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Her touch on his arm was gentle. “No, truly. Brennan and I are not meant to be. We’re too different, and we forgot that for a few weeks.”
“It’s not true. Look at me and Judy. Look at—” Excruciating pain struck hard and fast. Malcolm clutched his bow tie as a hammer struck him again and again in the center of his chest, the last one pressing him down. He sank to a knee, his mouth open but unable to make a cognizant sound.
“Juuu—”
“Oh, my God!” Mary Paige reached for him, grabbing his elbow as he fell.
Lights swirled above him.
Judy.
He needed Judy.
“Help!” Mary Paige screamed, dropping beside him.
He felt others move his way, the band playing on and he knew he was dying.
Dying without ever making Judy his bride.
Dying without teaching Brennan about love.
Dying with so much left unfinished.
It wasn’t fair.
But when had life been fair?
He closed his eyes and then there was nothing more.
18
BRENNANSATINthe waiting room of ICU staring at the clock, willing the minute hand to hit the six for no other reason than he was tired of it being on five. The cardiologist on call had tersely told him earlier in the emergency room it was touch and go for Malcolm and they’d know more when they got him on the cath table. That news had made Brennan’s gut cramp and his head pound with dread.
His heart was already bleeding from the episode with Mary Paige and Asher, so he wasn’t in good shape.
Judy sat across from him, her skirt bunched up and her face pale and worried. Her fingers knit together, twisting, and turning over and over until he thought he might scream.
“He’ll be okay,” Judy said for the third or fourth time in ten minutes. It was the new mantra that had replaced the “Oh, God, please save him” that she’d repeated for over an hour.
“He will,” Brennan replied, not feeling the words. Knowing this could be it, and in the snap of his fingers, he’d be utterly alone. Well, he’d have Asher and Ellen, but that thought wasn’t comforting even though he cared for his cousins. Well, at least he cared for Ellen.
Finally, after forty more minutes of finger-twisting by Judy, the cardiologist Dr. Jim Grantham pushed through the doors and headed their way. Brennan stood.
“Mr. Henry, sorry for my shortness earlier. I wanted to get your grandfather on the table as soon as possible to see what we were dealing with. Time is always of essence during an MI event.”
“No problem. How is he?”
Judy stood and touched the doctor on the arm. “I’m Judy Poche, Malcolm’s fiancée.”
“Oh,” the doctor said, turning to her as he pulled off the brightly colored surgeon’s cap and tucked it into the waistband of his scrubs. “I’m Dr. Grantham, and your fiancé is stabilized and recovering.”
“Oh, thank God,” Judy said, closing her eyes and drawing in a deep breath.
“For some reason he threw a clot in that stent and there was an immediate cardiac event. We fixed the blockage and placed a new stent. The heart muscle was further damaged, but it looks as if he’s going to pull through.”
Brennan nodded his head, relief spiraling through him at the doctor’s prognosis. “We can’t thank you enough, Dr. Grantham.”
“I’m glad you got him here quickly, and it wasn’t something more serious. We’re running some tests to see why his body formed the clot in the first place—usually it’s not taking the prescribed blood thinner. We’ll know more soon, and I’ll consult with his personal physician.”
