Gillian's Do-Over (20 page)

“How long will
Marnie have to stay in the hospital?”

“That depends on how she responds to treatment, how quickly we can get her pressure
down.” Vance glanced toward the front of the house when the ambulance arrived. “And any sequelae we observe.”

Matt’s left eyebrow rose
in an unspoken question.

“Whether her speech is affected, weakness in her limbs, that sort of thing.” A tiny sigh escaped. “
You might want to alert your sons, just in case.”

Matt stood and shook
Vance’s hand. “I’ll do that.” He returned to his office, shut the door and slumped into his chair. Was this it? With the first stroke, Marnie had disappeared into a fog that meant she wasn’t always sure who he was. Or was that the dementia? He rubbed his temples, unwilling to call the boys until he knew more. Wes had just deployed to Afghanistan. Carl’s tour in Germany was nearing an end. Of the two boys, he was more likely to be able to get leave quickly.

He
grabbed the phone and called Heather, who must have picked up on the first ring. “Heather, Marnie’s back in the hospital. Doctor Vander Leaven said another stroke. I’m going there now.”

“I’ll meet you,” she offered.

“No. Don’t come. Not yet. Let me find out what the situation is. The last time, she wasn’t awake for a couple of days. No sense you just sitting there waiting for her to open her eyes.”

“But
Uncle Matt, I want to be there for you.”

Tears
scalded his eyelids. Heather had sat with him the last time, and the time before that. She was the loving daughter he’d never had.

“Tell you what
, Twig. I’ll call you after I see her.”

“Don’t forget.” The catch in Heather’s voice told Matt his niece must be near tears.

“I won’t.” He hoped he sounded confident, strong. He felt anything but.

Four hours later, Matt dialed Heather. “If you want to see her, why don’t you come tomorrow?”

“
How is she?”

“She can’t speak, but she’s awake, sort of.
This stroke was worse than the other ones.”

“I’ll come right now.”

“No, Heather, that’s not necessary—” But she’d already hung up.

Matt turned to
Vance, not caring that his eyes were red-rimmed. “Marnie always does better at home. When can I get her out of here?”

Vance
shook his head. “Not for a couple of days at least. I want her here until she’s not on oxygen.”

“I’ll
order in the equipment. You said yourself Patsy’s a good nurse. I’ll up her hours. Bring in someone else to spell her, too, if round-the-clock care is needed.”

Vance
stood and motioned for Matt to do so, too. “You’ve been here for hours. Have you had dinner?”

“Not hungry.”

“Come to the cafeteria with me, anyway. I could use some coffee. We’ll talk while you eat.”

Matt followed the man who’d been overseeing
Marnie’s care for years. Too many years. Since long before the first stroke, before she’d first shown signs of memory loss. His kindness was a blessing, something Matt hoped Marnie appreciated, even though she no longer seemed to respond to the doctor during his visits.

“
Based on the MRI, this bleed was worse than the others. She won’t be better off at home.”

“
Even after you get her stabilized?”

“I mean
the dementia may worsen and Patsy may not be able to handle her—if she acts out, like she did the last time.”

Matt recalled those days when
Marnie struck out at anyone who came within range of her hands or feet. Patsy had sustained some nasty bruises. Matt, too. His wife, so gentle with her children, with everyone, had been transformed by the brain damage into a raving lunatic, someone who screamed, kicking and flailing, calling him names he didn’t recognize. After each episode, she’d collapse back onto the bed and sleep for hours, then ask so sweetly why Patsy’s glasses were broken, or why Matt had a bruise on his cheek or he flinched when she poked his arm.

He picked at the food on his plate
. “Are you going to have to restrain her?”

“That depends. You know she has no strength on one side.”

“I saw that.”

“Restraints aren’t likely,
unless it’s to prevent her from falling out of bed. We’ll make sure the sides are always up, and we’ll watch her closely. Have you spoken with your sons?”

“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first. You know they’re overseas.”

Vance nodded. “Keeping us safe. You must miss them.”

“I called Heather. She’s coming to see her. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I expect she’ll be there when we go back upstairs.”

“A sweet girl.”

“
The daughter we never had.” Matt stopped moving his fork through the food on his plate. He stood up. “I need to go back up there.”

“You didn’t eat much.”

Matt shrugged.

Vance
rose, took a final gulp of his coffee, and walked with Matt toward the elevators.

Three days later, Matt crawled into bed, his clothes lying in an unaccustomed heap on the floor. Carl had managed to arrive home hours before Marnie died. Sounds of the young man pacing in the room next door were barely audible, as if he was trying not to call attention to himself. He and Matt had wept together after Marnie’s passing. Heather had held them, each in turn, the only one in the room who remained dry-eyed, as if someone had to be. Matt marveled at that. She’d been so weepy before, when Marnie hadn’t recognized her, when Marnie had tried to raise her arm that remained on the bed, stubbornly immovable.

Toward
the end, it was Heather who held things together, who talked to Wes, on his way home from the outpost where he’d been deployed days earlier. She had assured him that Carl made it in time to say good-bye, that his mother was no longer hurting, that she was now with her brother, Heather’s dad.

Matt rolled over, unable to sleep. He’d never felt so tired, but his brain spun. Ursula had assured him she’d cancelled and rearranged appointments with clients he’d been planning to see
all week. According to Ursula, TJ had talked with his colleagues, told them what he was going through. Tomorrow, he would pick up Wes at the airport and then meet with Heather and Carl so that, together, they could plan the memorial service and other details. Details that included removing the special bed from the bedroom that had resembled a hospital room for so many months. Patsy would know what to do about that, he supposed. He kicked his feet from under the tangled covers and stood up. He picked up his clothes and put them away, then walked downstairs to his office.

The normalcy of the room was somehow soothing. In the single light on the desk,
his office looked untouched by the crisis that had turned his life upside down. Marnie’s death, even though it had been expected, had changed everything. He sat down in his chair.

Ursula had left him a note in her precise hand, each line devoted to a different client, when a new appo
intment had been set, and a word or phrase identifying what he needed to do when he saw them. He set the page aside.

Under it was another sheet. It outlined Matt’s responsibilities regarding
Marnie—the memorial service, contacting the minister to arrange the service, and a list of people he might ask to serve as pallbearers, or in some capacity at the reception afterward. She’d added the draft of an obituary for the paper once the date and time of the memorial service were determined, and charitable organizations people could donate to in Marnie’s name. Ursula was a saint. He’d never have remembered it all.

He brushed his hair off his forehead and leaned back in his chair. Life
would go on. But what kind of life?

He
reached for Marnie’s picture taken during happier days, and stroked her smiling image. The framed picture had been a fixture on his credenza for so many years. He’d been a husband for almost thirty years, a lawyer for twenty-eight, a father for twenty-five. Marnie had seen him through law school, through the purchase of their first home together, the births of his sons. Through most of their marriage, he had felt deeply connected to her. Her best friend, her lover, her husband. But her illness had slowly killed their connection, especially when she’d been moved into the other bedroom, sleeping alone, under the watchful eye of the housekeeper during the day and Nurse Patsy, in the evenings and on those days when the housekeeper wasn’t in attendance.

What was he? A
father, still. A lawyer. That, too. Now a widower. He ached at the empty sound of that word, feeling his loss, grieving for what Marnie had been before that fall and her first stroke. At least she wasn’t confused anymore or hurting. He’d vowed “in sickness and in health.” But he’d felt like a failure as a husband during the last months of the sickness part, wishing Marnie was well and not such a burden, such a worry. And lately, those thoughts had been complicated by images of another woman. Gillian.

“Dad?”

Matt jerked in his chair and set Marnie’s picture on his desk.

Carl, his b
lond hair a reminder of his mother in previous years, leaned against the door jamb, clad only in his boxers. “What are you doing down here?”

“
What it looks like. Sitting.” He motioned for his son to take a seat. “Are you warm enough?”

Carl gave him a wry half-grin.
“Are you?”

“Oh.” Matt ran a hand across his own bare chest. “It is kind of cool down here.” He gave an involuntary shiver.

“Are you seeing clients tomorrow?” Carl’s eyes seemed to wander around the room, taking in how the room defined his father and what he did for a living.

He shook his head.
“Ursula has everything in hand. We need to concentrate on your mother. Heather said she’d come over, to help us decide … the details. After we pick up Wes. Ursula made a list.”

“The service?”

He nodded.

“Then don’t you think you should get some
sleep? The doctor said you didn’t leave the hospital except to come get me at the airport.”

“You’re right. I should.
We
should.” He rose from his chair and flicked off the lamp that had created a small pool of light on his desk.

Carl followed
as Matt slowly hauled himself up the stairs.

Chapter 13

A week later Lauren waved an obituary notice in Gillian’s direction. “Have you seen this?”

“W
hy are you reading obit notices?”

“A habit I got into after Kirk died. Matt Gordon’s wife
passed away.”

Gillian peered at the newspaper. “It says here the memorial service was—” she glanced at the calendar—“
last week. Maybe that’s why I haven’t heard from his office. His secretary was supposed to call me when the trust was finished.”

“I guess even lawyers take
personal time.” Lauren sipped from her cup.

“I would certainly hope so.”
Matt hadn’t said she was near death. Gillian recalled the noises she’d heard at one of their meetings in his office. Hadn’t Ursula mentioned that Matt had moved his office home after his wife became ill? She scanned the article again. “He was married a long time. And he has two sons, both in the military.” Gillian reached for her favorite mug. “It must be hard not having his sons around now that his wife is gone.”

Lauren’s fingers drummed the edge of the counter. “Why don’t you bring him some flowers?”

“Do you think I should? I’m just a client.”
Maybe he’ll think I’m presumptuous.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re acknowledging his loss. I wou
ld think he’d appreciate that. If it was your husband who’d died, wouldn’t you want to know people cared?”

“You’re right.” Gillian’s pulse picked up at the thought of seeing Matt again.
The only man she’d seen after Nick had fired her who was at all interesting to her. Correction, who sent a zing through her middle whenever she saw him or thought of him. A man now grieving.

She forced herself to concentrate on the reason she’d asked Lauren over.
“Back to my plan to see if anyone besides Cammie is interested in my little sketches. I finally decided I want to create a little business selling my sketches. Bianca’s been after me to do it. She says every woman should run her own business. And she thinks I could make a go of it. Quinn, too.”

After
their last conversation, she was inclined to agree with Bianca. Why should she depend on a salary for money? If she had her own business, she could make her own money, on her own time, out of her own home, working as much or as little as she chose.

Gillian
waved her hand in the direction of a stack of papers on the dining room table. “Cammie at
Cammie’s Closet
likes the hand sketches. Do you agree these others would make nice note cards, too? Sometimes I think I’m too close to the situation to fairly evaluate my work. I still have to show her some of my watercolors. She asked if I worked in that medium.”

Lauren spread out the sketches
—some of trees, some of flowers, and a collection of four that focused on scenes with Lake Washington in the distance. “Did you do these after you went to the park and tangled with the blackberry vines?”

Gillian chuckled. “How did you guess?
The view of the lake was pretty spectacular after I found a spot where the thorns weren’t poking me.” She rubbed the tiny scar on her hand, a vestige of her encounter with the brambles.

“These
charcoals are really good. I say, take them to some gift shops and see what they think. Maybe the ones down by the ferry dock, too.”

Gillian nodded. Something to do tomorrow. Along with sending a sympathy card to Matt’s office.
That would be better than flowers. A little less personal. Somehow, getting personal with Matt might lead to something. She felt drawn to him whenever she looked at the sketch of his hand, whenever the image of his character-filled face came to mind. In spite of certain body parts that screamed for attention whenever she thought of Matt, it didn’t seem right to imagine that she could have any but the most tenuous business relationship with him. After all, he’d just lost his wife. Not a good time for him to jump into the social swim, not something she could see him doing.

Five days after Marnie’s memorial service, Matt removed his wedding ring and slid it into his sock drawer. What was the point of wearing it now that Marnie was gone? Sure, TJ still wore his, years after his wife had died, but Matt needed some distance from his memories. Wasn’t it Wes who’d said he should meet people, get out more, now that he didn’t have to worry about Marnie or take care of her?

“You need to expand your horizons, Dad,” Carl had seconded. “Have a social life. Mom would
n’t want you moping around the house.”

Before Matt
could reply, Wes had jumped in. “Carl’s right. Mom wouldn’t want you spending every waking minute at the office. You’re still young. I heard TJ invite you to meet him at the club. Maybe you’ll meet someone at the bar association meeting. Another lawyer. You could talk shop.” He’d glanced at his younger brother. “Or maybe some other topic.”

“Don’t pay attention to TJ. He’s great for giving others advice
, which he rarely takes himself,” Matt growled back. But TJ did go out on occasion. He just never hooked up with anyone. Never got serious. Didn’t intend to. Probably why he still wore his wedding ring.

Carl laughed. “You’re right about that. It was nice to see
Allison again.”

“You’re
going biking with her?” Wes asked.

Carl nodded. “I’d suggest
you come, too, Dad, if you had a biking partner, but who would you ask?”

Gillian. I’d ask Gillian. Except she’s probably not interested. And she’s a client. I don’t date clients.

He rubbed the finger of his left hand, wishing the
untanned indentation of his wedding ring wasn’t so prominent. If people saw his hand, they’d know he used to be married, or maybe still was but was trying to hide it. Like that client of TJ’s who’d cheated on his wife and killed his marriage along with her when she’d demanded an explanation.

Wes’
s chuckle interrupted Matt’s wandering thoughts. “Where are you taking Allison?”

“She
signed up to do a charity bike ride on Whidbey Island, the one that starts at the south end and finishes near the Deception Pass bridge at the north end. I said I’d go with her.”

Matt nodded. TJ had mentioned that
same ride. “You going, too, Wes? It’s for a good cause.”

“
Naw. I don’t have enough strength yet in my leg to manage more than about five miles. Isn’t that a fifty-miler?”

Carl’s head bobbed as he opened the refrigerator door and pulled out sandwich makings. “
Something like that.” He faced Matt. “Back to you, Dad. Know anyone you’d like to take to a movie, or maybe share a dinner? Isn’t that what people your age do?”

“Hey, I’m not so old I need a cane.” He gave his younger son a playful punch to one shoulder.

“I didn’t say you were, but if you don’t get out of the house more, people are going to assume you are. Old, I mean. Grouchy. Not worth getting to know.”

“Get off his back, little brother. Dad will go out when he’s good and ready. Right?”

Wes was taking his side now? A nice gesture, but he knew what both boys were thinking. That if he didn’t go out soon, he probably never would.

“I’ll think about it,” he offered, and walked downstairs.

“Where are you going?” Wes called after him.

“
Heather’s. I promised to help her walk Adelaide. So we could talk about that new job she’s been offered.” Before either of his sons could ask more questions, Matt left the house.

Gillian left the gift shop two blocks from the far side of the park, her hope soaring. Cammie, who ran the place, liked her landscapes and the watercolors and charcoals featuring children at play, and had asked her to frame one of each for display purposes. An opportunity to sell pictures in addition to the collection of hands that had seemed particularly intriguing to Cammie.
A business of my own.
Gillian smiled to herself, imagining what Bianca would say. Quinn, too.

She strolled across the street and wandered through the park, looking for other scenes she might create
. Another local gift shop owner wanted to sell her charcoals and her pastels. Gillian hummed and slowed, observing small children playing near the fountain at the center of the park. She hadn’t sketched that area yet. Perhaps now was the time. She wandered closer, ignoring people sitting on two of the benches ringing the fountain. She backed away from the walkway to gain a different perspective on the scene in front of her.

She was about to take another step back when she sensed someone behind her.

“Careful.” The man’s voice was familiar. A hand touched her waist on either side, steadying her as she jerked and almost fell.

She turned and found herself inches from
Mo’s face. “I didn’t see you.” She glanced down at her sketch folder, filled with most of the pieces she had done. “I just showed some of my work to the woman in the gift shop over there”—she pointed in the general direction of the shop on the far side of the park, hidden by the tall copse of trees along its southern border—“and she wants my landscapes and some of the ones with children.” Gillian couldn’t stop smiling.

She
sat down at a nearby picnic table. She shuffled through the plastic sleeves into which she’d placed her sketches and pulled out the one holding the images of hands done in charcoal. “And these, too.” She spread them out on the table. “Cammie said I should have five different ones in the note card selection. What do you think of them?”

Mo
scanned the five sketches, smiling at the one with the sailboat in the background. He peered closely at the sketch of Matt’s hand. “A hand with a scar.”

Gillian’s pulse
pitter-pattered. Did Mo know Matt? She had yet to ask his permission to use the sketch. “Do you know that hand?”

Mo
shook his head. “No. But I’m taken with the power of it. Don’t tell me he’s a boxer or a karate champion or something.”

Gillian chuckled. “
No.” She slid the sketches back into the protective sleeves. “Would you like me to sketch one of your hands?”

“You’d do that?”

“I’m not sure why I didn’t ask before. You have great hands. Doctor hands.”

Mo
beamed. “Today?” He glanced up at the sky. “Looks like we’re going to get some rain. See those dark clouds? Kind of ominous.”

Gillian’s eyes roved the sky. “You’re right. If you have time, we could go to my house and sit on the porch out of the rain
. I love to work when it’s raining. The smell and the sounds are soothing, don’t you think? How about you?”

He laughed. “I don’t usually think of rain as anything but a bother. But I’m game if you are. Let me help you with your stuff.” He reached around her and clasped her
folded-up sketching table.

They walked to her house,
setting a brisk pace in an effort to make it to cover before the rain began. Thunder clapped in the distance just as they reached her porch.

“Come on in. I’ll make us some tea first.” Gillian led
Mo into the kitchen, prepared a pot and handed him a small plate of cookies. “Time for me to draw.”

“Exactly what do you want me to do with my hands?”

“Let me see them.” After he took a seat on the porch, she clasped first one and then the other of his hands. She was struck by the warmth of his smooth palms and his short-clipped nails. “Twist your hands for me.”

He did so.
“Your hands are cool to the touch, like water for a drowning man,” he murmured.

She blushed at his words, wanting to ignore them, hoping he hadn’t noticed how her cheeks had flared with heat.
“Can you hold that position, with your right hand turned slightly off-center?” She reached for her charcoal pencil and began to slide its blunt end across the paper.

“Sure.” He reached for his
teacup with his left.

She concentrated on her sketching, aware of the steady in and out of
Mo’s breathing, the feel of his eyes on her as she worked. He seemed to concentrate first on her drawing and then on her face before sliding downward to take in her body as she leaned slightly toward her sketching table. She sat up straighter, reached for her teacup and took a quick sip of the cooling liquid.

“What do you think?” She turned the paper in his direction.

He stared at the image of his hand, turned slightly, his long fingers highlighted. “What’s with the sweep upward?” He pointed to where she’d created an illusion of upward motion in the background.

“
The brush of the breeze, I guess. I imagined you carrying away the hurt of a patient, leaving only the slightest evidence that brought them to you. For your doctor skills.” She lightly touched his palm and the underside of his wrist.

“I’m impressed.” He picked up the sketch.
“Again. Gillian, you are a wonder.”

“Wait. I need to apply fixative—so it doesn’t smear.” She did so and attached the picture to her sketch table. “We need to let it dry. Let’s go back inside for a minute.”
She picked up the sketch table and opened the door, glad the rain had almost stopped, leaving a sheen on the street and the smell of wet grass in the air.