Double Wedding Ring (5 page)

Him again! The image shot through her, a jolt that left her heart thumping. She saw his face all the time. Lean and dark, sometimes teasing, sometimes brooding. And sometimes, ah, sometimes, tender. Eyes dark. Hair dark, flopping onto his forehead and covering the tops of his ears in a way that made her mother purse her lips tightly.

There he was again, sitting at her feet on this very porch, telling her things.... She tried so hard to remember what things. But all she could remember was the way those things had made her feel.

And a name. Without thinking, she breathed the name aloud, as if she might beckon him from the past.

“Tag.”

* * *

T
AG FIGURED HE MUST
be crazy, because he gave the girl the job even though he knew who she must be.

He watched in fascination, barely listening as Malorie Hovis told him about her experience. Afterward, he couldn't have repeated a word of it. And it didn't matter. He hired her for one reason. He hired her because of the cloud of soft, honey-colored waves that floated around her face and nestled around her shoulders. He hired her for her pixie nose and the golden freckles that dusted it. He hired her for her half-shy eyes the color of the sky right before a storm, not quite blue, not quite gray.

He hired her because she had to be Susan's daughter.

“Really?” she said, her impish face brightening in delight when he asked if she could start the next day. “Just like that? You're sure?”

She sounded so much like Susan he wanted to laugh. Or cry.

“I said it, didn't I?” He questioned his sanity with every word that brought him closer to the thing that still had the power to bring him to his knees—his memories of Susan. “You're not hard of hearing, are you?”

She laughed in the face of his grumpiness. The same way Sam always did.

“Well, gee!” She stood and whirled around, her knee-length skirt swirling. The way Susan's long skirts had swirled when she danced, once upon a time. “This is really exciting! And...and I promise you won't be disappointed. I won't let you down.”

Her promise brought a flash of bittersweet memory. Tag reminded himself that the last he'd known of Susan was her broken promises.

“Fine,” he said, and tried once again to let go of the thing inside him that still hurt, that still felt betrayed.

He walked her to the door. Her eyes kept sweeping the high-ceilinged barn of a room, gauging its possibilities, he supposed. It seemed such a familiar mannerism; reminded him of the enthusiasm and excitement with which Susan had always viewed the world's possibilities. Even the possibilities in a skinny kid with oversize hands and feet who thought he could do something with his life besides follow in his old man's footsteps.

He'd damned sure been right about that.

It was when Malorie Hovis turned back to him once more, from the street, and said to him with such breathless innocence, “Thanks again. So much!” that he lost his resolve.

“You're Susan's girl, aren't you?”

A startled look crossed her face. “Susan? Yes. I am. Did you know Mother? From before, I mean?”

“Pretty well. She...she never mentioned me? Tag Hutchins?”

He waited with a hitch in his pulse. Surely he had been important enough to her to mention to a daughter. Surely...

When Malorie frowned and shook her head, Tag felt as if Susan had abandoned him all over again.

S
AM HATED SEEING
the ones who had lost their fight. His Uncle Tag had been like that at first, long before Sam was old enough to understand what it did to a man to accept the fact that his legs or arms no longer responded when his brain gave the order to move.

Now Sam always knew his first battle—long before he could begin to tackle weak muscles or haywire coordination—was to help them rediscover their spirit. Without it, he knew, his task as physical therapist was a hopeless one.

This new one was one of those.

“We have to make an agreement before we get started,” he said, squatting in front of her wheelchair to bring his eyes to a level with hers. Hers were haunted, fearful, with emptiness flirting around the edges. “Understand?”

She looked at him hesitantly, then shook her head. He smiled, to reassure her. He'd seen Susan Hovis's chart, knew her history. Knew her age, even, although it was hard to believe this woman with the elfin face and the wispy body was forty-four. The baby-fuzz hair that was just getting long enough to brush her ears made her look like a pixie; her softly freckled cheeks were smooth; the long-boned hands resting in her lap, elegant. He would have guessed her to be closer to his age than his uncle's. Which just went to prove Tag's derisive boast that he'd been ridden hard and put up wet too many times to have aged well.

If Tag was weathered leather, Sam's new patient was lambswool soft.

He took one of her hands—her good right hand—in his and squeezed it gently. “I'm Sam. Do you mind if I call you Susan?”

She hesitated, then gave a tentative shake of her head.

“Good. Now, we've got a lot of hard work ahead of us, Susan. Hard for me. But especially hard for you. Understand?”

She nodded.

Sam tried to keep his sigh inaudible. “I wish you'd answer me, Susan. Speak to me. Could you do that?”

Her eyes slipped away, focused on her lap.

“I ask because I want to know that you'll make this commitment, too. I can't do it alone. You're going to have to do most of the work. I need to know you're with me, Susan.”

He stopped, waiting for her response. She continued staring at her lap. He felt the fingers of the hand he held twitch, a sign of nervousness, of agitation. That was good. That meant she understood. But he wanted more. So he continued waiting.

According to her records from the rehab institute in Atlanta, Susan Hovis had made more progress than she was exhibiting today. Her speech was still slurred and ataxia still made her wobbly on her feet, according to her records. But in the few days since leaving rehab, she had apparently retreated to a wheelchair and clamped her jaws tightly shut.

Having spoken with her primary caregiver, Betsy Foster, Sam wasn't surprised at the change in Susan.

Family reaction and cooperation could be a significant component in any patient's speedy recovery. And Betsy Foster struck him as a critical and contrary partner in the process. Or course, Sam had heard those things about her as he grew up, had seen signs of them occasionally at church. But his interview with her last week, before Susan arrived, had been his only firsthand encounter with Betsy Foster.

He had explained the techniques he would use in Susan's therapy, how he would initially focus on everyday tasks like dressing or feeding her young son or learning to bend over and retrieve things off the floor without falling. He had shown her some of the special adaptive equipment Susan could use to do little everyday tasks for herself, such as cutting her own food despite her weak grip. They would spend hour-long sessions each day on such simple tasks as learning to balance on one leg or to squat while holding on to the kitchen counter. He explained that Susan's love of dance could even be used to encourage her recovery.

A sharp furrow had appeared on Betsy Foster's high, wide forehead. “Dance? What a lot of nonsense! She can't even walk straight.”

“With practice, she can learn to,” Sam had said pointedly. “Look how far she's come already.”

No matter how encouraging Sam had tried to be, Betsy's negativity pervaded everything she said. And apparently none of what Sam had said sank in. He'd noticed right away when he arrived this afternoon that, despite his instructions to leave the house just as it was, she had cleared the dining room of furniture and informed him to limit his work with Susan to that one room.

Her mother's outlook had apparently already begun to do its work on Susan. Sam hated having to fight his way through that, as well as through Susan's physical limitations.

“How about it, Susan. Are you with me?”

Finally, she looked up and nodded. He shook his head and shrugged, turning the tables on her. A frown flickered across her forehead. She pulled her hand out of his. Good. A sign of her willingness to fight. She was put out with him and not afraid to let him know it.

“Okay!” Her impatient exclamation was barely slurred. Apparently Susan Hovis's pride was intact. Also good. Pride could be a strong motivator.

“Okay what?” he persisted.

She grunted out a sound that he thought might have been a laugh, but before he could decide, a youthful voice sounded behind him.

“Mother, you won't believe what— Oh!”

Sam registered the relief and the welcome on Susan's face. Without standing, Sam pivoted, staying on Susan's level.

The woman who had entered was a softer, rounder, perkier incarnation of Sam's new patient. The daughter, he assumed. She brought a glow with her into the room, and suddenly Sam discovered he had few reservations about the prognosis for Susan Hovis. Once, he was certain, she had been just like this delightful package of energy and excitement. And she could be again.
Would
be again. He knew it, with the instincts that had come from working intensely with impaired patients.

“Sam Roberts,” he said, extending his hand but staying at Susan's eye level. “You must be the sister.”

Well, he wasn't above using a little of the old Hutchins charm to win a new patient's confidence.

The young woman laughed, shyness settling around her smile. “I'm Malorie. The
daughter.
I'm sorry to interrupt.”

“That's okay. Susan and I were just getting to know each other. But I'll bet she'd like to hear your news. Wouldn't you, Susan?”

He looked at her, challenging her with his eyes.

She nodded, almost smiled.

“What was that you said, Susan?” he goaded.

Now his new patient's smile was more pronounced. “Yes. We'd like.”

He felt triumph.

Malorie squatted, too. Her skirt settled softly over her knees and Sam tried to pretend he hadn't noticed the sprinkling of ginger-colored freckles on those knees. But when he raised his gaze, he found himself swept up in the girlish glitter of her blue-gray eyes. “I got a job, Mother. I'm going to be managing a store in town. Isn't that exciting? Imagine,
me,
managing a store.”

Sam almost lost his balance, for he knew of exactly one store in the whole of Sweetbranch that needed a manager. And he couldn't quite imagine his crusty old uncle holding up against the youthful effervescence of Malorie Hovis. He grinned at the prospect.
Do the old coot good.

“Good,” Susan said, and Sam's heart turned over with the understanding of how much more must be in her heart, feelings she couldn't yet label, couldn't begin to express.

He was going to help open her up again. He knew that now. He was going to give her back to her daughter, give her daughter back to her.

And along the way, who knows, maybe Malorie Hovis could remind Tag that he, too, had been young once. This could be a win-win situation for everybody. He glanced again at Malorie as she chatted and wrapped a strand of hair around a long, lithe finger.

Everybody, he thought. Maybe even him.

* * *

M
ALORIE SAT CROSS-LEGGED
in the grass and watched Cody's gleeful attempts to keep up with the other children. She'd brought him out both to keep him from getting underfoot while her mother worked with the therapist and to get away from the disapprovingly watchful eye of her grandmother. As soon as they hit the yard, a small but vocal horde of children had descended from across the street, bringing a rubber ball, a bicycle with training wheels and a bubble-making machine.

Malorie was relishing every moment she spent with Cody, although she felt she had to sneak around to do it. She'd missed so much of the boy's first two years. As soon as he'd been born, she was whisked off to stay for the next six months with her grandparents.
It will be better that way,
she remembered her grandmother saying, in that sharp, certain way she had, as if all the answers had been personally delivered from God straight to her ear.
Give everyone a chance to adjust.

Everyone except me,
Malorie thought.

But maybe that wasn't true, either. Maybe she
had
adjusted. Maybe it was only her mother's injury following so closely on the heels of her father's death that had Malorie feeling as if her emotions were up for grabs. As if her life might suddenly spurt free of the tight hold she had on it and scatter, like debris in the wind. What would happen, for example, if her mother didn't make a full recovery, was never again well enough to take care of Cody herself?

Traitorous, Malorie's heart gave a leap of excitement at the thought.

She laughed, suddenly, despite her somber thoughts, as Cody waved to her from his precarious perch on a dent-and-scratch bicycle. His stubby legs were too short to reach the pedals, but two of the little girls from across the street stood on either side of him, holding him securely, giving him a ride. His white-blond hair waved like dandelion fuzz in the breeze and his dimpled smile was bright as the sun.

“Your little brother's lucky to have you.”

The deep voice behind her startled Malorie. She jerked her head around to see Sam Roberts standing between her and the house, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his white slacks. His burnished-gold forearms contrasted darkly with the pristine uniform.

“How did it go?”

She caught his momentary hesitation.

“Pretty well.”

“Not as well as you'd like,” Malorie said. “She's depressed.”

“She's angry.” Sam dropped to the ground beside her. “You would be, too. Acquired brain injury is hard, because she remembers that she wasn't always like this. She
knows
she isn't what the rest of the world calls normal.”

Malorie winced, felt the now-familiar tug of guilt and pain. “You should have seen her dance.”

“Do you dance?”

She frowned at the personal question. “I'm not a talented person.”

He looked inclined to disagree, but he didn't speak again right away. “Addy's kids seem to be enjoying your little brother.”

“Addy?” She should have known who lived across the street, she realized. But she hadn't been into neighborliness when she stayed with her grandmother two years ago. She'd been into isolating.

“From across the street.” He gestured toward a neat yellow frame house. “Addy Mayfield. Aren't these hers?”

“All of them?”

He laughed, a sound that was soft and deep and made Malorie want to laugh with him. She didn't. It didn't seem like a good idea, letting herself get close to people. Not right now, with so much else to worry about.

“Addy's the soft touch of Sweetbranch. None of them are really hers. Except for the little girl in the red corduroy overalls, and she's adopted. The rest are foster kids, of a sort. Abandoned. Neglected. Orphaned. That kind of thing.”

A sharp feeling penetrated Malorie's heart. The laughter of the children playing in her grandmother's yard suddenly took on deeper poignance. “How sad.”

“They seem happy enough,” Sam pointed out. “Addy's special.”

Malorie wondered at the love it took to embrace a child who wasn't your own, when so many birth parents couldn't do the same.

“I was thinking,” Sam said. “Maybe Addy could help Susan.”

“How?”

“Addy sews. Sells some of her stuff, actually, at a gift shop out on the highway. Maybe she could work with Susan.”

A flutter of hope rose to the surface of Malorie's heart. “You think Mother can sew again?”

“Maybe. Trying will be good for her. And if she succeeds, that will be even better.”

“But she already has reading and writing to work on, plus her therapy with you. Isn't that enough?”

He shook his head. Malorie felt a surge of confidence in the set of his jaw. Thank goodness for someone who was sure of himself. “The less time your mother has to sit around feeling useless, the better. You didn't like it, did you?”

Another flash of uneasiness. What did he know? “What do you mean?”

“Going out and getting a job while she recuperates. We all want to be productive, involved in things.”

Malorie felt it wise not to disagree this once. She really wasn't ready to tell her mother's physical therapist that she would like nothing better than to climb the stairs to her mother's old bedroom and close the door on the rest of the world.

“What were you doing before Susan's accident?”

Irritation with his curiosity overcame her. She would have served up a rude reply to his nosy question, but she had been raised not to cause ripples. “College.”

“Why don't you go back? Susan has her mother. No reason to disrupt your life any more than it has been already.”

“I want to be here,” she said tightly.

“What are you studying?”

She absolutely refused to tell him she hadn't had enough of a start on college to know what she planned to study. Instead, she stood. “I'd better take Cody in for his nap.”

“Let him play awhile longer,” he said, also standing. “He's having fun.”