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“Can I call you later?”
Excitement as fresh and welcome as dawn hurtled through Delia. “Yes. You can reach me here until 5:00 p.m. Or I’m in the phone book under B. Cooper on Magnolia.”
Nellie Mills, the medical center crier, picked that exact moment to rush up to Delia as if she had the demons nipping at her heels. “Can you believe it?”
Surely the main link to the hospital grapevine wasn’t already privy to the dinner date Delia had made only seconds earlier. “Believe what?”
“You don’t know about Dr. Morgan?”
She knew her son-in-law—former son-in-law—was supposed to be in the hospital, as always. She’d seen his name on the O.R. schedule while working in the surgery waiting room last week. Unless he’d never made it. A sickening feeling settled in her belly. “What about him?”
“He’s in ICU. I saw the admission when I was manning the information desk this morning. He had a stroke two nights ago.”
Delia’s frame went stiff and her mouth went dry. “Are you sure?”
“Sure as can be.”
A razor-sharp edge of anger over the pride in Nellie’s voice sliced through Delia. She had to find Anne, and soon, in case she had yet to hear the news.
Starting down the hall, Delia had all but forgotten Gabe Burks until she heard him call, “I’ll be in touch. Hope everything’s okay.”
She raised a hand in a brief wave without glancing back. “Thank you.”
Delia cursed the fact that her nice calm world had been rocked without mercy today, just when things were beginning to look up. Cursed her intuition. And deep down, she knew nothing would ever be the same again.
“I came as soon as I heard the news.”
Anne leaned against the open front door of her house for support and stared at her mother’s compassionate yet somber face. The rain had yet to subside, but Delia looked warm and dry, and much too young for sixty-six, though she had survived the death of her beloved husband and the divorce of her only child.
Delia shook out her red umbrella, snapped it shut, then set it aside in the foyer while Anne closed the door and locked it as if she could lock out the world, the pain. Now she was reminded by her mother’s sudden appearance of what she had tried so hard to forget. Anne wasn’t surprised Delia had learned about Jack, nor did she question how she could tell that Anne needed her at that very moment. Her mother possessed a maternal sixth sense as deeply engrained as her ability to enter a room with poise and confidence even under overwhelming pressure.
Anne turned and trudged down the corridor to the breakfast nook, the place where they had shared their best mother-daughter chats over tea with milk and an occasional butter cookie, only mildly aware of her mother’s prim footsteps behind her. She clicked on the fluorescent light above the breakfast table, washing the area in a harsh artificial glare that robbed the place of its hominess. Before, it hadn’t seemed to matter that much, but today she longed for warmth and solace. If only she’d insisted on buying the brightly colored Tiffany fixture, the one Jack had deemed too prissy for the contemporary surroundings. It wasn’t the only thing she had conceded to him. She had practically given up her soul, as well.
Collapsing into the oak barrel chair, she waited until Delia took a seat across from her. Then she let the tears flow, not bothering to hide them at all.
Delia clasped Anne’s hand and wrapped it in her own. “It will be okay, baby girl.” Her smile, motherly and forgiving, was the kind of smile Anne had hoped upon hope to present to her own daughter during a crisis. But lately her smile had been a charade due to the fatigue and frustration over not having enough hours to spend with Katie. A lonely smile that had grown only lonelier over the past few years.
Anne slipped her hand from between her mother’s and wiped at her face with one sweatshirt sleeve. “I’m okay.” She didn’t sound okay. She sounded terrified, unsure—and she hated it. She longed to be as strong as her mother. As Jack. She never had been.
Delia fished through her black leather bag, brought out a small plastic packet and offered it to Anne. After taking a tissue, she sucked in a draft of air and released it on an uneven breath as her mother continued to study her, waiting for her to speak, she supposed. Delia had always been a good listener and a friend in times of need. Anne needed her now more than any other time she could think of.
“Did Max tell you?” Anne managed to ask through a rogue sob.
Delia sent her a look filled with disdain. “Maxwell Crabtree and I don’t speak unless absolutely necessary, but I’m certain this probably thrills him to no end, considering how much he detests Jack. And that’s not only because he’s been pining for you for years between his marriages. He covets Jack’s career. Did you know he couldn’t make the grade in medical school?”
Anne wasn’t sure she could handle any more surprises today, and she certainly didn’t want to get into this now. “No, I didn’t. And I don’t care what you think of Max, Mother. He’s remained my friend over the years. He’s not cruel enough to wish ill will on anyone, even Jack.”
“Is that how you found out about Jack—through Max?” Delia’s tone sounded indicting.
“Hank told me.” Anne preferred to keep her earlier conversation with Max under wraps. “How did you find out?”
“Nellie Mills caught me outside the hospital luncheon.”
Anne couldn’t imagine why her mother didn’t spend her time someplace other than the institution that had been the center of her own husband’s existence. The place that had stolen their weekends and deprived them of being a close-knit family. Just as it had Anne’s married years with Jack.
But maybe her mother insisted on volunteering there to continue to connect with what had been her husband’s life. Anne could relate to that in a very personal way. She could have taken a job elsewhere, yet she still worked in the same place whose hallowed halls her ex-husband graced. Or had until two days ago.
Fresh tears threatened Anne, so she left the chair, walked to the stove and grabbed up the teakettle to put on fresh water to boil.
“How is he, Anne?”
Anne clicked on the burner beneath the kettle. “Hank just called. He’s out of surgery for repair of the aneurysm.”
“Why aren’t you there with him?”
“Because I’m no longer his next of kin, remember? Hank only phoned as a favor to me, not out of obligation.” Her obligation to Jack had ended two years earlier with a simple signature. “Hank says he’ll be okay if everything goes well the next forty-eight hours or so. But there’s some paralysis in his right hand and leg.”
“Oh, dear.” Her mother’s normally calm voice wavered. Anne couldn’t stand it if Delia cried. Not the one person in her life who handled crises like a four-star general, including Anne’s father’s death.
“He’ll get better,” Delia said. “He’ll go back to surgery eventually. Won’t he?”
Now her mother was relying on her for optimism. What a switch. Anne turned and feigned calm. “It’s possible, but we just won’t know for a while.”
Anne faced the counter again and absently placed two tea bags in two matching green ceramic mugs from the set of four she and Jack had gotten when they’d married. None had been broken. She wished