Last Of The Joeville Lovers - Anne Eames

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why she should call Max again. Maybe to talk about when she would be back to work.

      

      The room down the hall from the hospital chapel was filled to capacity with food and those who had come to pay their respects.

      Taylor accepted the sympathetic touches and hugs from hundreds, faces blurring together, kind words washing over her like rain that wasn’t wet, not touching her, not penetrating the cloak she wore around her pain. Dad stood to one side of her, his eyes red rimmed, his composure a thin facade. Michael no longer fought the tears. He bit his top lip and nodded acknowledgment to mourners, never saying a word, his light blue collar spotted with dark droplets.

      Mercifully the day ended and the grief-stricken family returned to their little bungalow near the hospital. They reminisced about good times and dug out old photo albums, but eventually the men found solace in their rooms while Taylor sipped her lukewarm tea and stared at the phone on the kitchen wall. As much as the Malones had come to mean to her, Montana and the life she had made there seemed part of a distant past, as surreal as the events of the last couple of days.

      Still, she had told Hannah she would call. So she did.

      Hannah only said hello this time, before shuffling off to get Max, whose voice sounded as strained as her own.

      “I’m so sorry about your mother,” he said.

      She could hear the pain in his voice and knew his words far transcended politeness. He cared about her mother; they had been friends. “I know.” She swallowed, hoping to keep the conversation short. “The flowers were beautiful. Thank the rest of the family for me...please?”

      Max said nothing, the tension at the other end of the line nearly palpable. It was as if he were wary about speaking his mind, that there was something else he wanted to say and couldn’t. She decided it must be about work.

      “I talked to Dad and Michael. We agreed it would be best for all of us to get back to work. They started an addition to someone’s house last week that needs a roof before it rains, and—”

      “Take as much time as you need. I don’t want to rush you.”

      “You’re not. I want to...have to keep busy.”

      Max didn’t argue. In fact, he said nothing. “Max? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

      The pause, followed by a long sigh, told her there was. “Max?”

      “You have enough on your plate—”

      “Please. What is it?” She knew it wasn’t good, yet she had to know.

      “It’s Josh—”

      She sprang out of the chair and paced toward the sink. “What about Josh?”

      “I didn’t want to trouble you with this, Taylor, but...well, he had an accident with his plane—”

      “Is ..is he—”

      “It looks like he’s going to pull through.”

      She breathed a sigh of relief, but before she could relax he told her the rest.

      “He’s banged up pretty bad, and—” Max paused, then blurted it out “—Taylor...he’s going to need our help. He’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

      Three

      As difficult as the flight had been to Detroit, the return was even worse. The hope Taylor had nursed five days ago had been replaced with a large empty hole, one she doubted would ever be filled, a wound so fresh and deep that she couldn’t quite comprehend the days and months ahead. Her work, and a lot of help from above, would be her salvation.

      And why did this have to happen to Josh? Was this number two of three, as Grandma had warned? If it was, then what else was in store for her? She shook her head and squared her shoulders, dismissing the silly adage as she strode down the hospital corridor, nodding at familiar faces, her gait saying she had no time for idle chatter.

      She stepped into the elevator and punched the button for ICU, then punched it again when it didn’t respond, as if the second prompt might speed things along. Others wandered in and she stepped aside. One young man held a large stuffed animal, and his face reflected the joy and pride of a new papa. She stared at the floor and wondered when she might feel joy again.

      First Mom, now this. Josh’s dimpled smile flashed in her mind’s eye. So young, so carefree...so handsome. He had everything.

      That wasn’t true, she reminded herself. He’d lost a mother, too. At least she had hers for twenty-five years, which was almost twenty years longer than Josh could say. And then another thought crossed her mind: why did people wait for a tragedy to think kindly about certain people? Why did they—she—not see the pain in their eyes before and realize that they carried baggage from the past, too? Like Josh...

      The elevator stopped and Taylor excused her way to the front, wondering what she would say to Josh when she saw him. She hadn’t been very nice to him in the past, based mostly on rumors and supposition...and her own prejudice against young people with easy money.

      Today would be different; she would look Josh in the eye and start again. There was a good man inside there somewhere; she was sure of it. After all, he was Max’s son. He had to be. And now, more than ever, Josh would need help to see him through.

      As she neared ICU she remembered the pastor’s recent eulogy. “When you’re feeling your lowest, reach out to someone else in need...it’s impossible to feel sad when you’re making someone else smile.”

      Taylor held tight to that thought and identified herself at the nurses’ station, then pressed the metal plate on the wall for the big double doors to swing open. Why it had to be Josh whom God had chosen to help occupy her days of mourning, she didn’t know. But she made a silent vow that she would do her best to bring a smile back on that handsome face of his.

      She stepped into the room and suppressed a moan. Both legs were in traction; a trapeze hung over his chest. Monitors and IVs surrounded him, reminding her of her mother’s plight just days ago. With an ache in her chest, she stepped into the room. Josh’s head was facing the window and she thought he was asleep, but when her shoes squeaked on the tile floor, he looked at her, and amidst a maze of cuts and bruises a big smile washed over his pale lips.

      “Hi, gorgeous.” His speech was a little slurred, his tongue sounding thick with drugs. Still, he smiled. “This is much better,” he said.

      She moved slowly to his side, wanting to touch him, yet feeling shy for some odd reason. “What’s much better?” she asked, pretending not to notice the extent of his injuries.

      “A beautiful nurse! In the movies, there are always young, pretty nurses. I had just about given up.”

      Still full of it, she thought, then chuckled. “I’m not a nurse. I’m a—”

      “Yeah, yeah. A sadistic physical therapist.”

      His smile was firmly in place, a fact that amazed her. She had only to enter his room to achieve her goal. Without thinking, she returned his easy smile.

      “Guess that shoulder business was just a sample of what I’m in for, huh?”

      Taylor straightened his covers, needing something to do with her hands and having trouble holding his gaze. “You got that right, cowboy. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

      “I love it when you talk tough.”

      “Yeah, well, we’ll see how tough you are in the months to come.”

      “Months?” He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Weeks. Once I get out of this place, you wait and see. I’ll be the best success story you’ve ever told.”

      She glanced at his elevated legs, hoping he couldn’t read her worries about his paralysis, about the severity of the damage that may have been done. When she looked back at his

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