Summer Breeze (16 page)
“Happy America!” he said, dancing around her. “Merry Independence! Long live July!”
Patsy laughed and hugged on Cody like he was her long-lost best friend. Then she turned and pointed out the watermelon wagon, the shore where all the kids were playing, the tables lined with salads and desserts, and finally the grills. As her eyes settled on Pete, he decided he’d heard more than enough about baseball. He beckoned Patsy and Cody.
“Look, there’s Pete Roberts!” Cody called out. “He makes hot dogs at Rods-N-Ends. Hi, Pete!”
“Hey there, Cody ol’ fella; how’re you doing today?” Pete pushed himself out of the lawn chair and ambled over to them. “I see you’re wearing a flag T-shirt.”
“This is the USA flag,” Cody explained, laying his hand on his chest to indicate the printed banner. “Brenda and Steve gave me this shirt. The flag has stars like in Patsy’s hair. I like those stars. Do you?”
“I sure do,” Pete said. “Patsy always looks pretty as a picture.”
“A picture? She’s prettier than a picture, because this is really her.”
“Aw, Cody,” Patsy murmured, blushing like some shy schoolgirl. “You are so sweet. And you’re handsome, too! Look at that clean-shaven chin. Gracious sakes, young man, who would ever have thought it!”
“Pete should shave, huh, Patsy?” Cody asked. “You told me he looks like a shaggy bear.”
Cody glanced from Patsy to Pete, assessed their expressions, and then covered his mouth with his hand. “Oops,” he said. “I think I just did bad social skills.”
“It’s all right,” Patsy told Cody, patting his arm. “Pete knows how I feel about that awful beard.”
Suddenly grouchy, Pete combed his fingers through the thick mat of dark hair that had been with him since he couldn’t remember when. He snorted and hooked his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “A person ought to be able to see beyond a little facial hair, is what I say. Looks aren’t everything.”
“Oh, really?” Patsy retorted. “Seems you’ve been doing plenty of looking in my direction today, Mr. Roberts. If you want me looking back, you’d do well to shave off that musty old clump hanging from your chin.”
Cody cackled and slapped his thighs. “Musty old clump! At least you don’t have mice in your hair like I did when I first got to Deepwater Cove, Pete. Hey, look who’s coming now! It’s Mrs. Finley and the other Mrs. Finley.”
Sure enough, here came Kim and her mother-in-law, Miranda, each carrying a clear glass bowl of seven-layer dip across the lawn toward the gathering. Pete didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but he noticed right away that neither woman looked the least bit happy about making an appearance at the Deepwater Cove Fourth of July celebration. As Kim and Miranda set their bowls on the chip-and-dip table, Pete left Patsy’s side and wandered over to fetch himself a plate of appetizers. No point just dawdling around when there was good food to be had.
“Afternoon, Miz Finley,” he greeted Derek’s mother.
Both women looked up at the same time and gave pained smiles.
“Hi, Pete,” Kim Finley spoke up first. “Glad you could make it to the celebration.”
“Try my seven-layer dip, Pete,” Miranda Finley suggested, spooning a dollop onto a paper plate and giving it to him. She dug a handful of tortilla chips from a bag, ran one through her dip, and pushed it between his lips. “I always put the sour cream on top, because that way it’s the first flavor to hit your taste buds. Sets the mood, don’t you think? With guacamole, cheese, and refried beans all in perfect order under the sour cream, you can almost picture yourself lounging on a Caribbean beach.”
Pete tried to talk around the bite of chip and dip Miranda had put into his mouth, but he couldn’t manage it. He wanted to say that it didn’t matter to him which came first, because eventually the flavors all blended together. But as he started to speak, a sliver of chip flew down the wrong pipe.
As Pete began to cough, he noticed what Kim was doing. Standing beside her mother-in-law, she pursed her lips tight and ladled a large helping of her own seven-layer dip into a bowl. Swigging down some soda to clear his throat, Pete noted that Kim had put the shredded cheese on top, followed by layers of beans, guacamole, olives, and—somewhere down at the bottom—sour cream.
Grabbing a bag of chips under one arm, Kim carried her dip toward the men gathered around their grills. Pete could see the battle unfolding right before his eyes. If anyone declared Kim’s appetizer to be delicious, it would undercut Miranda’s before she’d even had a chance to show it off. And no doubt those sweaty gents in their barbecue aprons were going to dig into Kim’s dip with gusto.
As she realized her daughter-in-law’s ploy, Miranda let out a whimper of dismay. She snatched up her bowl of dip, seized a second bag of chips and marched toward the men.
Pete took one look at Derek Finley’s face and realized that this unfolding conflict would put the poor man in the hot seat, no matter what. “Hey, Patsy!” he called. “Yo, Patsy!”
If only he could get the blonde in her wedgy sandals and sparkling stars to saunter over to the grills, she might just be able to distract everyone. Then maybe Patsy’s kind demeanor and sweet words could defuse the oncoming clash. Determined to keep peace, Pete hurried over to where the salon owner was helping Bitty Sondheim and Opal Jones arrange carrots and sweet pickles in neat rows on a glass tray.
“Patsy,” Pete said, sidling up and whispering in her ear. “You’ve got to come with me right now, and I mean it. No dawdling around, gal. There’s trouble afoot.”
Before she could respond, Pete took her arm and ushered her toward the battlefront.
“What are you up to now, Pete Roberts?” Patsy challenged him. “Bitty and I were helping Opal fix her relish dish! You know how bad Opal’s arthritis gets, and she asked us to—”
“Patsy, get over there and eat some dip,” Pete instructed as he propelled the woman across the grass. “Try ’em both, and then talk about something else like hairstyles or whatever comes to mind.”
“Pete, let go of my arm this minute! Why, I ought to—”
Patsy caught her breath as Pete pushed her down onto the lawn chair he had recently vacated.
“Look who’s here,” he said. “It’s Patsy.”
Pete was turning to scoop dip from the two rival bowls when the unmistakable sound of ripping plastic caught his ears. He looked back in time to see the webbing give way beneath Patsy Pringle’s ample backside and drop her right through the aluminum chair frame onto the ground.
Patsy let out a shriek that would curdle milk as her wedge-heeled feet flew into the air, and her sandals sailed over Pete’s head.
“Incoming!” someone yelled.
Pete never would have guessed it possible, but the woman folded into that aluminum framework like a hymnbook at the end of a church service. Her legs stuck straight up, her arms waved back and forth over her head, and those sparkly stars went sailing out of her hair.
“Help!” she hollered, bare feet kicking. “Somebody help me! Pete Roberts, I’m gonna kill you!”
Horror-struck, Pete couldn’t move for a full second. In fact, it seemed as though the entire Deepwater Cove gathering fell silent and turned to stare at the woman wedged into the frame of the collapsed aluminum folding chair. And then—before Pete could do his part to rectify the situation—Officer Derek Finley bent over and extricated the helpless victim from the jaws of death.
“Are you all right, Patsy?” Derek asked as he pulled Patsy to her feet.
Her blue eyes shot straight to Pete. “No, I am not all right, thank you very much! I am furious! Pete Roberts, what on earth was that all about? I ought to string you up by your thumbnails!”
“Good gravy!” Charlie Moore exclaimed. “For a minute there, I thought we’d been hit by mortar fire!”
Brad Hanes burst out laughing. “It was a blonde bombshell, all right!”
“Did you see those shoes go airborne?” someone else cried.
“I saw shooting stars right before my eyes!”
By now, all the men were grinning as they grabbed the bags of chips and dug into the identical bowls of dip. Feud obviously forgotten, Kim and Miranda Finley circled around Patsy, helping to fix her hair and find her sandals. Somehow a long curlicue had come unpinned, and Pete picked it up.
“Uh, I think you lost this,” he said, holding out the blonde ringlet like a peace offering.
Patsy snatched it from his hand. “You’d better explain yourself this minute, Pete Roberts. What did you mean by jerking me away from helping Opal with her relish tray and slinging me into that broken chair?”
“Well, I was …” Pete gulped. “I thought maybe—”
“You made me the laughingstock of the whole place! Everyone saw me make an idiot of myself.”
To Pete’s horror, the feisty woman’s blue eyes suddenly filled with tears. He reached out to her. “Aw, now, Patsy—”
“Don’t you dare touch me, Pete Roberts!” she said, knocking his hand away. “You’re pushy and mean and forward. You’re just a bully is what you are! Ever since you moved to the lake, you’ve done everything in your power to make my life miserable. But this is the last straw. You intended to make me out to be a fool, and you succeeded—and that’s the last you’ll be hearing from me till the cows come home!”
“Now, listen here, Patsy,” he began again.
But the sound of a child’s scream drowned out his words. As Pete focused in the direction of the cry, he saw Kim and Derek Finley’s young daughter sprinting toward them.
“Mommy, Mommy!” she was hollering as she ran. “Come quick! Luke fell down, and he’s not moving!”
K
im knelt in the damp, rocky sand beside her son. Luke’s brown eyes fluttered as she pressed the emergency number on her cell phone. Next to her, Derek was checking the boy’s pulse and airway.
“I need a clean towel—his head is bleeding. I’m guessing he gashed it on that big rock.” Derek glanced at Lydia. “What were you kids doing?”
“Just playing around, I swear!” Lydia was jumping up and down, shaking her hands, crying, and elbowing away all attempts to comfort her. “Luke told me he was dizzy and he felt like he was going to throw up. Then he started staggering down the beach, but he only got this far before he fell and his head hit that rock. Do something, Derek! Fix him! Fix my brother!”
“Nausea, dizziness, and staggering. Sounds like intoxication. Listen, Lydia, I need to know if Luke drank any alcohol,” Derek barked at the girl as someone handed him a towel. “You’d better tell me the truth. What did you kids get into? Was it beer?”
“Luke’s not drunk,” Kim cut in. “It’s his diabetes! His blood sugar must be off. I don’t know what to do! I can’t think! Where’s his kit?”
She looked at Lydia, who shrieked, “I don’t have it! Was I supposed to bring it? It’s Luke’s kit, and—”
Lydia caught her breath as her brother suddenly began to convulse. Kim let out an involuntary wail and tried to gather her son in her arms. Pressing the towel against the gash on the side of the boy’s head, Derek urged everyone to calm down. And suddenly the insulin kit appeared in Miranda’s hand.
“I found it in his bedroom,” she huffed, out of breath. “In all the excitement of the day, he might have forgotten to take his insulin.”
“Lukey’s bleeding to death!” Lydia screamed. “He’s going to die!”
“Someone get the girl under control,” Derek shouted at the crowd as he snatched the kit and handed it to Kim. “Mom, take Lydia to the house.”
“I’m not leaving my brother!” Lydia cried out. “Make him stop shaking! You have to help him!”
Kim tried to block out her daughter’s hysteria as she fumbled with the insulin kit. People had crowded around, edging closer, cutting off the afternoon sunlight. She pushed at Lydia’s skinny arms as the girl tried to grab her brother.
“Don’t let him die!” Lydia sobbed. “He’s all I have. He’s my only brother. He’s my best friend.”
“Scoot over, Lydia,” Kim ordered. Luke’s convulsions had eased, but he was groggy and unfocused. “I have to test his blood.”
“He didn’t eat lunch, Mom!” Lydia was down on her stomach, arms around her brother. “We forgot about the snacks you sent with us. Why won’t his head stop bleeding, Derek? What are you doing to him? Wake up, Lukey! Please don’t die!”
“Please, God, please,” Kim whispered as she tested her son’s blood and read the indicator. “His glucose is low—but he shouldn’t have had a seizure. Why isn’t he more alert?”
“Probably the head injury,” Derek said. “I’m on it.”
Kim could hear a siren in the distance as she filled a syringe with insulin. “Please help my son, Lord. Please help us.”
“He’ll be all right,” Derek was saying. “We’ve got him under control, honey. He’ll be fine.”
While Kim injected the insulin, Derek checked Luke’s pulse again. “We need to get a saline IV going. He probably needs potassium, too. Hang in there, Luke. You’re doing good, kiddo. Lydia, for pete’s sake, will you let your brother have some air?”
“You shut up!” Lydia shouted suddenly at Derek. “You don’t know anything! You’re supposed to be an officer and smart about helping people, but you’re just wiping Lukey’s blood and letting my mom do all the work. You can’t make me—”
“Put a muzzle on that mouth, girl, or I will!”
As the emergency medical personnel clustered around Luke, Kim sensed Derek leaving her side, pressing people back, dragging Lydia away. The EMTs began asking questions, checking Luke’s vital signs, starting an IV drip. Kim told them everything she knew. She watched helplessly as they lifted her son into the back of the ambulance. And then, before she could clear her head, she was inside the vehicle speeding toward Lake Regional hospital in Osage Beach.
The EMT team worked over Luke while Kim brushed back tears and tried to make sense of what they were saying. She heard words that had passed through her mind a thousand times since her son’s diagnosis—
diabetic ketoacidosis, counterregulatory hormones, electrolytes, ketones
.
She struggled to answer their questions. When had Luke’s blood last been tested? By the shore, she told them, ten minutes ago—or was it five?
Had he experienced a recent infection—strep throat, pneumonia, an intestinal virus, or a urinary tract infection? A cough and runny nose, she said. Oh, why hadn’t she paid closer attention to her son? Had he undergone any trauma other than the head injury in the past twenty-four hours? Nothing. Nothing she could recall, but he had been outside with Lydia since breakfast.
