Isle of Hope (37 page)

A Scripture once so familiar now flooded peace through his body, and in that exact moment, Jack knew to the core of his being that this “God of Hope” would not disappoint. With a renewed fervor, he buried his face in the crook of Lacey’s neck, the moisture stinging his eyes from sheer gratitude instead of from fear. “Me, too, Lace,” he whispered, “me too.” Taking her hand in his, he quietly led them all in prayer, not as the minister he once aspired to be, but as a doctor healed by the Great Physician, Who he prayed would heal Debbie as well.

“Jack?”

His head jerked up at the call of his name, throat going dry at the serious look on Greg’s face. Jumping to his feet, he followed his friend into the ER, both men pausing after the doors sealed shut. “What is it, Greg?”

His friend’s solemn face told the story before the words ever left his mouth. “I’m sorry, Jack, but it looks like catheterization won’t be an option. She’s got an ASD that needs surgery.”

The blood iced in his veins. “When?” he said, voice cracking on the question.

“As soon as possible. I’ve put a call in for Dr. Schmidt—he’s the cardiac surgeon on call, and triage is prepping Debbie now.”

Jack nodded, his exhale shallow as it slowly parted from his lips. He gripped the physician’s shoulder. “Thanks, Greg. Will you let me know when Schmidt gets here?”

“Sure thing, Jack, and I’m sorry, man. It’s tough when the patient is someone we know, but we’ll do our best for her.”

“I know you will. Thanks, buddy.” Dazed, Jack pressed the wall switch and made his way down the short hallway to reenter the waiting room, his bleary-eyed gaze immediately connecting with Lacey’s. “They’re prepping her for surgery now,” he said quietly, ushering her back to where Miss Myra and Will watched through somber eyes. “She has an atrial septal defect or ASD, which is a hole in the septum between the heart’s two upper chambers.” He exhaled slowly, keeping his voice as level as possible. “They’ve contacted the heart surgeon on call.”

———

“No.” Lips strained white, Lacey sat straight up. “If at all possible, I want Daddy to do it,” she said, never more sure of anything in her life.

Jack hesitated. “Lace, time is of the essence here, and Dr. Schmidt is on his way.”

She shook her head, unable to explain the strong feeling that compelled her to insist, but somehow she knew it was right. She whirled to face Miss Myra, clutching the older woman’s hand with a confidence that didn’t come from within. “Daddy is one of the best heart surgeons in the country, Miss Myra, and I’d like to call him if it’s okay with you.”

A ridge in her brow, Miss Myra studied her for several seconds before giving the nod. “Call him, then, my dear, and we’ll see what God decides.”

Fingers fumbling on her phone, Lacey punched in her father’s speed dial and waited, not daring to breathe while the phone rang in her ear. “Come on, Daddy,” she whispered, eyelids sinking closed like they were made of lead. Her hand began to sweat against the plastic as she waited, an eternity measured by fractured beats of her heart. Her pulse seized at the sound of his voice.

“Hello?”

“Daddy?” Against her will, tears flooded so fast her gaze blurred into a million lights. “I need you,” she whispered, breaking on pitiful sob.

“Lacey?” The panic in his voice rose along with its volume. “What’s wrong—are you hurt?”

She shook her head, rivulets of saltwater streaking her cheeks. “No, not me—Debbie. The orphan at Camp Hope that I told you about?”

“Yes …?”

“They’re p-prepping her for heart surgery right n-now, Daddy, and another s-surgeon is on h-his way, b-but I was hoping—”

“I’m on my way. Is Jack there?”

“Yes …” She handed the phone over to Jack, hovering close to listen, head tucked to his.

“Dr. Carmichael?” Jack’s grip on the phone appeared to be as taut as his tone.

“I’m pulling out of the marina parking lot right now, Jack, but I need you to fill me in.”

“Yes, sir, it’s an ASD too far gone for a cath, so they’ve called in Dr. Schmidt as the surgeon on call.”

“Good. Do you have a history for me and vitals?”

“Yes, sir.” Jack rose and walked to the other side of the waiting room, taking him out of Lacey’s earshot, but within seconds he returned, the stress in his face softening to a smile. “He wants to talk to you.”

She grabbed the phone, and instantly more saltwater puddled in her eyes. “Daddy?”

“She’s going to be all right, Lacey. It’s serious, yes, but nothing I haven’t handled a hundred times before, so you and Jack need to go to the cafeteria for a coffee or something to eat. The surgery should take anywhere from two to four hours, and complications are rare, so don’t dwell on the ‘what-ifs,’ all right?”

Nodding, she sniffed, swiping the wetness from her face with the back of her hand. “Okay, Daddy,” she whispered, craving the warmth of his arms like never before.

“I’m just minutes away from pulling in to the physician’s parking lot right now and will head straight up to surgery. But I’ll send a nurse down on a regular basis to keep you apprised, and then come down myself as soon as I can, okay?”

“O-Okay,” she whispered, a sudden burst of love swelling along with more tears. “And, Daddy?”

“Yes, Lacey?”

Choking back a sob, she shielded her face with a trembling hand. “I love you so much …”

Silence filled the line for several breathless thuds of her heart until she finally heard the gruff clear of a throat. “I know, sweetheart. I love you too.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Stifling a yawn, Tess lay in her chaise on the patio, head back and gaze glued to the pinpricks of light peeking through the hedge from Ben’s backyard. Despite the hint of fall in the cool night air, the tin pie plate of freshly baked monster cookies were still warm on her lap, baked the moment she’d heard that distinctive whir of his garage door opening. Now, long after he’d let Beau out—with a grumpy tone that had given her pause—the warmth of the cookies were beginning to wane along with her patience while she waited for him to whistle Beau in. She knew he would be tired after the stressful surgery for Debbie, so she didn’t want to talk. A shaky breath drifted out. Just hand him his favorite cookies.

Nice and safe.

Or would have been if he opened the flippin’ door.

In the past, she would have just barged in the moment he flicked on the back porch light to let Beau out, marching right over to ring his doorbell or bang on the slider with a portion of whatever she had baked that week. He’d always been miffed at first, but then they’d settled into a comfortable routine of friendship, a grouch and a perky neighbor finally coming to terms, forging a kinship that had chased her loneliness away. A kinship suddenly too close for comfort, relegating them to far fewer visits, and
always
on her side of the hedge.

A wispy sigh feathered her lips. Sweet heavens, how she missed it all.

The laughter, the debates, the companionship.

Him.

Her mouth settled into a firm line. Which was
exactly
why she was waiting over here until he opened that blasted door, no desire whatsoever to play with fire again. An annoying hot flash bolted through her that she almost wished she could blame on menopause. Oh, it had plenty to do with hormones, all right. Her mouth went flat. The wrong kind. The foil pie plate in her lap crinkled as she burrowed into the chair with a stiff fold of arms, determined to avoid late-night chats alone with Ben Carmichael, at least
inside
of his house. All she wanted to do tonight was to thank him for what he did for Lacey and congratulate him on saving a little girl’s life.

That’s all?

“Yes,” she hissed, arguing with the part of her that longed to be in his arms once again.

“I want you, Tess …”

“Doesn’t matter what we want, Ben,” she said in a near growl. She swung her legs off the chaise as she tossed the foiled tin on the seat beside her as if it had scalded her hands. “I won’t have a relationship without faith, it’s as simple as that.”

At least not
that
kind.

Beau’s whines brought her back to reality, a scrunch in her brow when she suddenly realized both she and the dog had been waiting for Ben to open that stupid door for a solid forty-five minutes. Snatching the cookie plate, she hopped up and strode down the driveway with purpose, bent on seeing to it that Beau got inside, even if her cookies did not.

“Okay, Carmichael, open up …” She rammed a finger against the bell, the deep bongs reverberating on the other side of the door matching those of her pulse. “
You
may have fallen asleep in that easy chair, big boy, but Beau’s whining will keep
me
awake.” She tapped her toe impatiently on the stone front porch, finally foregoing on the bell to bang on the door.

No answer.

“Well, I know you’re home, mister, unless you’re dating a really tall woman with a really gruff voice, so you can’t shut me out.” Spinning on her heel, she tromped down the steps and around the house, Beau’s whining as pathetic as hers. Not thrilled about mounting the wooden fence, she glared at the ridiculous padlock. “It’s just plain wrong to force a forty-six-year-old woman in flip-flops to scrape through a hedge or scale a fence,” she muttered, dropping the cookie plate on the other side with the hope of beating Beau to it.

As luck would have it, she incurred only minimal scratches by scrambling over the slatted fence via a handful of privet hedge, mere seconds before the lab appeared. The poor guy’s tail wagged so hard, she felt a stiff breeze. “Yeah, I know, buddy,” she said with scrub of his head, lips puckered to create that ridiculously low baritone she always used to soothe her babies and kids. “Your master can be a real twit. Here …” She slipped a finger beneath the foil to fish out two pieces of bacon before sailing them into the air. “You deserve this for putting up with him.”

Beau darted away and pounced on the treat, giving Tess a clear shot to the back door. One hand cupped to the slider window, she frowned as she peered inside the dark family room, lit only by a faint wash of light from the kitchen.
How odd …
Her heart skipped a beat when she made out Ben’s hulk of a form lying in his massive recliner, obviously asleep. The pinch in her brow immediately softened. “Aw, poor baby,” she said, heart going out to the hero who had had a very big day. With a quick scratch of Beau’s head, Tess quietly opened the door, shushing the lab’s anxious whimpers with a finger to her lips. “Shhh, Beauregard, Daddy’s asleep.”

Ignoring her warning, the black lab darted to where Ben snored like a freight train, hands limp on the arms of his chair. Beau nudged at his legs several times, but the man never moved a muscle, so still Tess might have thought he was dead. Her lip quirked. Except for the chainsaw grinding in his throat.

“Beau,” she whispered with a pat to her thigh, “let’s see if Sleeping Beauty fed you.” Tiptoeing into the kitchen, she scoped out Beau’s bowls, noting both appeared pretty dry. The poor dog actually danced on his hind legs in anticipation, but as the mother of four crafty children, she was not easily fooled. “Oh, no you don’t, mister, empty bowls don’t mean a thing—I’ve seen you filch bacon faster than a pickpocket, remember?” She peeked into the waste can and wrinkled her nose over the stash of empty Lean Cuisine boxes, finally plucking out an empty can of dog food lying on top. Further investigation revealed a dry and crusty can, fairly safe evidence Ben hadn’t yet fed his dog. “Goodness, your dad must have been bone tired when he came home to fall asleep before feeding his best bud,” she said after filling both bowls with the appropriate food and water. “Okay, buddy, dig in!”

Tess spent a few moments wiping food-encrusted counters and washing dishes before placing the plate of cookies on the bar just so, leaving a note to let him know she fed Beau. Dimming the light, she ambled back into the family room, pausing in front of Ben’s chair on her way out. A melancholy sigh drifted from her lips. Even in bloodstained scrubs in the dark of night with a snore that could wake the dead, the man still fluttered her pulse. “Good night, Dr. Doom,” she whispered, thinking the name more appropriate than ever before. Long on attraction, but short on faith, Ben Carmichael spelled nothing but doom for his smitten neighbor, and Tess said a silent prayer they could somehow remain friends.

She turned to go and stopped, her gaze snagging on an open decanter bottle of Crown Royal on his side table. Her breath hitched when the truth struck hard, as if she’d been whopped over the head by that half-empty bottle of booze. She leaned close to his mouth and sniffed just to make sure, jaw dropping open wider than that of the soused Rip Van Winkle. Ben Carmichael—the man who promised he’d never touch alcohol again—was drunk as a skunk and smelled just as bad.

For some reason, fury shot through her like whiskey through Dr. Doom’s veins.
How dare he!
One of the country’s top heart surgeons, upon whom people’s lives depended. One who not only had no business getting stinking drunk, but had lied to her as well.

“Yes, Mother, I promise to never drink alcohol again.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, stomping around to turn on every lamp in the room. She returned to yank the recliner handle, and his feet plummeted to the floor with a satisfying thud.

A groan parted from his lips as he stirred in the chair, eyelids still pasted shut.

Muttering under her breath, she flipped on the overhead light on the way to the kitchen and made as much racket as she possibly could, opening cabinets and slamming them closed until she had everything she needed to brew a strong pot of coffee. So strong the man would have trouble sleeping for a week, especially after the tongue-lashing she intended to give. She poured him a steaming cup and tasted it just for good measure, quite certain that one potent sip would keep her up as well.

Coffee in one hand and her own tall glass of ice water in the other, she marched right up to Ben’s chair and slammed the cup on the table with a loud bang, sloshing a pool of coffee into the saucer. “Rise and whine, Dr. Carmichael, you’ve got some explaining to do.” She kicked his shoe several times, which did absolutely nothing to wake him up
or
slow down the snoring.

“Ben, wake up,” she shouted, rattling his arm to no avail. “Okay, mister.” Dipping her fingers in her glass, she flicked iced water into his face over and over, earning nothing but a grunt and several sluggish swipes of his hand.

Patience exhausted, Tess held the glass of ice water over his head. “All right, Sleeping Beauty, you asked for it.” With a grim press of lips, she poured the entire glass onto his head, mouth quirking when an ice cube bounced off his nose.

The man shot up in the chair like Poseidon on triple espresso, water sluicing down his face till it dribbled off his chin. “What the—?”

Tess blocked out the string of expletives that followed, kind of wishing she had more water to wash his mouth out with soap. She clunked the empty glass on the table and stepped back with a rigid cross of arms. “Sorry, Dr. Doom, but I figured you’d be too soused to take your own shower.”

Razor-slit eyes blinked back before a hoarse voice cracked from his throat. “What?” he whispered, brows scrunched so low, wrinkle lines crisscrossed his forehead like a freakin’ game of tic-tac-toe.

She cocked a hip, the sarcasm that dripped from her tone keeping up with the ice water. “Hate to break it to you, Ben, but somebody apparently broke into your house and drank half a decanter of your whiskey.”

Dimples of confusion popped in his brow. “Huh?”

“My, my, but we are articulate when we’re hammered, aren’t we?”

He started to rise in the chair and halted midway with a moan so pitiful, she might have felt sorry for him if he didn’t reek like a pub on payday. Hand to his head, he peeked through shaky fingers that shielded his eyes, the tic-tac-toe grid on his forehead suddenly convex. “Tess? What are you doing here?” he rasped. Another pucker crinkled the bridge of his nose as his free hand haphazardly patted his clothes. “And why am I all wet?”

“An appropriate term if ever there was,” she sniped on her way to the kitchen, returning with a dishtowel she balled and pelted right at his head. “Here—you might want to mop up that fancy leather chair before it becomes as sloppy as you.” She slapped two hands on her hips. “And why am I here? Oh, nothing—just letting your dog in from outside, watering him, feeding him, watering you …”

Somehow awareness seemed to dawn through the fog in his brain, ushered in by a long, aching groan as he sagged back in his chair. “I … I don’t know what happened,” he whispered, bloodshot eyes staring straight ahead in a drunken stupor.

“Really?” She shoved the cup of coffee closer to his chair, slopping more liquid into the saucer. “You know, for a heart surgeon, you can be pretty stupid, doc. Drink the coffee, Carmichael, all of it,
now
,” she ordered, standing watch while he slowly sipped at the cup, eyes closed and dark bristle shadowing his jaw.

Still fuming, she stormed to his bathroom to rifle through his medicine chest, her fury mounting when she saw enough women’s toiletries to fill a shelf at Wal-Mart. She nabbed a bottle of ibuprofen and palmed two before slamming the medicine chest closed so hard, it rattled the mirror. With a one-handed yank of the spigot, she filled a glass marred with toothpaste residue and stalked back into the family room. Sympathy softened her approach when she found Ben slouched on the edge of his chair, head in his hands.

Tapping him on the shoulder, she grinned outright at the look of horror on his face when he saw the glass of water she held. He actually jerked back in the chair, bloodshot gaze flaring wide for the first time, revealing whites of his eyes spidered with red. “You’re not gonna dump that on me, are you?”

Her mouth crooked. “As tempting as that may be, Dr. Carmichael, no, this is for your ibuprofen, which I imagine will be only the first of many you’ll be gulping before you’re through. Here.” She handed him both water and pills, and he took them with a garbled thank you that came out as a rusty croak.

Water glugged down his throat while his eyes locked with hers over the rim. “Thanks, Tess,” he whispered, his voice less gravelly as he placed the glass on the table. His frantic gaze darted to the sliding door before relief slackened his features when Beau nudged the side of his leg. “Hey, Big Guy, sorry ’bout that, but it looks like Tess has everything in hand.”

“Including another glass of ice water if you don’t explain why you broke your promise to me, Ben Carmichael.”

Pain flashed across his features she suspected had nothing to do with the booze in his body. He dropped back in his chair with a slow knead of his temple, eyes closed and face steeped in regret. “It’s a long story, Tess,” he whispered, “and not one to promote sweet dreams.”