Cate Campbell (30 page)

They reached Aloha, and paused at the corner. Frank put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close enough to kiss her cheek. “Go back now, Margot. Go to bed. You need to rest.”

“Promise me you’re not going to do anything foolish. Anything risky.”

This time he kissed her mouth. The feel of his lips, so warm and smooth, sparked a hunger in her body that surprised her. As tired as she was, she still wanted more of him, wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him until neither of them could breathe, and never mind the neighbors who might be watching from their shadowed porches.

Instead, they parted decorously, and smiled at each other. “Promise,” Margot whispered.

“I promise. Nothing foolish.”

“Go to your own bed, Frank.”

He didn’t answer that, but pushed the curve of her hair back from her cheek. “Good work today, Dr. Benedict,” he murmured.

Even in the darkness, she saw the twinkle of his eyes, the slight curve of his lips. She wanted so much to keep kissing him that she could hardly catch her breath, but she resisted. She only said, knowing her own eyes must be glowing in the dusk, “Thank you, Major. Sleep well.”

“See you tomorrow.”

He was gone a moment later, striding down the steep curve of Aloha Street, a tall, lean, one-armed figure disappearing into the gloom.

Now, wakeful and anxious, Margot rose to open her bedroom door. She left it ajar about six inches, and went back to bed. She dozed restlessly, rousing often at the small sounds the house made through the hot night. Not until the sky began to turn gray beyond her curtained window did she sink into a hard, heavy sleep. She didn’t wake until Leona tapped on her door, and by then the sun was already well up over the hills. “Miss Margot? Breakfast.”

Margot said hoarsely, “Yes, yes, I’m coming in a moment. Thank you.” She waited until the maid’s steps retreated down the hall, then crept to her door to open it, and look across to Preston’s room.

With a jolt of alarm, she saw that his door stood open. His bed was already made, the coverlet smooth, the pillows plumped and rearranged against the headboard. Fully awake now, she hurried to wash her face and drag a comb through her hair. She thought, under the circumstances, her mother would forgive her coming to breakfast in her dressing gown and slippers.

When she reached the dining room, the only person left at the table was Ramona. She raised her eyebrows at Margot’s appearance, but said only, “Good morning, Margot. I thought you were going to miss breakfast altogether.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” Margot said. She glanced down the table at Preston’s place, and saw a clean plate and an unused coffee cup.

Leona appeared with the coffeepot, and poured for her. “The toast is cold, I’m afraid, Miss Margot,” she said. “Shall I get Hattie to make more?”

“No. It doesn’t matter,” Margot said. “But leave the coffeepot, will you?”

When Leona had gone, Margot said, “Do you know where Preston is, Ramona?”

Ramona was wiping her fingers on a linen napkin, preparing to leave the table. “He was already gone when Dick and I came down. Probably off to do an interview or something. I just don’t know how he’ll manage with that cast on his arm.” She stood up, and pushed her chair back into its place. “I hope Blake is better today,” she said.

Margot, her mouth dry with anxiety, managed to say, “Thank you. I’ll tell him you said so.” She drank her coffee, and waited until she heard her sister-in-law’s step on the stair before she pushed away from the table and hurried toward the kitchen.

She found Hattie at the sink, her arms elbow-deep in soapy water. Leona was just starting out with a bucket and several cleaning rags in her hands. She stopped, and bobbed one of her maddening curtsies. “Miss Margot! Did you want that toast after—”

Margot said, interrupting her, “Never mind the toast. I want to know if either of you saw Mr. Preston this morning.”

Leona shook her head, and Hattie, twisting to see over her shoulder, said, “No, Miss Margot. I guess he’ll be having his breakfast downtown, though I wish he’d told me. I fried up those sausages special because I know he likes them, and I thought he might want somethin’ extra good with that broken arm and all.”

Margot turned swiftly and left the kitchen. She heard Hattie say, “Miss Margot? Don’t you want breakfast, neither?” but she didn’t take time to answer. She hurried up the stairs to dress, and in fifteen minutes was on her way to the hospital.

She could see from the street that the reception area of Seattle General was already busy with the change of nursing shifts and the arrival of physicians for their rounds. She hesitated on the steps, but seeing Dr. Peretti just climbing out of his automobile decided her. She spun quickly, hoping he hadn’t spotted her, and strode down the block and around to the back entrance.

There were visitors now in the cramped corridor of the colored section of the hospital, a woman in what looked like a maid’s uniform whispering with an elderly woman leaning on a cane. They cast wide-eyed looks of surprise when the tall white woman appeared. She nodded as she paced past them to Blake’s ward, and paused outside. She heard a man speaking inside. It wasn’t Blake’s deep voice, nor was it her father’s hoarse growl. It sounded familiar, though it was hard to hear, and fresh anxiety made her hand tremble as she opened the door.

Sarah Church, in her long nurse’s apron, looked up from the sink where she was coiling a length of intravenous tube into a basin. She flashed Margot a white smile and went on with her task. The man whose voice she had heard still lounged in the chair near Blake’s bed, the same chair Margot had tried to sleep in, his long legs stretched out, his head resting on a pillow. It was Frank, smiling sleepily up at her. “Good morning, Margot,” he said.

She exclaimed softly, “Frank! Have you been here all night?”

He pushed himself upright, letting the pillow fall to one side. “Seemed like the thing to do,” he said.

Nurse Church pushed the basin to the back of the counter, and turned, wiping her hands on her apron. “I told him he didn’t have to stay, but he insisted. It was good, because we were busy last night, and I didn’t like to leave Mr. Blake alone.”

“Thank you,” Margot said with sincerity. She crossed to the bed to take Blake’s wrist in her fingers. As she did so, his eyes opened. The wrist she held didn’t move, but his opposite hand did, lifting unsteadily to reach across his body and touch her arm.

“Good morning, Blake,” she said, trying to summon a cheerful smile. She bent to look directly into his face. “How are you feeling?”

His eyelids flickered, and his fingers grazed the back of hers with a faint pressure before his hand fell limply away.

The nurse, coming up beside Margot, said, “He hasn’t spoken, Dr. Benedict. He did take some broth, though, and his color is much better. At least, I think so,” she added hastily.

Margot held Blake’s hand in both of hers. “You’re absolutely right, Nurse Church,” she said. “His color is better, and his pulse is steadier. We’ll continue with the digitalin, and perhaps we could get him to take a bit of breakfast, if he can swallow it.”

“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse said, her tone touched with pride.

“You’ve done very well with our patient,” Margot said.

The nurse looked up at her, a quick flash of brilliant dark eyes and thick lashes. She showed a single dimple in one smooth cheek before she turned toward the door. “I’ll go to the canteen myself,” she said, and swished out into the corridor, the long hem of her apron flicking behind her.

Frank stood, stretching his shoulders. Margot released Blake’s hand, and his eyes closed once again. She watched him for a moment, then crooked a finger at Frank to invite him out of the room. When the door of the ward was closed behind them, she said, “Did anything happen?”

He leaned against the wall, gazing down at her with a grave expression. “Preston showed up about four this morning.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Wasn’t a bit pleased to find me here, either.”

Margot released a long, slow breath. “What did he do?”

Frank’s mouth tightened, and he gazed past Margot at the blank wall. She could see he was choosing his words deliberately, as if he was still trying to make sense of it all. “There’s something else Carter told me,” he said. He glanced up and down the hall, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear him. It was empty now, though Margot heard voices coming from other wards.

“What was it?” she asked.

Frank looked into Margot’s face, and even now, in the brittle electric light of the hospital corridor, the intense blue of his eyes in their frame of black lashes made her breath catch in her throat. The few silver threads in his black hair gleamed, a reminder of the toll the war and its aftermath had taken. “I thought Carter was being silly. Superstitious. Not a smart man at the best of times.” He gave a slight shrug. “But Preston has it, just as Carter said.”

“Has what?”

“A stone. Heavy, old-fashioned. Carter said it was a sapphire, but I wouldn’t know.”

Margot frowned. “He wears it around his neck.”

“You’ve seen it?” Frank’s jaw rippled, and Margot saw that it wasn’t fatigue drawing deep lines in his cheeks. It was anger.

“A glimpse. I thought it was just—an affectation. What happened, Frank?”

He described Preston’s visit to Blake in the tersest terms, with a minimum of drama, but Margot could see it clearly, feel the tension, understand the threat. Preston had crept into the darkened room at a moment when Sarah had just gone out. He had opened the door only wide enough for him to slip through, and closed it soundlessly behind him. When Frank, drowsing in his chair on the far side of Blake’s bed, startled awake, Preston was standing at the head of Blake’s bed. He was holding the stone in his hand, poised above Blake’s heart.

Frank leaped to his feet with an exclamation, and Preston swore, jumped back, and was gone from the room almost before Frank understood what had happened. When he leaned over Blake to be certain he was all right, he saw that Blake’s eyes were open, showing the whites as they followed Preston’s movements.

Frank said now, “Carter said the stone makes Preston stronger.”

“Foolish, isn’t it?” she said. “But I could see him convincing himself it’s true.”

“That would make Preston no smarter than Sergeant Carter.”

“Well. This isn’t my field of expertise, but there are a number of studies on how war experiences affect the mind. Not just battle fatigue, but delusions and paranoia. Preston has always been difficult, but since the war . . .” She put up a hand to rub the tight muscles of her neck. “I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone understands him, including Preston himself.” She gave him a helpless look. “He has always hated me, since we were little children.”

“Why?”

“He says I’m in his way. I don’t see how, but he told me just the other night that I’ve always been in his way.”

Frank’s voice was low and hard. “It’s jealousy.”

“What does he have to be jealous of?”

“Your father is so proud of you, Margot.”

She gave a surprised laugh. “Proud of me? We argue all the time!”

“Your father loves that. Anyone can see it.” She shook her head doubtfully, but Frank pressed on. “Preston came here to hurt Blake last night, Margot.”

Margot’s answer was so soft Frank had to lean closer to hear her. “I think he already hurt him, Frank. I think they fought, out there near Jefferson Park. Preston had these round bruises on his chest, and . . . I keep thinking of Blake’s cane. Could he have tried to deal with Preston himself? If my father wouldn’t do it?”

“Blake’s not young,” Frank said grimly. “A fight with a younger, stronger man—”

“Yes. That could have caused his heart attack, and the resulting stroke.” She shivered suddenly with fatigue and tension. “Blake did it for me, Frank. That makes it my fault.”

“No,” he said, and gripped her arm tightly with his hand. “No, it’s Preston’s fault. He caused all of this.”

“And he’s not done, it seems.”

Frank straightened, gazing past her. She turned and saw Sarah returning with a tray carrying a small, steaming bowl. She smiled up at them, and said, “Porridge.” Margot nodded approval of this choice as she and Frank stepped aside to let the nurse go into the ward.

When Margot started to follow her, Frank held her back. “I have no doubt that Preston came to finish what he started. Came to shut Blake up forever.”

“It’s a nightmare.”

“Blake won’t be safe at Benedict Hall.”

She answered sadly, “I know.”

 

Margot arrived home after her day at the clinic just as the family was gathering in the small parlor for drinks. Preston already sat next to his mother, leaning close to whisper something in her ear. She laughed, and touched his shoulder with her manicured hand. Ramona sat across from them, and Dick was at the sideboard, pouring sherry into two tiny glasses. Margot met her father in the doorway. He stood back to let her pass through, and she assessed him with a swift glance. He was looking worn and worried, thick eyebrows drawn together, the pouches beneath his eyes heavier and darker than usual.

They would have to talk later, she thought, when they could be alone.

“Doc!” Preston cried when he saw her. “How’s our patient tonight?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his neatly flanneled legs. His suit jacket draped over one shoulder, where the cast was too thick to allow him to put his arm into the sleeve. He contrived somehow to make it look chic that way. His tie was perfect, and she supposed Edith had helped him with it. His eyes were as bright and clear as if he had just arisen from a refreshing sleep. If she had been creeping around the hospital at four in the morning, she was sure she would have looked like hell.

But she would make no accusations. They would only be energetically denied. She said, “I assume you mean Blake, Preston. He’s doing remarkably well, all things considered.”