“It’s not your fault, you know.”
I put my forehead against the cool of the window. Part of me knew he was right. It wasn’t my fault; it was the fault of the guy who’d held that gun. Then again, if it hadn’t been for me, there wouldn’t have been a bookmobile for Roger to have been on.
Did that make me partially to blame? Not in a court of law, but what about the court of public opinion? How about my own opinion? With my own self blaming me, how would I ever sleep tonight—or any other night in the foreseeable future? And even if I did sleep, what sort of dreams would I be likely to have?
I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself.
Tucker got up and put his hands on my shoulders. “Repeat after me: It was an accident.”
I managed a smile. “It was an accident.”
“It’s not my fault,” Tucker prompted.
“It’s . . .” I shook my head and blew out a breath. “It’s not my fault.”
“I will spend the rest of the evening eating pizza and breadsticks and watching old movies, and will not think about this again until tomorrow.”
Somehow, magically, I laughed. Not a big laugh—a very small one, actually—but still a laugh. It was good to have a boyfriend who could make me feel better when all I’d wanted to do half an hour ago was wrap my arms around my knees and bawl. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s my girl.” He reached around me to begin a serious hug, but a knock on the door stopped him. “Must be the pizza guy.”
He went to the door, and I went to the kitchen for plates, napkins, forks (two, even though Tucker wouldn’t use his), and drinks.
“Movie time?” he asked, holding the two boxes aloft. “I recommend something with a happy ending.”
“Can we watch The Sting again?” I carried my stack of food-related items to the living room and piled them on the coffee table.
One of the first things Tucker and I discovered we had in common was a love of movies. One of the second things we discovered we had in common was a love of staying up late watching movies.
“Only if we can watch The Andromeda Strain, too,” he said.
I smiled. There weren’t that many movies that featured medical research, but Tucker had all of them on DVD. He also had many of my favorites, from The Wizard of Oz to The Princess Bride to Shakespeare in Love. He didn’t have Ghostbusters, but I was planning on giving it to him for his birthday.
We settled in, immersed ourselves in Depression-era Chicago, and when the food was gone I was content to sit back with Tucker’s arm around me.
Five minutes later, his cell phone rang. It was the ring tone for the hospital.
I tensed. “I didn’t think you were on call tonight.”
He was pulling the phone from his pocket. “Had to switch with somebody,” he muttered, then into the phone said, “Dr. Kleinow.”
There was a short pause when he didn’t move, but when he sat forward to listen with that intent expression on his face, I knew our evening together was over. I should have been sad that some patient at the hospital was in such bad shape that they needed Tucker to come in, and on most days I would have been, but tonight I needed him. Needed his comfort, his calm, his voice, his kiss, his presence. And he was going to leave.
“Okay,” Tucker said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I was already on my feet and reaching for my coat.
“Minnie, you don’t have to leave,” he said. “I won’t be long.”
The last time he’d said that, I’d waited in the car while he went to check on a patient. I’d reached into my purse for my e-reader, opened up The Hunger Games, and was wondering how much rest Katniss was actually going to get sleeping in a tree, when Tucker returned.
“No, thanks,” I said now, a little shortly.
“I’m sorry.” He grabbed his own coat. “This wasn’t how this night was supposed to end up.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t. And I’m sure that person in the emergency room needs you a lot more than I do.” My words came out a little childish and a lot whiny, but they were said and I couldn’t take them back. Besides, they were true. I sighed. “You’d better get going. I’ll be fine.”
“Minnie, please don’t go. Stay, at least for a little while. I’ll be back as soon as I can—you know I will.”
But I couldn’t stay, not here alone in this room that had no life. “I’m sorry, Tucker. It’s just . . .”
I shook my head and left.
* * *
Late that night, up in my room, lying on my side with Eddie curled up next to me, I wept the tears I’d been keeping in, the tears I couldn’t shed in the bookmobile for the sake of rule number one. I wept for Roger, for Denise, for their children, for their entire extended family. I cried for all his friends and neighbors and coworkers.
At the end, I finally wept a little for myself, gulping down sobs of sorrow and loss for a good man I’d barely known.
Then, with Eddie purring comfort into my bones, I fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 5
The next day Aunt Frances insisted on indulging me. She brought me breakfast in bed, dug around in her extensive bookshelves for the entire Mrs. Tim series by D. E. Stevenson, and only let me come down for lunch when I promised I wouldn’t try to help with the cooking.
I sat at the kitchen table, watching while she sliced bread off the loaf she’d baked the day before, then watched while she made grilled cheese sandwiches at the same time that she put together a salad of spinach, mandarin oranges, and walnuts.
“Some people,” I said, “say that cooking is therapy.”
Aunt Frances raised one sardonic eyebrow. “Obviously those people haven’t seen you at work in the kitchen.”
“Hey, I can cook.” I thought about that and amended it a little. “If I have to.”
“And how often do you have to?”
She had a point, and I was not about to argue with a woman who said she loved me too much to let me eat my own cooking while I lived under her roof. In the summer, I lived on breakfast cereal, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and take-out meals, along with a healthy dose of leftovers from Kristen’s restaurant.
I grinned at my aunt. “Often enough to remind myself that I’d rather wash someone else’s dishes than cook my own food.”
“Not today,” she said. “After what happened yesterday, you’re going to let me take care of you from sunrise to sunset.” She glanced out the kitchen window at the backyard. “So to speak, anyway.”
I looked out at the gray sky. It was one of those days of low, thick cloud cover, a day during which it would be hard to wake up completely. The temperatures had risen, and the white world was turning into a dripping, sodden mess. It was a day made for reading in front of the fireplace and maybe watching a movie or two. Movies . . . I sighed.
“What’s the matter, my sweet?” Aunt Frances asked. “You never did say why you got home so early last night.”
I shook my head, not wanting to talk about it. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the next day, after I got things figured out.
“Mrr.” Eddie jumped onto my lap, pushing aside my elbows on his way up. He turned once, twice, and flopped down into a tidy meat-loaf shape, his chin resting on my arm. “Mrr,” he said quietly.
“Don’t we have a rule about no cats at the table?” my aunt asked.
I rested my hand on Eddie’s back. “You do, and I do, but I’m not sure he’s signed the agreement.”
“Well.” She put the bread onto the sizzling griddle. “He can stay until the food’s ready. We have to draw the line somewhere.”