By Your Side (33 page)

L
ATE
A
UGUST, THE FOLLOWING SUMMER

“Welcome to the top of the world!”

The young and very sun-bronzed hiker greeted Fletcher as he clambered onto the granite summit, breathless and perspiring. The man raised his voice over the rush of the falls below, obviously eager to share his thrill. “Prepare to be blown away, my friend. First hike up the Mist Trail?”

“Second,” Fletcher answered, reaching for his water bottle. “I crawled up here last June.”
More than a year ago now . . . incredible.
He slid his sunglasses to the top of his head, swept his gaze over the clumps of hikers spread across the summit.

“That accent,” the hiker noted. “Southern?”

“Houston.”

The young man laughed. “Thick air there. No wonder you’re breathing hard. Hiking Yosemite by yourself?”

“Nope. With a California native
 
—half–mountain antelope.” Fletcher scanned the distance again. “She would have passed you a couple of minutes ago. Sooner if she wasn’t tired today. She’s tall, wearing black biking tights, a bright-pink shirt . . .”

“Right. Yeah,” the hiker confirmed. “Gorgeous lady. Long black hair with this crazy-cool white stripe in it.”

Fletcher laughed. “That would be my wife.”

“You actually talked her into leaving all this?” the young man asked, incredulous. “Moving to the flatlands?”

“We’re back to California a lot
 
—just closed on a condo near Tahoe. My wife heads up a studio for kids in Sacramento.”

“Studio?”

“Two, actually. One there and one in Houston. Part of the YMCA,” Fletcher explained, thinking of the shiny, child-high brass hardware she’d installed on the door leading into the Nonni’s Place location. Macy had named the studio in Houston after Fletcher’s sister. “Both are completely free of cost to underprivileged children. Dance classes.”

“That’s cool. So like . . . ballet?”

“And tap dancing.” Fletcher chuckled. “Plus, they’re hiring instructors for Christian martial arts. Macy likes the idea of a child finding confidence in both
 
—she’s a ballet dancer
and
a kickboxer.” He slid his sunglasses back down. “Did you happen to see which way she went?”

“Yeah.” The young man pointed. “Right over there. See?”

“I do.”

Fletcher’s heart pounded
 
—nothing to do with thinner air or the hike up the Mist Trail. Seeing Macy, knowing she was his wife, always affected him that way. When he stopped by the Houston Grace ER during his patrol shift to see her, when they helped his parents unpack boxes and get resettled in Texas, when she sat beside him at church . . . and whenever the pale morning light offered his first glimpse of her beautiful face on the pillow next to him.
My wife . . .

Their marriage, four months ago, hadn’t seemed too fast to either of them. Maybe the traumas they’d survived the year before taught them life was fragile and time on this earth too uncertain. Maybe
 
—though they’d never discussed it this way
 
—his mother’s illness had added to their decision. But mostly, it had come down to a matter of trust. In the deep love they had for each other and in the plan God had for their lives. It was a foundation as solid as the granite under their feet right now.

“Hey.” Macy smiled as her husband came close. She patted the space beside her. “Pull up a rock.”

“You’re okay being seen with a ‘flatlander’
 
—” Fletcher’s gaze swept the breathtaking vista as he sat
 
—“way up here?”

“Anywhere,” she told him, heart skittering as he brushed a kiss on her cheek. “And especially today.”

“Yeah. Nothing finer than that view. Unless it’s my view following
you
on a trail. I figured that out on my first hike up here.” Fletcher grinned. “You’re right; it’s been a great trip
 
—fast, but great. Though it’s too bad Taylor couldn’t
make it up to Sacramento after all. I know you wanted to see her.”

“Next time,” Macy told him, determined not to let one little disappointment cloud this special time with Fletcher. She’d waited, planned, hiked up that long trail, and
 
—

“You found a wireless connection?” he asked, pointing to the cell phone in her lap.

“Didn’t try.” The diamond in Macy’s engagement ring sparkled as she tapped the screen. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. “I was looking at the photos we took at Sean and Leah’s. I can’t believe our niece has her first tooth. Of course Andi’s little guy has two now. And he’s maybe five pounds heavier. Hard to imagine they ever called him an elf. That’s a future linebacker if I ever saw one.” She was chattering; she knew that. Macy took a deep breath. “When we get home to Houston, I think we should make a dinner reservation. Maybe Danton’s
 
—I’ve been craving their blackened catfish enchiladas.”

Fletcher laughed. “Why am I not surprised by that?”

Hang on . . . you will be.

“Sure,” he told her, tucking a finger under her chin. He kissed her nose. “You got it, Mrs. Holt. Reservation for two at Danton’s.”

“I think we should invite your parents.” She smiled at him, happiness besting the butterflies in a move worthy of martial arts.

“Great idea. We can celebrate Mom’s first year in remission. And that Aunt Thena can hang on to her poetic bone marrow for now.” Fletcher nodded. “I’m on it. Reservation for four.”

“Make it for five.” Happy tears filled Macy’s eyes. “It will be . . . five of us for dinner.”

“Five?” Fletcher’s brows scrunched.

“A double celebration,” Macy explained. “We’re having a baby, Fletcher.”

“What?” His blue eyes widened. “You’re pregnant?”

“Test at home, confirmed yesterday by my lab pals at Sacramento Hope.” Macy reached up, stroked her husband’s face. “We’re going to be a family.”

“Macy . . .” Fletcher drew her into his arms, hugging her so close that she felt his heart beating against hers. “I love you. I can’t say it right. Except that I’m the happiest man in the world.”

“That’s perfect,” she breathed against her husband’s ear. “And I love you too. So much.” Her eyes swept the view and she sighed. “I wanted to tell you about it here, at Yosemite, where everything started for us.”

And where God was first . . . with a beautiful design for our lives.

L
UCAS
M
ARCHAL
fully expected his grandmother to show no interest in her hospital dinner tray; her appetite had dwindled to almost nothing. But in his wildest dreams he didn’t imagine that her dour, no-nonsense nurse’s aide would lift the dish cover, scream, then stumble backward and fall to the floor.

He bolted toward her to help, vaguely aware of other San Diego Hope rehab staff filing through the door.

His grandmother’s roommate, chubby and childlike despite middle age, pitched forward in her bed to utter a lisping litany of concern. “Oh . . . my . . . goodnethh. Oh, my!”

“Here.” Lucas offered a hand to the downed nurse’s aide. “Let me help you up, Mrs.
 
—”

“No need,” she sputtered, waving him and one of the other aides away. “I’m all right. Weak ankle. Lost my balance, that’s all. After I saw that . . .
horrid
thing.” Revulsion flickered across her age-lined face. “On your grandmother’s plate.”

What?

Lucas’s gaze darted to the remaining staff now gathering around his grandmother’s tray table. They stared like curious looky-loos at a crime scene. Lucas was all too familiar with that phenomenon, though as an evidence technician, he operated on the other side of the yellow police tape. He turned back to the nurse’s aide
 
—Wanda Clay, according to her name badge
 
—who’d managed to stand. “What’s wrong with my grandmother’s dinner plate?”

“It was on the rice,” Wanda explained, gingerly testing her ankle. It was hard to tell if her grimace was from an injury or from what she was struggling to explain. “Sitting there on the food, bold as brass.” She crossed her arms, tried to still a shudder. “Black, huge, with those awful legs. I haven’t seen one of those vile bugs since I left Florida.”

A cockroach?
On his grandmother’s food? It could snuff what little was left of her appetite
 
—and his hope that she’d finally regain her strength.

“It’s probably scurried away by now.” The nurse’s aide rubbed an elbow. “That’s what they do in the light. But I saw it, plain as can be. And you can bet I’ll be reporting it to
 
—”

“You mean
this
?” A young, bearded tech in blue scrubs pointed at the plate. Then made no attempt to hide his smirk. “Is this what freaked you out, Wanda?”

“I wasn’t scared,” the woman denied, paling as she stared at the tray. “Startled maybe. Because no one expects to see
 
—”

“A black olive?” the tech crowed, pointing again. “Ooooh. Horrifying.”

Someone else tittered. “Yep, that’s an olive
 
—was an
olive. Sort of cut up in pieces and stuck on the rice. A decoration, maybe?”

“Oh, goody.” The roommate clapped her hands, expression morphing from concern to delight. “Can I see? Is it pretty? Can I have a party decoration too?”

“Hey, Wanda,” the tech teased, “what form do we use to report an olive to
 
—?”

“I think that’s enough,” Lucas advised, raising his hands. “No harm, no foul. Okay?” He reminded himself that law enforcement saw its own share of clowning. But . . . “We have two ladies who need to eat.”

“Yes, sir.” The technician nodded, his expression sheepish. “Just kidding around. I’ll get your grandma some fresh water.”

“Thank you.” Lucas glanced toward Wanda. “You’re not hurt?”

“Only a bump.” She rubbed her elbow again, lips pinching tight. “Some decoration.”

“Yeah.”

Lucas watched for a moment as Wanda helped the chattering roommate with her tray; then he glanced toward the window beyond
 
—the hospital’s peaceful ocean view
 
—before returning to his grandmother’s bedside. He slid his chair close, his heart heavy at the sight of her now. Asleep on her pillow and far too thin, with her stroke-damaged right arm lying useless across her chest. For the first time ever, Rosslyn Marchal actually appeared her age of seventy-six. So different from the strong, vibrant woman who’d essentially been his mother. A woman whose unbridled laughter turned heads in more than a few fancy restaurants, who
shouldered a skeet rifle like she intended to stop a charging rhino. A still-lovely senior equally at home in a gown and diamonds for a charity event or wearing faded jeans and a sun hat to dig in her wildly beautiful garden high above the Pacific Ocean. She was an acclaimed painter, a deeply devoted believer. And a new widow. That inconsolable heartbreak had brought her to this point . . .
of no return?

No.

Lucas watched her doze, torn between the mercy of letting her dream of far better times and the absolute fact that if she didn’t eat, drink, move, breathe, she’d succeed in what she’d recently told her pastor and her grandson:
“I’m okay with leaving this earthly world.”
Lucas couldn’t let that happen even if his grandmother’s advance medical directive, her legal living will, required he honor her wishes regarding life support. She’d beaten the pneumonia that brought her to the hospital this time, and the therapists said she still had enough physical strength to regain some mobility, as long as she mustered the will to take nourishment.

“Here’s that water,” the technician said, setting a pitcher beside the food tray. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about that kidding around earlier. It wasn’t professional.”

“No harm done . . . Edward,” Lucas told him after glancing at his ID badge. “I appreciate the help all of you give my grandmother.”

“Pretty special lady, huh?”

“The most.”

“If you need to get going, I can help feed her tonight,” Edward offered. “I know she’s on Wanda’s list, but I don’t mind. I have the time.” He shrugged. “And after all that
joking around, I’m probably on her list too. Wanda Clay’s ever-growing
 
—” The young man’s gaze came to rest on the Bible on the bedside table, and he appeared to swallow his intended word. “Her hit list.”

Lucas smiled. His grandmother’s powerful influence for good. Even in sleep. “Thanks, but I can stay tonight. Things look pretty decent out on the streets.”

“You’re a cop, right?”

“Evidence tech
 
—CSI,” Lucas added, using the TV term everyone recognized.

“Cool.”

“Sometimes. Mostly it’s like being a Molly Maid. With gloves, tweezers, and a camera. Not as exciting as TV.”

“Still sounds cool to me.” The tech moved the dinner tray closer. He pointed to the tepid mound of boiled rice. “I guess I can see how someone might think that thing was a bug.”

Lucas inspected the offensive olive. “You think it’s supposed to be a garnish?”

“Yeah.” Edward smiled. “Some bored dietary assistant getting her cutesy on.”

“It’s not like I’m sous-chef at Avant or Puesto,” Aimee Curran told her cousin, citing top-ten local restaurants. She tucked a tendril of light-auburn hair behind an ear and sighed. “Or that I even get much of a chance to be food-creative here. But . . .” She raised her voice over the mix of staff and visitor chatter in the San Diego Hope hospital cafeteria so that Taylor Cabot could hear. “At least working
in a dietary department will look good on my application to the culinary institute.”

“You’re serious about it. I can see it in your eyes,” Taylor observed, mercifully offering no reference to Aimee’s failed and costly past career paths. Nursing, right up to the moment she panicked, then passed out and hit the floor during a surgery rotation, followed by early childhood education that . . . just didn’t fit. “Aunt Miranda would love it, of course.” Taylor slid an extra package of saltines into the pocket of her ER scrub top. “She was such an awesome cook.”

“She was.” Aimee’s mother had been a school nurse, but her kitchen was her beating heart. “Apron time” with her only daughter had meant the world to her. And to Aimee.

“If I win the Vegan Valentine Bake-Off, it will be enough money to pay for the culinary institute,” Aimee explained. “I can’t qualify for more student loans. So this is it.”

“I didn’t know you’d gone vegan.”

“I haven’t. Not even close, though Mom taught me to respect organic and local foods. It’s just that there won’t be so many entries in a vegan contest. It’s a calculated risk. And I need to win, Taylor.” Aimee’s pulse quickened. “It’s my last chance to honor my mother with a choice I’m making for my life
 
—my
whole
life. I’ve got to do that. I can’t bear it if I don’t.”

“I think . . .” Taylor’s voice was warm, gentle. “I think that your mother would be proud of you, regardless.”

“I know. But it just seems that everyone else has found their calling, you know? You’ve got your career in the ER. My brother’s starting medical school up in Portland, and
Dad’s found Nancy.” Aimee smiled, so very happy for him. “Now they’ve adopted those two little rascals from Haiti . . .” Her eyes met Taylor’s. “The contest is being held on Valentine’s Day.”

“Your birthday. And also . . .”

“Ten years from the day Mom passed away.” Aimee sighed. “I’m going to be twenty-six, Taylor. It’s high time I got myself together and moved on.”

“I understand that.”

“I know you do.” Taylor’s husband, a Sacramento firefighter, had been killed in an accident almost three years ago. Taking a job in San Diego was part of Taylor’s plan to move on.

“So what are you going to wow those bake-off judges with?” Taylor asked after carefully tapping the meal’s calorie count into her cell phone. The old familiar spark of fun warmed her eyes. “Some sort of soybean cheesecake?”

“Not a tofu fan,” Aimee admitted, her nose wrinkling. “I thought I’d go through Mom’s old recipe tin and adapt something
 
—you know, ban the chickens and cows, but keep the sugar.”

“And all the love. Aunt Miranda was all about ‘stirring in the love.’ I think I asked my mom once if you could buy that at Walmart in a five-pound sack like flour.”

Aimee smiled. “The first phase is tomorrow. I’ve got to pass that. The bake-off finals will be televised. Professional kitchen, top-grade tools . . . ticking time clock.” She grimaced. “Nothing like pressure. But at least the hospital dietary kitchen gives me a chance to handle more equipment than I have at my apartment and practice my chopping
and slicing techniques.” She shook her head. “Mostly when nobody’s looking, since the biggest part of my job is tray delivery. But I’ve been known to add a few artistic, signature Aimee touches and
 
—”

“Hey, Curran!”

Aimee turned and saw a familiar young man in scrubs cruising toward them. Beard, husky build. That rehab tech, Edward.

“Hey there,” he said, plunking a hand on the edge of their table. He grinned at Aimee, raised a brow. “Was it you?”

“Was
what
me?”

“That cutesy olive on Mrs. Marchal’s rice.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aimee told him, afraid she did. Why was he making a big deal out of
 
—?

“A black olive, cut up like some kind of decoration? I think someone got pictures of it.”

“Really?” She hesitated. Was he flattering her? Or . . .

“Wanda thought it was a cockroach. She screamed like a banshee and fell down on her
 
—”

“What?” Aimee’s heart stalled.
No . . .
This had to be a bad joke.

“Anyway,” he said, waving at a passing student nurse, “Wanda’s probably gunning for your department. Thought you should know.” He winked, smacked his hand on the table. “But thank ’em for me, would ya? Highlight of my day.”

Aimee closed her eyes as he sauntered away.
Please . . .

“Aimee?” Taylor leaned over the table, touched her hand. “You okay?”

“I . . .” She met her cousin’s gaze and groaned.

“Oh, dear.” Taylor winced. “A ‘signature Aimee touch’?”

“It was a
daisy
. I snipped all those little black petals really carefully. I didn’t even know whose tray it was. But I thought it was sort of cheery.” Another thought made her breath catch. “Wanda’s pretty old. Do you think she got hurt? Broke a hip or
 
—?”

“I doubt it,” Taylor interrupted, her expression reassuring. “But I do think you should go over there and explain. Apologize to this Wanda. And to the patient, too, if she was upset by it.”