Wishes and Stitches (7 page)

Rig, still smiling, pushed open the casement window. “Ah. That's better. When was the last time you saw him? In person?” Rig's dark hair fell forward as he looked outside. The man needed a haircut. Doctors didn't have hair like that unless they had a nickname that started with Mc and starred in a television hospital show.

Naomi blinked, hard, and brushed off a chair with a piece of Kleenex. “If you'd asked me yesterday, I think I would have said about a month. Being in here, I'm kind of thinking . . . It might have been Christmas. I saw him at church, and that's the only time of year I go.”

“But it's the end of June.”

Naomi shrugged.

“Wow. And you've been paying the bills with just your practice?”

“Mine, and I try to see as many of his patients as I can. As many as will see me. Some of them won't.”

Rig came around the side of the desk so that he was in front of it, nearer now to her. The air got heavy, and Naomi noticed again how he filled up space in a way that seemed to have nothing to do with his height or breadth.

“You've been working a double practice. For six months.”

Rubbing the back of her neck, Naomi nodded. Maybe that's why she was always so tired on the weekends.

“What do you do for fun?” He pushed a pile of papers back and perched on the edge of the desk.

“I work,” she said as she thought about her knitting basket at home.

“And go to conferences?”

Naomi straightened her spine and tried to make her eyes chilly. Ice. “We won't mention that night. Okay? I wasn't expecting you here, but I'm willing to work with you if you can promise me that you won't mention the conference in Portland. That you won't even
think
about it.”

As if she could stop thinking about it for even thirty seconds.

But the air felt clearer, and Rig nodded. “Fair enough. No problem. So what else should we know about each other? Did you always want to be a doctor?”

“It's the only thing I ever wanted to do.” She took a sip of the coffee she was still holding, surprised by her own candor. “What about you?”

“Oh, hell no,” Rig said. “This was the third thing down on my list to do.”

“What were the other two?”

He picked up a pen and stared at it. “I always wanted to work the rigs—I could see their lights from my bed as a kid, and I wanted to
be
there, where they sparkled.” He gave a half laugh. “They don't sparkle close-up, I can tell you that. And I wanted to be a cowboy in a rodeo. Only
then
did I want to be a doctor. But I managed to get that first goal in by working as a doctor on the rigs. The cowboy thing, it hasn't worked out yet.”

“You were in the Gulf, right? I saw your CV. Why did you quit?” she asked.
Why are you here?

“I've been trying to get here for years. Ever since my brother lost his wife to breast cancer.” He paused and then said, “Wanted to be with my family. What about you? Any kids? Husbands?”

She laughed out loud and then looked at the floor, embarrassed. Did he really think she would have . . . ? “No,” she said simply.

“Where are your parents?”

“My mother and her husband live in L.A. My father is dead.” Even now, so many years later, it hurt to say.

“I'm sorry,” Rig said. “My mother died ten years ago. It sucks, huh?”

It did, but she sure as hell wasn't going to talk about it.

“What about siblings?” he went on. “You have any brothers?”

“No.”

“Sisters?”

“What's with the third degree, Hank?” She let the name fall into the room, listening to see if it would land with a whisper or a thud.

His dark eyes widened a bit, and then he blinked. But he waited for her to speak.

“Your CV says Henry Keller. You never went by Henry? Or Hank?”

Rig shook his head firmly. “Never Hank. In college, before the oil derrick work, I was Henry. My brother, Jake, started with Rig years ago, and it stuck.” He paused. “
Never
Hank.”

“So I'll only call you that when I'm mad at you, then.”

“I'm not sure I trust you.” But the hint of a smile broke along his jawline, and Naomi realized that she'd successfully teased someone for the first time in what felt like forever. Even if it was him. It felt good.

“Back to siblings,” he said.

He was serious about this getting-to-know-you routine, wasn't he? “I have one sister.”

“Are you two tight?”

Naomi rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I haven't talked to Anna since Christmas three years ago. She had green hair, two new tattoos, and a boyfriend named Slice who carried a gun. We don't have anything in common except trying to avoid our mother's phone calls.”

Rig leaned back. “That's the saddest thing I've ever heard.”

“Wow. You haven't heard many sad things, have you?”

He looked past her shoulder out the window and across the street to where a low sand dune rose. Beyond that, the edge of the pier was visible. His eyes were as dark as the water. “Nah. I've heard 'em.”

Naomi didn't know where to look or what to say. She didn't have the right words. She never did. So it fell to her to change the subject. At least she was practiced at doing that.

“You have nice eyes,” she blurted and immediately felt the color in her cheeks rise.
Shit
. “I mean, I'm not trying to flirt with you.” Oh, God, it sounded worse said out loud. “But they're nice.” She gulped audibly as she tried to stop her runaway train of a mouth.

But then Rig smiled, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Thanks. Hey, where does that door go?” He pointed out of the office toward the door that led to the health clinic.

Naomi felt a rush of relief. He was going to let it go. “Nowhere. I mean, somewhere, yes, of course. But I'll show you tomorrow, is that okay? You'll make yourself at home in here? I have a couple of things I need to catch up on before my next patient, and Bruno won't be here to help me because I'm a moron.”

He laughed and Naomi let herself out of Pederson's, no,
Rig's
office, and made her way to the break room where she reheated her now-cooled coffee. She felt like she'd made a narrow escape—her palms were sweating.

She took a deep breath and leaned back against the refrigerator. What did he do to her? She was absolutely going to have to stop acting like a hormonal fourteen-year-old. Only one thing mattered. Only ever one thing. Like her father had always said, “The practice is more than just patients. It's about a community becoming whole. Someday you'll understand.” He'd never known Naomi as more than a skinny teenager who studied hard—because she'd had few friends in high school to distract her—and brought home good grades. It still tore her apart to think that he'd died before she'd become the doctor he wanted her to be, the one he would have been proud of. But his legacy lived on—she made sure of it. Her practice, and now, the health clinic, was everything. It was all she needed.

Chapter Ten

A
fter touring the office, Rig picked up Milo—Jake had to work an evening shift on overtime, and Frank already had plans that he wouldn't divulge to his son.

“Your dad's got a life, kid, and I can keep a secret or two.”

Rig just nodded, not giving his father the satisfaction of the third-degree grilling he probably wanted to play to, and took Milo to Tad's for ice cream where they had sundaes for dinner. He'd sworn Milo to secrecy, coaching him to tell Jake that he'd had lots of protein for dinner, which was technically true.

Rig lay in the hammock he'd just put up in Shirley's backyard, while Milo snoozed off his sugar crash inside. Keller men, all of them, loved a hammock, and Shirley hadn't minded when he'd asked if he could string it between the tall acacias; in fact, she'd said she'd use it herself sometime.

It was still warm from the heat of the summer day, the sky still bright blue, not a trace of fog rolling in yet. Rocking in the hammock, gazing up through the boughs, he'd drifted off himself for a few minutes, and in his dream, he was back in the diner where he'd first seen Naomi, but instead of looking vaguely stressed and worried, she was laughing like she had in Portland, those big green eyes sparkling like dew on grass.

He reached an arm to the ground to lift his soda to his mouth. When he set it back down, the hammock rocked again, and he closed his eyes with the gentle sway.

What was it going to be like, working in such close proximity to a woman like Naomi? Rig was used to rig crews. The people he hung out with tended to spit and swear and get drunk on nights off and end up sleeping under truck-stop picnic tables. Rig could break up an onshore bar brawl as easily as he could set a broken arm. And he'd done both while drunk, come to think of it.

And when it came right down to it, Rig realized that not since his residency had he worked indoors with any regularity. He was used to taking helicopter rides to where his patients were, used to filling up his medical bag with anything he might need on a contingency basis.

This was gonna be cush. With Bruno there to answer the phone and check in patients, a closet full of samples right there at hand, a lab pickup, and a pharmacy and a hospital nearby, what more could he ask for? It was just good luck that Elbert had introduced him to Dr. Pederson, and that it had gone as well as it had.

Everybody had gotten what they wanted. Rig got a home near family, Pederson got a way out of town, and . . . Well, he wasn't sure what Naomi wanted. He could say with some certainty that it wasn't a new partner. Or was that just because it was him?

But he'd change her mind. She liked his eyes. He felt a warm glow in his stomach, remembering.

The hammock stilled, and he closed his eyes again. He let himself remember, just for a second, what she had looked like underneath him. He'd try not to remember it too often, but right now, he didn't stop himself. The way she'd kissed him, that first time, in the hallway outside his room. It had been a promise of so much more, and then she'd delivered. Boy, had she. Naomi had had the upper hand over him that whole X-rated night. He hadn't minded giving it to her, either. She'd been incredible, and she'd seemed more comfortable setting their pace. Until he'd kissed her that last time, when her hands had started to shake. She'd looked confused, and then, somehow upset. She'd bolted after that. Rig had just assumed she had a boyfriend or something at home, and had been hit by guilt. Or something. There'd been a change in her, in that last heated kiss, the one that had burned out of control and left Rig's head spinning.

There, she'd been so confident. Here, she seemed more . . . vulnerable. Well, he supposed anyone on their home turf was different from what they were when they were away.

A scream shredded the afternoon's stillness.

Milo.
Rig flipped himself out of the hammock, landing on one of his knees. Had a bee stung him? Had someone gotten in the house?

Milo was still on the couch in the small sitting room, right where Rig had left him sleeping. He was sitting up, his eyes closed, his mouth still open in that ear-splitting scream that seemed like it would never stop.

“Milo!” Rig reached him in three paces. “What is it?”

He took Milo in his arms and rocked him, hard. Milo hid his head in the crook of Rig's arm and stayed there, breathing heavily.

A few minutes passed. Only when Rig felt Milo's shoulders start to relax did he speak. “Bad dream, buddy?”

Milo nodded.

“But it's over now. You're safe with me, you know that?”

Milo mumbled a noise of assent.

“What was the dream about?”

Silence.

“It helps if you talk about it. Makes it smaller. I promise. Give it a try.”

“Mom.”

“You dreamed about your mom?” Rig tightened his arms around him.

Milo nodded again. “I saw her, but she was far away, and I couldn't see what she looked like. And when I got up to her, her face was a monster.” His voice shook. “A bad, mean, ugly snake monster.”

“Hold tight, okay?” Rig scooted Milo off his lap.

Milo's fingers scrabbled to grab Rig's T-shirt. “No, don't go . . .”

“I'm only going over to the bookcase, okay?” He grabbed the album he wanted, tucked up on the highest shelf. “Okay, look what I got you.”

It was the album Megan had made for Rig—the one of Jake and Megan's wedding. She'd made special ones for him and Frank, family albums. Such a Megan thing to do. He turned to the first picture, an eight by ten, a close-up of the bride. She grinned in that special Megan way, the kind of smile that lit up everyone else within a two-mile radius.

“Now tell me. Does she look like a monster?”

Milo stole a sideways look. “No, that's Mom.”

“Dang right. You just had a bad dream, that's all. You want to see more? Go through this with me?”

“Yeah.” Milo stuck his thumb in his mouth, and even though Jake had been trying to break him of this habit, Rig let him keep it. Everybody deserved comforting.

They paged through the album, stopping on every picture that featured the glowing Megan. In one where she posed by the water, Rig remembered the moment so clearly it was as if he was there again, watching his brother's happiness, wondering if he'd ever find the same.

“You remember those earrings she's wearing, buddy? Your dad gave her those diamonds and she wore them all the time. She called them her magic sparkles.”

“Don't remember.”

“Do you remember a little bit? Her smile?”

“No.” Milo turned the page with force, almost ripping the album.

“Easy, Milo. Don't pull.” Did he really not remember his mother? Not even a little bit? Rig supposed that a five-year-old didn't retain too much of being two, although he'd thought with Jake's constant talking about her and showing him pictures, that something would have stuck.

“What
do
you remember?” He tried to keep his voice nonjudgmental.

Milo shrugged.

“It's okay. That's why we have pictures, right?” It wasn't okay, not really. But it would have to be.

He looked at the clock. Just after eight. Jake should be here soon to pick up Milo. He also wasn't planning on telling his brother about the late nap. Illicit sugar, thumbs, and naps. He'd give the kid his first beer at eighteen, and then he'd be the perfect uncle.

“Hey, Milo,” he said. “You want to look at the pictures I took of you as a baby? I have those here, too.”

Milo wiped his wet thumb on his pants. “Yes, please,” he said politely.

As Rig pulled the right one off the bookshelf, he heard the distinctive squeal of his brother's brakes.

“Dad!” Milo jumped off the couch and parted the curtains. “He's not at work anymore!”

“Looks like you're right!”

Rig opened the front door and let Milo fly out, running across Shirley's carefully cut grass in his bare feet toward the side garden gate.

Something felt odd to him, and he let the strange feeling sit until he could identify it. As Jake scooped Milo up into his arms, as they turned to walk toward him together, Rig realized what it was.

Family had arrived at his house, and Rig was there to say hello. After years of living in hotels, moving from contract to contract, it felt right to be here, holding the screen door open.

“You're letting in flies,” said Jake.

“Oh, yeah?” Rig grinned at Milo as they came up on the porch. “You two are flies? I should have known it by your big compound eyes. I suppose I'll let you flies in.”

Jake kissed the top of Milo's head and squeezed him before setting him down. “Getting heavy, huh? You on a growth spurt?” Milo nodded and ran back to the couch to look at the album again. Jake was doing a good job. And Rig hoped like hell there would continue to be a place for him to keep helping.

“You off for the night?”

“Yeah,” said Jake, jingling the keys in his pocket. “Got another guy to cover the rest of the shift. Dad would have been fine watching Milo, you know. He does it all the time.”

“He said he was busy. And I wanted to,” said Rig.

Jake nodded. “Good.” A simple word, but it made Rig happy to hear it.

“You want a beer?” he asked.

“Hell, yeah.”

As Rig walked into the kitchen to grab the bottles, he heard Jake say to Milo, “Whatcha got there, little guy?”

There was a pause.

Then Milo wailed, the same kind of scream Rig had heard earlier, when Milo had been having his nightmare. He hurried back to the living room.

“What happened . . . ?”

Jake stood next to Milo, clutching both photo albums. “We don't look at these.”

What the hell? “But I thought—are you serious?”

“They're put away at our house.”

Rig gripped his bottle tighter. “But you talk about Megan, and nothing
else
of hers is put away. He had a bad dream about her, so I thought—”

“You thought wrong. I was going to go through these with
my
son
when I thought it was time. I would tell him each story the right way. He'd hear it from
me
.” Jake stopped and took a breath. He didn't meet Rig's eyes.

Milo ceased wailing and dribbled off into sad whiffles. His eyes tracked back and forth from his father to Rig.

“I didn't know,” said Rig.

“I'm sorry.” Jake paused. “But you should have asked, then, instead of acting so impulsively. You know, you've always been like this. Doing whatever you feel like. Jumping out of helicopters. Rock climbing. Parachuting. Moving into town with a week's notice.”

“But I told you, I just wanted to—”

“Things in my life aren't as easy as they are in yours. How long are you going to rent this place, anyway? You say you're staying, but how do we know that? You've never been around, not in Milo's whole life. Why now? This isn't your—”

Home
. Jake didn't say it, but Rig heard it. Clenching his jaw, he said, “Fine. Message delivered. Copy. But you should know I'm not going anywhere. I'm here for you guys.”

Jake rolled his eyes, but looked down at Milo, extending his hand. “Let's go home.”

Milo, who had been standing on the couch, unlocked his knees and dropped, face-first, into the cushions. His narrow back shook.

Rig went back out to the hammock, leaving his brother to care for his own son. Screw Jake. He'd meant the best, and he didn't have to prove anything.

He took both beers with him.