Just One Night Part 4

He hated waiting rooms. Hated anything with the word waiting in it. He checked the time on his phone. He'd been here fifteen minutes. It wasn't even his idea to be under a doctor's care. d.a.m.n Gary and his officious dictates. So his leg hurt. It would heal.

A mom and her kid emerged from the treatment room. The kid hunch-shouldered and coughing. This family doctor was so old-fas.h.i.+oned he only had one room. As soon as the outer door closed behind the cougher and his mom, the receptionist, Carol, who'd been sitting behind that old oak counter since before Rob was born nodded toward him. "You can go on in."

Horace Greene had to be closing in on seventy. His hair, what was left of it, was salt-and-pepper, his beard was Santa Clauswhite and his pale blue eyes focused as keenly as ever from behind bifocal lenses. Doc Greene had been his grandmother's family doctor longer than he'd been alive, and if he had a family doctor, he supposed it was this one. Doc rose to his feet as Rob limped into his office and held out a hand.

"Rob, how you doing?"

"Been better, Doc."

The physician gestured to the oak chair in front of his scarred oak desk and took his own seat on the other side. "Haven't seen you in a long time. How long's it been?"

"Must be five years."

He nodded. He might be chitchatting, but Rob wasn't fooled. Those old eyes didn't miss a thing. "Sorry about your grandmother pa.s.sing. It was a big loss for you."

"Yeah."

"And what's this? You're limping. What happened?"

"I got shot."

If Doc was surprised by the news he didn't show it. "Mmm-hmm, so when was this? Who's looked at it?" He pulled out a notepad and began scribbling.

"About a week ago. On a.s.signment in Libya. My boss pulled some strings and got me in to a military surgeon. He took some X-rays, said there were no remaining fragments. Gave me a few st.i.tches and told me I was good to go."

Doc glanced at him over his gla.s.ses and said, "I bet he or she also told you to use crutches."

The military surgeon had said that and a few other less complimentary things. He shrugged. "You know what a fast healer I am. You've always said I've got a head like a rock."

"But you're not bullet-proof. I should take a look at the wound."

"I'm going to need a report from you that says I'm cleared to go back to work."

Doc Greene rose and headed for his treatment room adjoining the office. "Drop your duds and let's have a look."

Rob followed him, trying his hardest not to limp, and soon found himself sitting on the exam table, his pants folded over a chair, his leg bared to the doctor's prying gaze. And fingers. "Ow."

"No discharge on the bandage and the wound is healing nicely." Doc nodded, tossing the old bandage into the trash. "You said it's been a week since the injury. We'll redress that for you and it should be okay."

The older man fussed around in a cabinet, taking out the things he'd need. "I'm putting on a dry dressing," he said as he began. "Dry gauze and tape. As soon as the wound stops weeping you can leave it open to the air to speed healing. That should happen in the next few days. Pat dry after showers."

"Great, thanks," Rob said after the new dressing was taped to his leg. He was happy he'd got off without a lecture on being careful or some other impertinence from the man who'd been doctoring him for three decades.

But he didn't get off that easy.

"Put your pants back on and come on back to my office. There's a few things I'd like to talk to you about."

Reluctantly, Rob returned to the chair in front of the desk and slumped down.

Doc Greene pushed the pad aside and looked at him intently. "How are you coping?"

"Fine."

A beat of silence pa.s.sed but Rob wasn't going to break it. Doc continued. "You've been through an emotionally exhausting time. You've lost someone special and you've got a significant enough injury that it's brought you home. All that combined is going to take a toll."

"I'm fine," he repeated, sounding less than fine even to his own ears. This was the man who had treated his grandmother through her few illnesses and had looked after her at the end. He licked his lips. "My grandmother-she seemed fine when I was home six months ago..." He let the unspoken question hover.

Doc sat back. No wonder patients were always kept waiting. He never rushed.

"Agnes Neeson lived a life anyone would be proud of. She kept her independence to the end." Doc smiled. "And you know how important that was to her. She was getting frail. She had a ma.s.sive stroke and died in hospital without ever regaining consciousness." He didn't need to consult a file. He knew all his patients and he and Agnes had been friends as well as doctor and patient.

"Would she have suffered?"

Doc shook his head. "There are no nerve endings in your brain. There wouldn't be pain."

"Good," Rob said, relieved and somehow comforted. "I wish I'd been there."

Doc nodded. "I know. Reading every issue of World Week cover to cover made your grandmother feel close to you. n.o.body could have been prouder of you than she was."

The p.r.i.c.kling of tears horrified Rob. He cleared his throat and changed the subject fast. "There's a Realtor who messed up the house." He rubbed his sore leg. "She took out my grandmother's furniture and staged the place. Everything's different since I was here."

"It is. I heard the place was for sale. It's that nice young gal from Dalbello who has the listing. She'll do a good job for you."

Rob didn't have the energy to talk about his confused feelings so he mumbled his thanks and struggled to his feet. Limping to the door, he realized that the doc was right. He wasn't as okay as he tried to pretend he was.

JULIA RAN INTO BEANANZA, her favorite coffee shop. "Hey, Julia. How's it going?" Bruno, her favorite barista, called over the hiss of the espresso machine.

"It's a beautiful day," she called back.

Bruno sent her a disbelieving look out of his big brown Italian eyes. "It's raining," he said. He wore a bill cap, one from his huge collection. She was pretty sure he was sensitive about the thinning patch of hair at the crown of his head, though maybe it was a fas.h.i.+on statement. Who knew?

He had a gold hoop in one ear and wore a T-s.h.i.+rt that said Decaf Is for Sissies.

When he'd served a hot chocolate and a chai latte to the customers in front of her, he started her drink. There was no need to ask, she ordered the same thing every day. A tall skinny latte. As though drinking enough of it might rub off and she'd awaken one day to find herself tall and skinny.

She lived in hope.

While preparing her drink, he said, "Brownies are fresh out of the oven." As though she needed reminding, as though the smell weren't enticing her to sin, leading her down the calorie path of doom. She could see them behind the gla.s.s case, the chocolate glistening on top, the cakey part dense and rich. "I can't," she moaned. "I'm on a diet."

"Really? Who is he?"

"Why do you think I'm only on a diet because of a man?"

"Because you've been coming into Beananza nearly every day for three years. That's like a thousand days in a row. And every time you tell me you're on a diet there's a guy."

"Okay, there's a guy."

He smiled as he pa.s.sed her latte over. She glanced down at the surface, as she did every morning. And laughed. He'd drawn a heart into the froth on the top of her latte.

She settled into one of the small tables to enjoy her coffee. Bruno always served coffee in china mugs unless a customer specifically asked for a to-go cup. Customers only made that mistake once. Bruno made it very clear he strongly disapproved of people carrying coffees around. He served his brew the way he believed it was meant to be drunk, sitting down and savoring it, and if you didn't like drinking coffee his way, you could go elsewhere.

His cafe was always packed.

Julia had learned to appreciate Bruno's point of view. She looked forward to settling into one of the small tables or the long bar by the windows. She would sip her coffee and read the paper or a magazine, or, as now, open her tablet computer to savor the latest email from her LoveMatch.

Hi sweetie, She absolutely loved that he called her sweetie. It seemed so casually intimate. As though they'd been a couple for years.

The weather is hot and sticky here. I have to catch a plane soon. We'll be looking at large pipes for a construction project. I miss you so much. I have never felt so close to someone before. I long to see you next week.

Love, Gregory Not only coffee was meant to be savored, she thought as she read the message again, slowly. Love was meant to be savored, too. She only hoped Gregory wasn't disappointed when they met in person.

She sent a worried glance down at her latte. Should she switch to green tea?

ROB LEFT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE with an aching thigh from where the good doc had prodded and poked at him. He didn't like doctors mostly because he didn't like being sick or incapacitated.

As he limped along the sidewalk, clutching a scrawled prescription for painkillers he knew he'd never fill, he got caught in a downpour of rain. He loved the rain. After the heat and dry dustiness of the desert, the cooling water dripping from gray skies should have made him happy. Instead he felt as though the sky was suffering a ma.s.sive outpouring of grief. Irritable, achy and at a loss for something to do, he just stood getting wet.

He didn't want to go back to Bellamy House with all that designer stuff he didn't recognize, and he didn't want to visit the few friends he still had in the area. He wanted to get on a plane and get back to work. That wasn't about to happen, though, until he could run a mile in six. He set his jaw, knowing he'd have to walk before he could run and not for the first time cursed the trigger-happy rebel who'd fired on him. He squinted up and down the street and saw the sign for a coffee shop a couple of blocks away. He figured that would do for a destination. He'd walk a few blocks today, a few more tomorrow, and in a couple of weeks he'd be up to running.

Crutches. As if.

He took a step toward the coffee shop and another one. Two women chattering away beneath umbrellas pa.s.sed him. As he stepped around them, he stepped into a puddle and felt the cold wetness soak his sock. Yup, he was home.

By the time he'd gone one block he felt as though someone were jabbing hot pokers into his thigh. The remaining block seemed like such a long way he contemplated stopping where he was, sagging onto a bus stop bench and calling a cab. Turning his head toward the road ensured he no longer saw the tempting bus bench. He squinted at the coffee shop and pushed his foot forward. He liked the name of the cafe. Beananza. He vaguely remembered driving past it last time he'd been home but he'd never been inside.

He imagined how good that coffee was going to taste when he got past the next block, a.s.suming he could get there before the place closed for the night. One foot in front of the other, he reminded himself. It was only pain, he could get through it.

A car slowed beside him and he paid no attention until the window closest to him slid down and a voice said, "Rob, I found you."

He turned to see Hailey behind the wheel of a small gray SUV, looking as perky as ever in a blue raincoat. "Why were you looking for me?"

She pulled over and parked because it was that kind of a neighborhood-parking s.p.a.ces were plentiful. She got out, popped a blue umbrella and then reached into the back of her car and took out his grandmother's walking cane.

For a second Rob experienced a pang of grief so sharp it numbed the pain in his leg. That cane had been supporting his grandmother for years. Of course she'd resisted the thing like crazy and then had come to rely on it in her later years.

Hailey came around the back of the car and offered him the worn black handle. "Here."

He wrapped his hand around the handle and tried out the cane. It was a little on the short side but he wasn't going to complain. Strangely, clutching the spot where his grandmother's hand had gripped made him feel better, connected to her in some sentimental fas.h.i.+on that still comforted. "How did you know?"

"Doc called me. He said you could use your grandmother's cane." She seemed a lot warmer than last time he'd seen her. As though she genuinely cared.

"My doctor called you?" His shock must have shown because she laughed. "So much for doctor-patient privilege."

"Your grandmother had quite a network. They all know each other and their business. And their friends' business, and their friends' grandsons' business."

"He told me to go get crutches."

"I know. And he told me you wouldn't. He said to tell you to use the cane on the opposite side to your bad leg."

He switched the cane to the other hand. "Huh."

"Where are you going?" she asked him. "Do you want a ride?"

He shook his head. Under the blue glow from her umbrella, her eyes were as blue as the sky would be if you could see it. "Only tourists use umbrellas," he informed her.

"And people who actually care about their appearance."

"I'm heading for that coffee shop over there," he said, hoping he sounded casual, as though he'd be there in a couple of minutes, no biggie.

"Bruno's place?" she asked.

"Beananza," he said, since he had no idea who Bruno might be.

"Right. That's Bruno's place. I'll come with you." A crease appeared between her perfectly shaped brows. "Or I could drive you."

"It's a block."

"You have a bullet in your leg."

"Do not."

She let out a sigh of frustration. "Whatever."

They started off and he thought he made a pretty respectable showing, thanks to the cane. He hoped his companion couldn't tell how heavily he was leaning on the thing. It was a little awkward, her with her umbrella, him with his cane, as they made their slow way toward the cheerful yellow sign.

To take his mind off the ache in his thigh he checked out her legs, slim and toned and s.e.xy as h.e.l.l in those heels.

5.

AT THE ENTRANCE TO BEANANZA, Hailey shut her umbrella and stepped in front of Rob, pus.h.i.+ng the door open so he could limp in without making a big deal of it.

"Since you're a client it's my treat," she said, and he somehow knew she was saving him the ha.s.sle of navigating the small tables and trying to balance coffees and the cane. He liked the simple way she helped him without making an issue of it.

"Thanks. An Americano."

"Hi, Hailey," a familiar voice called out.

"Julia." Hailey checked her watch. "I should have known you'd be here." She slipped off her coat and slid it over the back of a wooden chair at Julia's table, pulling out a second chair and angling it so he could slip into it without a lot of maneuvering. "Can I get you another?" She gestured to her friend's half-empty cup.