“Since purchasing this place, I’ve only visited a few times,” she said while handing Sam a medical kit. “I prefer living on property during renovations as opposed to a hotel. So I picked a space and made it my own.”
“You’ve got a thing for vintage Americana?”
“Not really. But in this case, it felt right. I like what Rocky did. Don’t you?’
“Sure.” He perched next to her on the small sofa, damning the intoxicating effects of her exotic perfume.
Her phone blipped and she shifted her focus, reading and texting. Reading and texting.
Sam opened the kit, soaked a cotton ball with peroxide then attended the scabbing bump near Harper’s temple. He shook off a wave of déjà vu. He’d tended bumps and scratches and much worse in his lifetime. Of course, he’d done this before.
“For the…” Harper texted like a fiend. “I leave town for a few days and all hell breaks loose.”
Since she seemed adept at multitasking, Sam spoke over her lightning-speed thumbs. “I assume you know the history of this house.”
“That’s why I bought it. This house, this room was lonely. Now it’s not.”
“Rocky said you don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I don’t. But I believe in kindred souls.”
Sam didn’t ask what she meant by that because he was afraid she’d break into a ramble about psychics or some other metaphysical bunk. She probably represented some semifamous TV medium or an actor who played one. She probably believed in that woo-woo shit. Probably practiced yoga on the beach and subexisted on tofu and pine nuts. He kept ticking off West Coast stereotypical attributes while she compulsively texted. He kept waiting for his sexual interest to wane.
His nads twitched, telling him that wouldn’t be anytime soon.
Damn.
“Are you going to check my cable, Rambo, or what?” she asked without looking up.
A ballbuster and seductress rolled into one.
For a split second, Sam thought about taming that sass. Except Harper struck him as a wild card and, because of the kids, he needed to play it safe. Moving toward the plasma screen he conjured visions of nuns and puppies and sweet-natured Rae. Yeah, that cooled his jets. As did the realization that he’d never once fantasized about hot and dirty sex with the woman he hoped to marry. Lovemaking, yes. No-holds-barred sex, no.
Not that he was having second thoughts, but he was.
He cursed the kink in his strategic plan.
He blamed Rocky.
FIFTEEN
Luke hated hospitals. He especially hated cooling his heels in the waiting room. Waiting to learn if a friend or family member was okay. A prognosis on a surgery or the verdict on an injury.
The last time he’d been here had been in October. Daisy had been transported to Pixley General after pedaling a rented bicycle down a steep hill for the thrill of it. Although she regretted losing control and skidding into a tree, she didn’t regret the adrenaline rush. Even though that rush had cost her a broken ankle, fractured ribs, scrapes, bruises, and a gash on her forehead. The winter before Daisy had taken Rocky’s snowmobile for a joyride. She’d fared better than the mangled Artic Cat, walking away from that wreck with several bruises and a broken wrist. Because of Luke’s grandma’s advanced age, the doctor had held Daisy overnight for observation.
Some of Luke’s uglier memories were tied up with Sam’s wife, Paula, who’d endured an invasive operation and extensive chemo treatments before ultimately losing her battle to ovarian cancer. The family had lost Grandpa Jessup, Daisy’s husband, to cancer as well. If Luke’s dad hadn’t hightailed it to Florida, the family would have been haunting this hospital every time the old man, who wasn’t even all that old, came in for treatment. But no. Jerome Monroe had spared his children and assorted relatives that misery. Rae had praised the man’s good intentions, but Luke damned his pride. Luke’s mom shouldn’t have had to bear that weight on her own. Not wanting to cause tension over the Christmas holidays, Luke had held his tongue. But, damn, he resented the way his dad had handled the situation.
“Just be glad he’s coming out of it,” Dev had said.
What would his big brother say about this situation with Rae? Dev’s first wife had miscarried scarcely five months into her pregnancy. Dev hadn’t even known for certain that Janna had been carrying his child, but he’d grieved the loss all the same. Luke had only been living with the idea of being a dad for two days and Rae was only a few weeks along. Still, he felt emotionally invested.
It was damned uncomfortable.
Wired, Luke left the crowded, stale-smelling room. He needed air. Except midway down the hall he spied his grandma and Vince Redding coming his way. That he didn’t need. He tried ducking through the nearest door, but …
“Luke?”
Busted.
Slapping on a smile, he faced the senior couple—hugged Daisy then shook Vince’s hand. “What are you two doing here?”
Daisy pushed her blingy glasses up her nose. “I could ask you the same.”
“I asked first,” Luke said.
“My ticker,” Daisy said.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” Vince said. “Just time for her checkup with Doctor Beane.”
“Couldn’t you see Doc Worton for that?” Luke didn’t like the idea of Vince driving all this way on icy roads. He seemed spry enough for seventy. Still, why take chances?
“I could,” Daisy said. “But Doctor Beane was the one who treated me when I had that mild heart attack a while back.”
“The heart attack you didn’t tell anyone about,” Luke said. “What is it with this family lately?”
“You think I’m happy my son kept his illness from me?” she said. “But I understand Jerome’s motives. Same reason I kept my brush with death to myself. It’s personal. Stop holding a grudge, Luke.”
“I’m not … How’d you know I was thinking about Dad.”
“Do I look like I was born yesterday?”
“No, ma’am.” She didn’t look her age, either. In finding herself (in her seventies, mind you) Daisy Monroe had chucked her conservative wardrobe in favor of clothing more suited to a late sixties hippie. She’d also adopted a habit of coloring her springy curls in various bright colors (this month red—in honor of Valentine’s Day). She was wearing velvety overalls, fuzzy purple boots, a lime green coat, and blingy cat eye glasses. “Don’t let me hold you up,” Luke said after glancing at his watch. “I’m sure Beane’s on a tight schedule.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, sidestepping his observation. “Why are you here?”
Hell. “A friend of mine got food poisoning.”
“Who?”
“Rae.”
“Ray Howard?” Vince asked.
“Rae as in Reagan Devereaux,” Daisy said to Vince. “Formerly Rachel Lacey. I told you about her and the false identity thing.”
“That you did. Right out of a mystery show, that one. Don’t understand why she’d fib like that, but I’m sorry she’s sick,” the older man said to Luke.
“I’ve known lots of people struck by food poisoning,” Daisy said, “They didn’t land in the hospital.”
“Must’ve been a severe case,” Vince said then frowned. “Hope it wasn’t caused by any food purchased at my store.”
“King Chow’s,” Luke said.
“Thank God.” Vince coughed into his hand. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” Luke said.
“We should pop in and say hello,” Daisy said, looking one way then another. “Where is she?”
Damn. “I, uh, don’t think that’s a good idea, Gram. She was feeling really lousy and—”