Mother's Promise (25 page)

Darcy moved to the door, intent on sending him the message that their meeting was over, a message that even he couldn't possibly misinterpret. “Mr. Shepherd—Zeke—if you need mentoring you won't find anyone better than your brother so I suggest—”

“Come on, Darcy. One piece of advice.” He ambled toward the door.

“Get a haircut,” she said. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have a hospital to run.”

He fingered the glossy black ponytail that hung a little past his shoulders. “No worries. Thanks for your time.” He walked into the outer office where, thankfully, Darcy's assistant was away from her desk. When he reached the elevators, he turned back. “Just one more—”

“Good day, Mr. Shepherd,” Darcy said and closed her office door before he could complete his sentence.

Then, like someone hiding out, she hovered near the door listening for the elevator to arrive. Only after she heard the elevator doors open and close did she return to her desk.

Her hands were actually shaking. That was how much her up close and personal encounter with Zeke Shepherd had unnerved her.

The truth was that he was nothing like the man she had thought him to be—neither in looks nor conversation or attitude. Of course he was very different from Malcolm, and yet the similarities could not be missed. The eyes that probed and questioned. The smile—a little crooked and slow to come. The easy grace and confidence with which both men moved.

Certainly anyone who spent time in Sarasota knew Zeke on sight. He was a regular at the weekly farmers' market and almost as often could be seen on Main Street or near the bay strumming his guitar or sipping a coffee as he enjoyed the passing parade of people. But she had to wonder how many people would be surprised at the way his eyes flashed with curiosity and, yes, intelligence. She wondered how many people would look beyond the ill-fitting clothes and the long hair to see the man himself.

She rocked back in her chair, staring at the place where he had sat across from her, recalling his probing black eyes that had looked at her with amusement yet genuine interest as if he wanted to understand her. The smile that seemed forever lurking behind a mouth that was set at a slightly crooked angle in his sun-toasted face. She found herself imagining what he might look like with a proper haircut. She had never seen him other than clean-shaven and wondered why always if she considered him at all she had assumed he would have at least a scruffy sprout of whiskers.

She opened her eyes and tilted her chair upright, shaking off all thoughts of Zeke and his demeanor and his good looks. What could it possibly matter to her one way or another if the man shaved or not? And yet throughout the afternoon, every time she looked up from her work at the now vacant leather chair she remembered his smile … and those eyes. Eyes that challenged and questioned and, she had to admit, eyes that had completely changed the way she thought about Zeke Shepherd.

“You are simply associating him with his brother,” she muttered to herself as she gathered the work she needed to carry home with her and prepared to leave for the day. Other than the similarities in looks and intelligence, Zeke was nothing like Malcolm.

She was on her way to the skywalk that led to the parking garage when she looked down and saw Ben with his niece, Sally. He was grinning and waving at someone as he waited by the open door of his car. She was about to continue on her way, assuming he was waiting for his sister when she saw the unmistakable starched white prayer covering the Mennonite woman wore.

Rachel Kaufmann and her son hurried toward Ben's car. The only good news as far as Darcy was concerned was that Rachel took a seat in back with Sally while her son climbed into the passenger seat up front.

So Ben was giving the woman and her son a lift. So what? He was a nice guy, always doing things for others. Still she could not seem to shake the envy that crawled over her like a bunch of pesky no-see-ums, the tiny bugs that attacked those silly enough to linger on the beach past sundown.

It was a perfect night for a boat ride on the bay. The water was calm, reflecting the surroundings like an enormous mirror. Ben set the motor on the small craft that he'd rented to the low speed required in these inland waters and steered along the shoreline of Sarasota. He first headed north, passing under the Ringling Bridge connecting the mainland to the string of barrier islands that gave the city protection from the worst of most hurricanes and tropical storms.

“What's that purple building?” Justin asked.

“It's called the Van Wezel Performing Arts Center,” Sally replied before Ben could answer the boy. “They have all kinds of shows there—concerts and plays and everything.”

“Why is it purple?” Justin asked and seemed pleased when Sally had no answer for that.

“I don't know. It always has been.” Sally brightened. “Remember when we went to see
The Lion King
there, Uncle Ben?”

“Sure do.”

“Did you see the movie, Justin?” Sally asked.

Justin's cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“In our faith we do not go to movies or plays, Sally,” Rachel said quietly.

“Oh.”

Ben had rarely seen his niece speechless, but he understood that she was wrestling with the idea that she'd always been taught that such cultural events as plays and even some films were part of becoming a well-rounded person.

“Sorry,” she murmured after a moment.

Rachel smiled and lightly touched her hand. “No need,” she said. “It is our way.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Sally squinted up at Rachel.

“Not at all.”

“Well, I know that some Catholic nuns wear a covering on their head—and Muslim women as well. Is there a special meaning to the little hat you wear all the time?”

Rachel smiled. “It is called a ‘prayer covering,' Sally, and we wear it as a symbol of our faith.”

“But all the time?”

“Sally,” Ben warned.

“You never know when you might need to pray,” Rachel said, “and how inconvenient it would be to keep putting the cap on and off throughout the day.”

“There's the Ringling Museum,” Ben said, taking the opportunity to change the subject by pointing to the lavish mansion that the circus owner had built in the early twentieth century. “There was a time, Justin, when John Ringling owned everything you can see here.”

“Even that island over there?” Justin asked, his eyes wide.

“Even that. That's Longboat Key, and if you look back toward the bridge, Ringling owned everything from here to there.”

“He must have had a ton of money,” Justin said.

“He did, and then he lost most of it when the stock market crashed in the late 1920s.”

“But he kept the house and that big building next to it?”

Ben chuckled. “John Ringling was a very smart businessman. He and his wife, Mabel, built the original part of that complex to house the huge art collection they had gathered on their many travels throughout Europe. And when he realized that he might have to sell off his mansion and art collection to pay his creditors, he donated everything to the state of Florida.”

Sally turned to Rachel. “There's really a neat tour of the house and the grounds. They've got this cool circus museum and a fabulous miniature circus that has its very own building. Can Mennonites go to museums?”

“We can and do.”

Sally grinned and turned to Justin. “Let's go there one day. I'll ask Mom to—”

“Do you ever go fishing out here, Dr. Booker?” Justin asked, interrupting Sally and pointedly turning away from her.

“Justin,” Rachel said gently, “Sally was speaking.”

“Sorry.” But he looked out toward the shore, not at Sally.

“Never mind,” Sally said. Ben glanced at Rachel.

“Is anyone hungry?” Rachel asked, her voice a shade too bright, her eyes and worried frown focused on her son.

“I'm not feeling so great,” Sally said. She walked unsteadily to the far end of the boat and sat alone on the burgundy plastic seat, her arms locked around her bent knees, her back to all of them.

“Maybe we should go back,” Rachel said to Ben.

Maybe you should tell your son that he's being a total jerk,
Ben thought, but he could see in the worried way Rachel looked at Justin that she knew her son had upset Sally. So Ben nodded and turned the boat around, heading back toward the marina.

“I don't get it,” Sally said later, after they had dropped Rachel and Justin off at the cottage. Sally had suddenly decided she was feeling better and persuaded Ben to take her for a hot fudge sundae at their favorite ice cream shop on Main Street. “What is it with that guy? I try to be nice to him like Mom says I should be. I mean he's living in my backyard—like literally twenty yards from our house. What is his problem?” she fumed as the two of them sat outside the ice cream shop eating their sundaes.

“Well, at least you've recovered your appetite,” Ben teased as Sally scooped ice cream into her mouth almost without pausing to breathe between bites.

She grinned sheepishly. “It was either pretend not to be hungry or slug the guy,” she admitted. “He's gotten involved with the wrong group at school.” She shook her head. “Derek Piper and his crew are not the best influence on him. I think Mr. Mortimer is beginning to catch on, and Justin might be in trouble.”

“In what way?”

“Derek is such a total bully.”

“So is he bullying Justin?”

“Oh no, that's the thing. He's like best buddies with Justin—as long as Justin is willing to do his math homework for him, that is. Justin thinks he's helping Derek, but that's not what's happening. I mean, how can Derek have all the answers right on his homework but still fail the tests?”

“Maybe you should talk to Justin …”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that'll work. He already thinks I might tell Mortimer what's going on. That's why he wants to stay clear of me.”

“Maybe I should talk to his mom, then.”

“Not at all a good idea,” Sally protested around a mouth filled with ice cream and fudge sauce. “That would just prove to Justin that I'm the rat he already thinks I am. No, please don't say anything, okay? Not to his mom—or mine. Okay?”

She held up both hands, palms out as if wanting to stop him from even thinking about saying something. And that was when he noticed the white spots on her palms.

Ben dropped his spoon and grabbed his niece's hands, holding them closer to the light to examine them, all the while hoping he wasn't seeing what he most feared was there.

“Hey,” Sally protested.

“Sally, when did you first notice these spots on your palms?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Couple of days ago, I guess.” She looked at him, tears filling her eyes. “It's not anything serious, is it? I mean, I've been feeling so good and, yeah, I had that virus last week and I'm still a little knocked out from that but Mom had the blood tests run and everything was normal and …”

Her naked fear made Ben repress his own terror. “Let's be sure,” he said. “How about we make a quick stop at the hospital on the way home, draw some blood, and see what's going on, okay?”

“You think it's GVHD?”

His smile was forced. This kid had spent way too much time in hospitals. She knew all the lingo. GVHD or Graft-Versus-Host Disease was exactly what he was thinking, but at the moment all he wanted was to calm her fears—and his own. Even though it had been months since Sally's transplant, the possibility that her body might yet reject the donor marrow was still there.

“You know me, kid. I don't make guesses when it comes to medicine. Let's run the tests and see what we find, okay?” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in his sister's number and was relieved when Malcolm answered.

In as few words as possible he gave Malcolm the news.

“We'll meet you at the hospital,” Malcolm said tersely and hung up before Ben could say anything more. Of course, what was there to say? The spots were a symptom. Other than the virus that seemed to have passed there were no other signs. Sally's energy level was fairly normal. Oh, she had seemed tired until she'd suggested going for ice cream, and then she had rallied and admitted that she'd been faking on the boat—or had she?

He resisted the urge to quiz Sally as they drove in silence to the hospital. She seemed small and vulnerable sitting in the passenger seat next to him, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest as if to protect herself from whatever the blood tests might reveal. Ben glanced at her, saw her lips moving and realized that she was praying as tears leaked slowly down her cheeks.

He reached over and cupped her head with his palm. “We can fix this, honey,” he promised.

But Ben was far from certain that he would be able to deliver on that promise.