LITMIR.BIZ

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eyes roamed over the chatting group. The world needed positive energy. And they needed it most of all. She jumped when a hand squeezed her shoulder.

      “Would you like me to close the door so you can begin?” asked Anne, the West Side YMCA’s receptionist. Pool-bound children shrieked in the stairwell outside.

      “No!” Her voice sounded more forceful than she’d intended. It carried over the noise and quieted her group. Seven pairs of concerned eyes turned her way. So much for keeping things upbeat.

      She pinned on a bright smile and patted Anne’s hand. “We’re not quite ready to start yet, but thanks.”

      Anne studied her for a moment then shrugged. “I’ll be out front if you need me.”

      Her heels clicked across the wood floor and echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Overhead fans stirred the muggy June air, the humidity so thick Christie felt as though she wore it. At least she’d had time to change out of her nurse scrubs and shower before the meeting. After a twelve-hour hospital shift, the mini-break had made her feel human again.

      “Why are we waiting?” a newer member asked around a mouthful of chocolate-chip cookie.

      Another pointed at the clock. “We always start at 6:30.”

      “You’re right.” Christie swallowed her fear and widened her smile. Her clients had enough stress to handle. They didn’t deserve more. “But let’s give it a few more minutes in case someone’s late. You know how hard it is to get a taxi in the rain.”

      The group nodded sagely then resumed their conversations. She sagged against the back of her chair. Phew. Her quick excuse worked. It was a logical reason for the delay given Manhattan’s traffic issues and she wouldn’t imagine another possibility. There was power in positive thinking. She shredded a napkin in her lap. Not that it had saved her brother. If only she’d been there when... She shook her head. Nope. She wouldn’t get on board that dark train of thought.

      She bent to pick up her juice cup and discreetly knocked on the wooden floor, no-bad-luck, an Irish superstition passed down by her gran. She’d witnessed enough medical miracles to know that science couldn’t explain everything.

      Christie crossed her legs, smoothing her gray pants and rumpled white blouse. Forcing her eyes from the empty chair, she surveyed the assembled group members for changes in skin color, weight and discomfort levels. Everyone seemed stable. But where was her absent client? Perhaps she would ask Anne to call and check on him. She might be overreacting, but knowing he was okay would help soothe her nerves.

      Before she could stand, a tall stranger wheeled the missing man through the door. She drew her first easy breath of the night. He’d come after all. The group called out greetings to John, relief evident in their voices.

      “Hello. Hope I didn’t hold everyone up,” the latecomer declared, as his helper—a very handsome helper, Christie noted—wheeled John into the spot beside the empty chair. Where were John’s canes? Her heart sank. His condition must be deteriorating.

      “Lousy weather out there, huh? My neighbor brings his kids here a couple of times a week, so I asked him to help me catch a cab.” He gestured to the dark-haired gentleman wearing a navy polo shirt, jeans and a polite smile. “Eli Roberts, this is Christie Bates and—” he waved a veined hand “—everyone. You’ll like them. Oh. And would you get me one of Christie’s raisin-oatmeal bars? Been craving one all week.”

      The man nodded then helped John out of his coat, shook the rain from it and placed it on the back of the chair. His face reminded her of a Roman soldier on one of her father’s ancient coins—he had a powerful jaw, straight, prominent nose and a strong brow.

      “May I get anyone anything?” he asked once he’d locked John’s wheels in place. After taking a few requests, he strode to the snack table. It was a good night when the group ate. Sometimes the number receiving chemo was so high the side table went untouched.

      She noticed that he grabbed John a napkin and a cup of juice along with the snack. Thoughtful.

      After giving John a quick hug, she straightened and looked up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Her grin faltered at the man’s piercing stare.

      “Eli. If you’d like to join us—” She extended a hand to guide him to the seat, but he jerked back. Caught off balance, Christie stumbled, her black Keds trampling each other. Heat flared in her cheeks.

      “Sorry,” he muttered, righting her with a quick, efficient hold on her elbow before seating himself.

      O-kay. Not a touchy-feely guy. Heard and understood.

      She sneaked another glance at him, registering his tense shoulders along with his guarded expression. He’d done a nice thing by bringing John in, but cancer support groups were a lot for healthy people to handle. She should give him a graceful excuse to leave.

      “The Yankees’ pregame coverage is playing on TV in the lounge down the hall if you’d like to wait there, Mr. Roberts.”

      “Call me Eli,” he said in a gruff voice, his eyes inscrutable. “And I promised John I’d stay.” A look passed between the two as he took his seat.

      She forced a welcoming grin and nodded. If John wanted him here, that was fine. But if he didn’t lighten up soon, she’d send him on a coffee run so he wouldn’t put a damper on the meeting.

      When she got back to her seat, she glanced his way and caught his intense gaze again. What was it about his stare that flustered her? She was a twenty-eight-year-old professional, not a schoolgirl sneaking peeks at the cute new kid. Time to get a grip.

      She looked at the clock and grabbed her clipboard. Fifteen minutes behind schedule. A first. Eli was throwing her off her game, but at least John was here and the seats were full.

      “Today’s inspirational quote is by George Herbert,” Christie began. “‘Storms make oaks take deeper root.’ Let’s practice our relaxation breathing as we contemplate its meaning and how it applies to our lives.”

      Her bowed head snapped up at a muffled snort. While everyone else closed their eyes, Eli stared at the ceiling and shook his head.

      “Do you disagree, Mr. Roberts?” she burst out before she could think better of it.

      “I do,” replied the impertinent outsider. Shooting to his feet again, he circled the group, gathering their garbage and carting it to the wastebasket. “No matter how deep trees dig, bad storms can knock them down anyway.”

      Well, sure. Of course they could. Although she’d spent her early childhood in Woodlawn, an Irish-American neighborhood in New York, her family had eventually relocated to Kansas—one of Tornado Alley’s hardest-hit states. There, she’d learned to weather storms, not dwell on them. When tempests hit, neighbors pitched in to put back the pieces of shattered lives.

      A high-pitched sound rattled through a nearby client’s tracheotomy tube. Christie grabbed the woman’s shaking hand and squeezed. Elizabeth had Stage IV esophageal cancer. She didn’t need a reminder of the dangers she faced.

      “We focus on the positive, Mr. Roberts.” She laced her fingers with Elizabeth’s, relieved when the woman’s trembling eased.

      His square jaw clenched. “And ignore reality? That seems a bit misleading, doesn’t it, Miss Bates?”

      “It’s Ms.,” she corrected, mostly because she was getting good and riled now. What did this man think he was doing? These people lived with far too much reality as it was. They came here for fellowship and support, not a lecture.

      “Well, Ms. Bates, the truth is that all trees want to live. It’s just the luck of the draw that some make it and others don’t.”

      Heat spread up her chest and rose to her neck. She glanced down. Darn. Those red splotches betrayed her at the worst times. If only she looked as cool and controlled as Eli. She forced herself to meet his eye and caught a brief, tortured look before he averted his face. Interesting.

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