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  Bywater Books

  Copyright © 2017 Rachel Spangler

  Bywater Books First Edition: January 2017

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61294-082-3

  By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Bywater Books.

  Cover designer: Ann McMan, TreeHouse Studio

  Bywater Books

  PO Box 3671

  Ann Arbor MI 48106-3671

  www.bywaterbooks.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events described by the author are fictitious. No resemblance to real persons, dead or alive, is intended.

  For Susie, because number ten is all your fault.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Dad?” she asked, concern filling her voice.

  He held a forkful of mashed potatoes as if frozen just inches from his open mouth.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He lifted his eyes, so dark, so big. She’d both inherited and studied those eyes over the course of a lifetime with him. They could speak volumes, or withhold them. She searched for them in times of both joy and turmoil. She’d seen them glisten and glow, burn and freeze, shine and increasingly grow dim, but she’d never seen them so unfocused.

  “Don’t you like the roast beef?” she prodded, glancing down to her own plate to settle the discomfort she felt at the blankness of his stare. He wasn’t an old man by most standards, but he’d aged more acutely lately, and not just in the gray around his temples or the added thickness of the lenses in his glasses, but also in a weakening of both his muscles and his memory. The once comfortable silences between them stretched longer and held less purpose, born more out of necessity than contentedness. She suspected that fact embarrassed them both equally, so she gave him as much time and space as she could, first at the office and now, apparently, at the dinner table as well.

  She pushed a green bean around for a second or two before lifting it to her mouth. He hadn’t answered her question. She glanced over at him again to see he still hadn’t taken a bite. Never had been much of a talker, but he always ate. Sick, tired, saddened, overworked, he always made time for the simple pleasure of a well-cooked meal, and the one she’d prepared tonight usually qualified as a favorite.

  “Dad?” she asked again softly, but stared back at her food searching for an answer there rather than in those cloudy eyes she barely recognized. It had to be the dinner. Something she’d forgotten, something she’d done wrong. Meat, potatoes, a green, the quintessential Midwestern meal trio. She had pie for dessert. Maybe she should tell him so.

  “I had some peaches canned from the summer so I thought I would—” Her voice faltered at the clatter of metal against porcelain as his fork dropped.

  He lifted his left hand to his forehead, but the right one hovered merely an inch or two off the table. She watched his trembling fingers as seconds ticked by. She willed him to move. Silently begged him to find the strength and prayed fervently for the smile she so rarely saw.

  His left hand dropped, the gold wedding band he’d never removed hitting the edge of the table with a plink.

  “Dad?” Her voice sounded so much calmer than she felt. “Should I call a doctor?”

  He shook his head slowly, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out. Time ticked away in precious seconds. Fear clutched her chest, then squeezed like a vice. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

  “I think I better call someone.”

  He shook his head a little more forcefully and scooted back from the table. Using his right hand on the seat of his chair, he pushed himself to standing, and her hope rose with him. He would be okay. He had to be. He was solid as an oak, with roots running every bit as deep. He would smile at her now. Maybe gently chastise her for being overly dramatic. He didn’t need help. Neither did she. They were both fine. Everything was fine. He would say so now.

  He turned, slowly, so slowly she held her breath. It caught, painful and sharp as she waited. Her head spun, her vision blurred, the earth rattled under her feet, but it was he who fell. The great oak toppled to the ground before her. The whole world shook, then went dark.

  The automatic door whooshed open behind Kelly Rolen. Seconds later, the accompanying rush of January air raced along the tile floor, the sharp smell of frost cutting through the sterile scent of antiseptic that had permeated her senses for hours. She didn’t look up. She didn’t have the energy to do anything other than stare at a square of baby blue linoleum flecked with indistinguishable specks of gray and brown. Her long, dark hair hung limply in the periphery of her vision, like curtains shielding her from the gaze of anyone else in the room. Not that there was anyone else there at this time of night— or morning, rather. Aside from the occasional nurse bustling through, she’d had the place to herself for hours. The doctors encouraged her to go home after midnight, saying she couldn’t do any more from here, but she couldn’t do anything from home, either. At least if she stayed here, she’d be quickly alerted to any changes.

  Besides, hospitals made her feel safe. She’d never understood people who hated hospitals. She disdained their faulty reasoning about people dying in hospitals. People died outside of hospitals, too, and in much greater numbers. At least here there were strong, competent people who had training and procedures and answers. Maybe not all the answers, but more than any riffraff on the street could offer. She liked people who knew what they were doing. Order appealed to her, and she found confidence a comfort.

  “Kel?” The intimacy in the voice made her wince.

  She slowly looked up, blinking the haze from her eyes, before turning toward Beth Deveroux. “What are you doing here?” Her voice sounded harsh and full of gravel, but Beth only smiled the sweet, sympathetic smile that melted hearts all over town.

  “I heard about your dad.”

  Kelly glanced at the clock, but didn’t go any farther down the path of wondering who would’ve called Beth before six o’clock on a Monday morning. She knew better than anyone the rumor mill in Darlington ran twenty-four hours a day. Local farmers would’ve been down at the corner bakery for an hour now. She did wonder which parts of the story they had right and which parts had been embellished overnight.

  “A stroke,” she said flatly. “Left side of the brain. He’s stable now. It’s too early to tell what long-term damage to expect.”

  Beth eased into the chair beside her, the scent of her carrying a dizzying wash of memories. “When did it happen?”

  “Just after dinner.” She sent up another silent prayer of thanks that it had been a Sunday, that she’d been there, that there’d been time, enough time to at least buy them more.

  “When was the last time you heard from the docto
rs?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Do they check in often?”

  “They did at first. CT scans, medicines, stabilizing, paperwork.” She spoke in clipped phrases partially out of exhaustion and partially to control her fear. If she stuck to reciting facts, it was harder for the emotions to sneak up on her.

  Beth nodded. “And now?”

  “Less so. There’s not as much to report.”

  “Do they have your cell phone number?”

  “Beth, don’t handle me.” She’d hoped to sound firm, but only managed tired.

  “I’m not handling you. Lord knows we both understand how futile that is.” She sounded exasperated already, but not cold or judgmental. “You’re one of the most stubbornly self-sufficient women I’ve ever met.”

  One of— not the most. The phrase didn’t go unnoticed, even if the other name went unspoken.

  “But if you’re going to continue this vigil, you need to do it right. Wrecking yourself won’t help your dad improve. This will be a long process.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” she snapped, but even her anger sounded dull.

  “You need sleep.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Then you have to eat, because you’ve got to rejuvenate somehow.”

  “I’ll get something from the cafeteria.” She brushed the concerns away, again.

  “What about a shower?”

  “They have locker rooms here.”

  “Kel …” No one else had ever said her name quite like Beth, so gently, so lovingly frustrated. She had to set her jaw against the pressure building in her chest.

  “I could make you some eggs, over easy, in bacon grease.”

  A smile threatened to push through her exhaustion.

  “Think about it, a hot shower, comfortable clothes, hot food.”

  And you, she thought. Beth again— in her life, in her home, in her arms, even if just for a moment. Just a hug and nothing more. She wanted to lean into that vision, to let herself be soothed, cared for by someone who really did care.

  Beth laid a hand softly on her leg. “It’s time to go home.”

  Home.

  She stared at Beth’s elegant fingers against the gray of her dress slacks. So familiar, and yet glaringly different. A gold band accented with a single diamond. Any desire she’d had to crumble or crash into this woman, their past, or the comfort she may have offered evaporated at the sight of another woman’s ring on the hand she ached to hold.

  “Where’s Rory?” The name sounded clipped, and she hated how much it still irked her to ask.

  “She’s at home.”

  Home.

  Not her own. The home that offered Beth everything Kelly couldn’t.

  She wasn’t tired anymore; her limbs clenched and twitched with restlessness. Straightening her shoulders, she shook the hair from her eyes and cleared her throat. “Actually, it’s time for me to get ready for work.”

  “Work? You can’t be serious.”

  She planted one hand firmly on each armrest and pushed herself to a standing position as she tried to stretch the tension out of her neck and shoulders. “It’s almost tax season. Someone has to open the office.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “It’s just me now.” She forced the words past the knot of emotion. “I’m the only one left.”

  “You don’t have to be. You can take in some help.”

  “Thank you for checking on me. I appreciate it, and I know Dad will, too. But I want to talk with the nurses one more time before I head out.”

  Beth stared up at her, pleading evident in her blue eyes, but her mouth remained in a grim line. Kelly waited for the argument, the press of an emotional appeal, or perhaps another attempt at reason, but none came. “Okay. You have to do this your way.”

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Knowing something and understanding it are two very different things.” Beth stood, then kissed her on the cheek. “Please take care of yourself.”

  Kelly stood completely still as she walked away. It was a view she’d grown all too used to, but it never got easier to accept. Once the doors closed behind Beth, she sank back into the same chair she’d occupied for hours and stared out the large picture windows across the hall.

  Early hints of orange light crept across the horizon, casting frozen fields in a warm glow, but it was a false heat. The ground lay icy, dead, unmoving. Changing the light didn’t change its essence any more than sitting in the waiting room all night had changed her father’s condition. And Beth’s presence for a few moments hadn’t changed anything about their relationship any more than their three years apart had changed the parts of Kelly that had allowed Beth to walk out the door the first time.

  Chapter Two

  Elliot Garza twisted to her left, then spun to the right, her neon pink tennis shoes squeaking against the shellacked wood of the gym floor as she pivoted, then pushed off. Free and on the breakaway, she timed the ball to the beat of her feet and sprinted toward the basket. One dribble, two, three, then up in one fluid motion, her hand lifted the ball easily toward the net. But just as it rolled effortlessly from the tips of her fingers, a glancing shoulder blow caught her elbow and knocked her off line. The hit wasn’t hard, but it was enough. The ball clipped the corner of the backboard before veering out of bounds as she landed firmly on her feet.

  “Hey, you can’t foul me,” she said, whirling to face her opponent. “You’re a professor.”

  “Sure I can. You’re my teaching assistant. I think it’s somewhere in the contract that I get to abuse you,” Rory St. James replied.

  “I’m not your TA anymore.”

  “Right, and I’m not your professor anymore either, so we’re even.”

  “Aw, is that what this is about?” She used the back of her arm to wipe the beads of sweat from her forehead. “You’re going to miss me, so you hit me? I thought you’d worked through all your abandonment issues.”

  Rory rolled her eyes but smiled. “Well played. Take your shot.”

  Elliot retrieved the ball and bounced it a few times on her way to the foul line. She wanted to savor this moment. She didn’t often get points for a zing when sparring with Rory St. James. Few people did. Now if she could just sink this shot, she’d also be up points-wise, another rare occurrence. Even though she had Rory matched in height and overall athleticism, she’d never been as quick on her feet, or maybe she didn’t quite match Rory’s competitive spirit. Maybe that’s why she’d been drawn to Rory from her first day at Bramble College. She liked to think Rory had seen a reflection of herself in her as well, and that’s why she’d been so open and friendly. But Rory was those things and more to a lot of people.

  She bounced the ball again, then shot, not even stopping to watch its arc through the net before jogging away. She knew she’d hit her mark.

  “Eighteen to twenty,” Rory called as she jogged the ball out past half court. “How about, if I come back and win this, you teach with me one more semester?”

  Elliot considered the bet. “What do I get if I win?”

  “The satisfaction of beating a queer icon.”

  “I love how humble you are.”

  “Humility is a tool of the patriarch,” Rory said. “Take the bet?”

  Elliot thought about it. She did like to win, and adding to the stakes only added to the enjoyment, but she didn’t dare bet against Rory. She had an advanced understanding of odds and risk assessment, but Elliot also knew the spark in those famous emerald eyes always burned a little brighter when challenged. She liked to think the same would hold true for her, but she wouldn’t bet on it. Maybe that was the biggest strike against her.

  “No deal,” she said emphatically. “I’ve been in school too long.”

  “There’s no such thing as staying in school for too long,” Rory argued, but she started her deliberate march toward the net. She had no trouble dribbling and talking at the same time. �
��I’ve seen plenty of the real word. I plan to stay in college for the rest of my life.”

  “That’s why I have to go,” Elliot said, watching her slow, easy dribble, timing her rhythm, waiting for her to make her break or offer any opening. “You have this place all locked up. Academia is full of amazing, engaged women. There’s no shortage of radical lesbians with women’s studies degrees.”

  Rory’s eyes flicked toward the net, measuring her shot, calculating the risks and reward. “There’s no such thing as too many smart women.”

  “Of course not, but there’s no need for academia to Bogart them all when finance is still an old boys’ club.” She took steady, even breaths despite her rapid heartbeat. They were fully in the paint now. One bounce, two bounces, three bounces, steal.

  She swatted the ball before it ever returned to Rory’s hand, then took two quick steps to catch up, trapped it between both hands, turned, and in one fluid moment, took her shot. It hit squarely in the center of the backboard before clattering off both sides of the metal rim and dropping through the net.

  “I’d love to stay,” she said, turning to face Rory, “but I’ve got glass ceilings to shatter.”

  Rory beamed proudly at her, and no matter how many times she’d seen that smile, she’d never grown immune to its power. She walked a little taller, shoulders a little straighter, back to the bleachers, trying not to gloat or grin like an idiot as she took a swig of water from her stainless steel bottle.

  Grabbing a towel, Rory mopped the sweat off her neck before shaking out her chestnut hair. She could pull off that rakish, mussed-up look. Elliott felt another stab of admiration. Her own amber locks hung nearly to her shoulders when wet, and if she tried to shake them, she’d only end up with weird wing-dings and cowlicks. “So if you really must leave the great ivory tower of academia, why not take an internship with a local CPA?”

  “I couldn’t get one,” she admitted, hoping her annoyance wasn’t too obvious. “You know what these little farm towns around here are like. They’re beyond insular. Everyone’s suspicious of outsiders.”