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* * *
“No,” I struggle to explain. “I meant before. Before I stripped down in front of Drew. Ever since we got back from Napa, you’ve acted as if I’ve messed up in some way. Was it something that happened in Napa?”
NATHAN
“Was it something that happened in Napa?”
* * *
She asks the question so cluelessly, as if Napa Valley had been fun and games, and not a torture chamber of temptation.
* * *
Yes, he wants to scream. Yes, it has to do with Napa. I don’t love you. I am using you, and everything that happened in Napa felt like fraud. He swallows. “It has nothing to do with Napa except that I feel you came back from that trip with unrealistic expectations about our relationship.”
* * *
She crosses her arms over her chest, and the air between them turns cold. “So you thought you’d be a grade A asshole to push me back into my corner?”
* * *
“Possibly.” He lifts his chin, returning the glare that she slings in his direction. “And, from the look you’re giving me, I think I’ve accomplished that purpose.”
* * *
She snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. You can be a human being without having a woman fall for you.”
* * *
Isn’t that the truth. He’d been more than human with Cecile, and look how that had ended.
* * *
“All I’m asking is that you not be cruel.”
* * *
He can’t give her that. It’s not in him to be kind and not care. It’s too risky to befriend her when she is only a tool. And this backbone that she’s growing isn’t helping anything. He jerks a head toward the door. “I think it’s time you went back to your room.”
* * *
If a glare could be tangible, hers would slice his head off. She waits, and there is a moment when he almost expects her to refuse, to stand her ground and just stare him down until the mosquitos came out and Drew nodded off from the pure boredom of it all.
* * *
But she doesn’t. She turns on one sexy heel, giving him a parting look at that deliciously round ass, and heads out the door, the scent of her perfume lingering as she all but stomped toward her room.
CHAPTER 24
“Your husband is so handsome.”
* * *
I look up from my book, my feet tucked beneath me, my father’s snores comforting in their regularity. “I’m sorry?”
* * *
Pam beams, a worn Southern Life magazine clutched in her hands, as she scurries closer. “Jeanie brought this in, it’s got photos from your trip to Napa. I didn’t realize how handsome your husband was. Why, you’re famous!”
* * *
She unfolds the magazine, folding it back on itself, thrusting the glossy pages forward, one bare fingernail tapping insistently on the page. I accept it carefully, my eyes devouring the pages.
* * *
I know that Nathan is important, a part of Nashville society, which apparently makes him fodder for southern gossip rags. I glance quickly through the photos, ones from a charity luncheon we attended, grapevines in the distance, the sunny warmth of the day coming through in the images. The shots seem to focus on us, the other couples in attendance mostly ignored by the photographer. I look fabulous—glowing with happiness, my head tilted toward Nathan, a proud smile on his face, as he looks at me with an emotion some might confuse with love. My hand tightens on the magazine. I love these pages; I want to pore over each one, to savor the images I wish were real.
* * *
My chair shifts as Pam’s weight rests on its arm, her bosom against my arm as she leans forward and points to a photo of the two of us. “This is my favorite one of him. Whew!” She fans herself dramatically. “What I wouldn’t give to trade places with you, honey.” She laughs, a pleasant trill of joy.
* * *
“Can I hold on to this? I’d like to show it to Dad when he wakes up.”
* * *
“Certainly.” She pats my shoulder, heaving to her feet and stepping over to his bed, checking his monitors and recording in his chart. It is one of the things I appreciate about this place. His records are kept clean, orderly, his blood work easy to read, his tests occurring when they should, according to schedule. That alone is a Godsend, never mind the daily delivery of fresh flowers, the delicious food, or the endless patience of the doctors. There are only sixteen patients in this entire complex. Sixteen patients tended to by five doctors, twelve nurses, and a round-the-clock support staff. Here he is a name, not a number. And here, he is actually getting better.
* * *
They still don’t know what is wrong. But they have been able to determine what helps. He is on a cocktail of drugs and antibiotics and is slowly responding, the digital figures on his charts improving. And slowly, tentatively, I am beginning to have hope.
