Tesla’s power, driving faster than he should, only for his mother to berate him for coming. The night nurse had shooed them from Maxwell’s room with tough love. “The effects are nasty, but necessary,” she’d said. “Gotta kill the poison in him.”

None of it made Jack feel any better.

Jack had offered to move in months ago, his proposal met by two glaring parents. Neither of them wanted him to change his life. He needed to sleep, they had claimed. To focus on work. He did need those things, but getting middle-of-the-night calls from his frantic sister made him rethink his priorities.

Lying to a beautiful woman standing in the rain had done the same.

He caught his mother’s eye. “Can we talk?”

After another steady look at her husband, Sylvia David pushed her blanket aside, stretched, and joined Jack in the hall.

She pressed her hand to his cheek. “You look tired.”

No matter how much he blinked, he still felt foggy. “I am tired, but it’s you I’m worried about.”

Her shoulder-length curly hair was usually styled, her outfits always pressed and elegant. Today her dark hair was haphazard, the back flattened from sleeping on the chair. She fluffed it, but it didn’t do much. “Just a rough night. Chloe shouldn’t have called you.”

“Yes, she should have. Actually, no. She shouldn’t have because I should have been here. It’s too much for—”

“Enough of that, Maxwell Jack David.” She three-named him like he was still seven years old, coming home from exploring with Marco, covered in muck and grass. “We have twenty-four-hour nursing, the best doctors money can buy. Being here won’t help your father. In fact, it will stress him more. It will stress me more. So enough of this moving nonsense. Come by and visit, stay for dinner tonight, but please make a life for yourself. For your father. For me. It all…” Tears sprang to her eyes. “It all goes so fast.”

He slumped forward, helpless and frustrated. What could he say to that? He understood their wishes. Stage Four pancreatic cancer couldn’t be cured, but this new aggressive treatment could prolong his life. For years, maybe. Sitting vigil now would hinder Dad’s fight, not boost it.

All Maxwell David the Second asked was that his kids kept living their lives. He wanted them to visit and share their troubles, not pretend all was swell. “Just because I’m dying, doesn’t make your problems any less real,” he’d said the other day. “Talk to me about your troubles, and find yourself a good woman.” Again with the love and life advice.

Advice Jack should heed. When Jack sang, music vibrated through his feet. The beat filled his chest, the rawness of Elvis—man, myth, and legend—bursting from his lungs. Kissing Clementine had blasted through him like that, louder than a song, wilder than the thrill of performing. She was more than just good.

“I’m telling someone about Dad,” he told his mother.

She wrung her hands. “Is it Marco? Has he figured it out?”

“Not Marco.”

She straightened her spine. “Then the answer is no. You know your father won’t be happy. If the investors find out—”

“The investors won’t find out.”

“If Gunther Doright’s betrayal breaks and our Chinese competitors put their lenses out at half our price, we may as well roll over and play dead.” She cringed. “Not my best choice of words, but you know how serious this is. The town depends on that factory. We can’t give investors any reason to question our position, and your father’s poor health would do just that. We don’t like you lying, but there’s no other way.”