Code Triage (14 page)

“No.” She gulped a breath and tried to smile. “I’m fine. Really. You just surprised me.” Her eyes skimmed his scrub top, the fake ID badge he’d clipped on backward.

“I was just heading down for a smoke,” he said quickly.

“Oh. Well, then . . .” She stooped down to reach for the things she’d dropped.

“I’ve got it,” he said, beating her to it. He gathered the scattered papers, tucked them into the notebook, and stood. “You’ve got that sling on your arm. Let me carry this for you. We’re walking the same way, right?”

“Right—I’m going to the ER. Thank you.” She smiled, the fear in her expression replaced by something that almost looked like relief. As if his being there at that moment was a miracle from God himself.

He bit his lip to keep from howling as the dark current of power surged again. “After you, then,” he said, sweeping his arm wide to let her go ahead.

This was easy. Being here, fooling these people. Too easy. What was his old man’s saying? Right . . .

Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Chapter Ten

“You’re still here?” Leigh crossed the shadowy lawn to the hedge, careful to avoid the scattered rakes, bundled leaf bags, and wheelbarrow piled high with clippings. Nick turned, shirtless and wearing faded Levis, holding a pair of heavy-duty pruning shears. Behind him the full moon, ember orange in the fading sunlight, climbed in the early evening sky. “I thought you’d be finished by now.”

“Took longer than I figured.” He swiped a hand across his perspiring forehead and laughed as Cha Cha’s squawk drifted over from the McNealys’ yard, followed by a resounding “Forever and ever!” “Well, not that long.”

She smiled in spite of herself.

“Anyway,” Nick continued, resting the shears on the wheelbarrow, “I got interrupted a few times. Antoinette brought Cha Cha outside in his cage; then she brought Harry. She thought he’d like to supervise the pruning. So we had lemonade, and I watched her trim his fingernails and listened to the story of how they met. Again . . . but it’s a great story.” His smile faded. “I guess Harry’s been pretty agitated today. I think that’s why she brought him outside. It’s funny; he can be so clear sometimes. He reminded me that he and I had planned to make an opening in the hedge. Connect the yards. With an arbor for Antoinette’s climbing roses. He had those plans that showed a bench on each side, remember?”

Leigh nodded. The good neighbor arbor. Where two happy couples—one young, one older and wiser—would sit and visit.

“I could still do it for Harry. It wouldn’t be hard. And—”

“He won’t remember,” she said, cutting him off.
And I don’t want to remember. Don’t make me remember. It’s too late.

Nick was quiet for a moment, his dark eyes studying her face. “How’s Frisco?”

“Hanging in there,” she answered, glad the subject was changed. “Dr. Hunter didn’t think it was necessary to oil him.” She saw Nick’s forehead wrinkle and explained, “Sometimes the vet inserts a stomach tube and instills a big dose of mineral oil. A laxative to keep things moving and prevent an intestinal blockage.”

Nick grimaced. “I can imagine how your horse would react to that. The vet could lose an arm.”

“Frankly, I’d almost welcome Frisco’s feisty temper at this point. Patrice will administer more of the pain medicine tonight, but . . .”

“But?”

“He’s not eating. A horse’s lack of appetite is a sure sign something’s not right.”

“I saw Maria with that bag of carrots. Maybe she’ll get him to eat.”

“Leigh? Is that you, dear?”

They both turned at the voice on the other side of the darkened hedge.

“Yes, Antoinette, I’m—” She started to walk to the hedge, stumbled over a trash bag, lurched for a few steps, then fell to her knees in the grass. In an instant Nick was there, helping her to her feet. His grasp was strong and steadying. The warmth of his touch and her immediate reaction to it stunned her.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. I’m . . .” She breathed in the scent of him—faint trace of soap, tangy mix of sweat, autumn leaves, and masculine skin. “I’m fine,” she said finally, way too conscious of his hands on her arms and the way his eyes searched hers . . .
and what a fool I am.

“Well, my goodness.” Antoinette’s face appeared over the hedge, and even in the shadows, Leigh could see the delight in her expression. “You’re both there. What a sight for sore eyes this is.”

Leigh stepped away from Nick, rubbing at her arms as if it would erase his touch. She wanted to turn and run, even if it meant risking tripping over a rake. She needed distance. A few more days, and then . . .

“Forever and ever!” Cha Cha shrilled.

Antoinette shook her head. “That bird’s a broken record, I’m afraid. But hard to teach an old bird new tricks.” Her gaze darted between them. “And it’s a good reminder.”

“How’s Harry doing?” Nick asked, his voice husky and low in the darkness.

“I’ve tucked him in. He’s looking at the old picture albums. I think the fresh air did him good. Thank you for trimming the hedge. Harry was so determined to get that taken care of. He’ll be calmer now. He hates thinking he’s left something undone.”

“I understand.” Nick glanced sideways at Leigh for an instant. “I’m glad I was here. You tell Harry good night for me, all right?”

“I’ll do that. Good night, dear.”

Antoinette’s face disappeared, Cha Cha’s squawks receded, and they were left standing in silence. Leigh could hear Nick breathing. He shifted beside her and cleared his throat. Her pulse quickened and she spoke before he could.

“Did you get those last boxes packed?”

“I don’t want to talk about boxes.”

There was another stretch of silence, filled only by the muted sounds of Geary Street traffic and faint sprinklings of childish laughter from the Chan house two doors down.

She calculated the risk of dashing through the deepening twilight.

“The lemon tree looks bad,” he said, his tone remarkably similar to the one she used to inform family members of a grim prognosis. “I could take it, trim the branches back. Get it some of that citrus food.”

“No.” She rubbed her arms again, blaming the chill on encroaching bay fog. “It’s okay where it is.”

“It’s dying. You’re letting it die, Leigh.”

“I’m what?” she asked, hearing the accusation in his tone and feeling the ruthlessly unfair barb of it strike deep. “Let me get this straight: I’m killing the lemon tree. I’m taking lousy care of my sister. What’s next? I’m failing to roll out the red carpet so your girlfriend can waltz through my ER anytime she wants?” She raised a palm, saw that it was trembling. “And wait—let me guess. Next I’ll be a shrew for saying that I hate it—
hate it
—that you’re stuffing her down my throat at the stables.”

He took a step closer and started to reach out but stopped. “C’mon. I’m not saying any of that. You know I’m not. You know me.”

Tears stung her eyes. “I thought I did, once. But . . .” She shook her head. “The only thing I know now is that I’m not going to have to deal with this much longer. You can’t know how good that makes me feel. And here’s all you need to know.” She raised her hand and touched her fingers one by one as if she were instructing a patient for aftercare. “The lemon tree doesn’t matter. Caro is doing great.” She took a breath and looked him full in the face as she ticked off her last point. “I need the last of your boxes out before the leasing agency—”

“They’re out.”

“Good.”

He stared at her for a moment before retrieving his shirt and yanking it over his head. “I’ll bag up what’s in the wheelbarrow and put the tools away. Then I’ll go.”

“Good,” she said again, her heart cramping as she walked back to the house.

Twenty minutes later, she heard his car start. She held her breath as it idled at the curb and pulled away. She called the stables, learned that Frisco had required another injection of Banamine, that his resting heart rate was forty-nine and his breathing was normal. Intestinal rumblings were present, but fewer than normal. He’d drunk some water. And hadn’t touched his hay. Patrice, bless her, was on top of things and would check him during the night. She’d call if there was a problem. And, she’d added, Maria had drawn a picture of Frisco and Tag walking under a glittery rainbow. It was taped to his stall.

Leigh tossed her grass-stained scrubs in the hamper and took a shower. Then pulled on an old pair of olive drab riding sweats and padded downstairs to fix a sandwich. But she found there was no deli turkey and only a few slices of wheat bread, because . . . She smiled. Because her sister had eaten it all. Healthy appetite, holding down a job, making plans for college.
See, Nick? I’m right. Caro’s fine.
She waited for the sense of triumph or even a small prickle of residual anger, but all that came was the memory of falling and the feel of her husband’s hands as he swept her up. Warm, steady. Hands and heart, she’d wanted to believe that.

She opened a can of tomato soup, found some crackers, and had her dinner alone at the breakfast bar that had always been their substitute for a table. She spooned her Campbell’s, told herself freedom was a good thing, and tried not to picture Nick in this same kitchen, laughing as he made his famous Greek soup.

“Avgolemono,” he’d say slowly, accenting the
lemono
and taking her in his arms. “The secret to getting it right, Mrs. Stathos,” he’d whisper against her hair, “is to add the hot broth and lemon juice to the eggs slowly and stir, stir. Stick with it; don’t stop. . . . Don’t ever give up.”

She stared at her bowl of tomato soup. Nick had hoped that the lemon tree—a gift to remind her of their honeymoon in Capri—would provide lemons for avgolemono. Enough fruit for a family someday.

Family.
Leigh spread her hands over her abdomen, imagining once again how it would have felt to have carried the baby to term. To have him or her in this house now. Three months old, beginning to smile, blinking up at her with eyes as dark as Nick’s. Her throat squeezed around the ache of the what-ifs: What if she’d told him as soon as she’d suspected she was pregnant? What if planning for a baby had stopped the arguments? prevented Nick’s downward spiral of grief after Toby’s death—kept him from turning to Sam?

She stood, angry with herself for going down that path again. She hadn’t wanted a baby; that had been one of the reasons they’d argued. The timing in her career, the danger in his; she hadn’t felt ready. To imagine that telling him would have changed anything, stopped things from ending up where they were right now . . .

The image of his face came to her. His expression as he’d stood near the hedge, talking about the lemon tree.
“You’re letting it die.”
It had felt like he’d been talking about so much more than a tree. As if he was blaming her for all of it.
After what he did?

The familiar anger swept back, and she welcomed the way it wrestled down the painful doubts. A baby wouldn’t have changed things. Their marriage had been floundering. They’d separated; it was ending though they hadn’t dared to say it aloud. Even if she’d agreed to stick with the Christian couple’s counseling, it wouldn’t have helped. Their marriage had been as doomed as that lemon tree.

+++

Nick stood beside his car on the hill at Alamo Square, gazing at the view that never failed to move him. San Francisco—Hayes Street to the south, Fulton Street to the north, Scott Street to the west, and Steiner to the east—lit by a full moon suspended in the night sky like a Chinatown paper lantern. It cast a golden glow over the famous panorama: the row of “painted ladies” Victorians in the foreground and a light-dotted skyline beyond, the Transamerica Pyramid, the tops of the Golden Gate and Bay bridges, city hall. And down Divisadero Street, where his restaurant had been. Still was, except that now it was a Mexican bakery, wedged between a tattoo parlor and a yoga studio.

He sighed.
Niko’s.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d used the skills he acquired working in his foster parents’ Greek café in San Jose, waiting tables and cooking in Bay Area restaurants. Then taking out loans, first for culinary school and finally to start his own business. His vision combined with an infusion of capital by several entrepreneurial SFPD officers he’d met at the gym. An irony, considering how many times he’d scraped against the law during his adolescent years. But it had worked. He cooked; they ate. They talked; he listened—to stories of the community, action-packed tales of rescues and arrests, of kids whose lives they’d touched, saved, changed. It wasn’t long before Nick started to feel a part of it. He began to want that for himself and felt a calling like he’d never experienced before. An orphan, a troubled youth . . . who wanted soul-deep to become a cop. He’d already started online courses in police science when a beautiful young doctor walked into Niko’s, fell in love with his lemon soup, and . . .

And now she’s walking away.

He leaned back against the BMW and closed his eyes for a moment, remembering Leigh’s terse litany these past few days.
“Leave me alone. . . . Don’t come here again. . . . You don’t belong here. . . .”
She’d made it all too clear that their marriage was over, as dead as that lemon tree. When was he going to get that through his thick skull?