Finding Home (10 page)

Brad
looked at her, confused. His wife had sounded so positive only moments earlier when she was talking to the contractor. She sounded just as positive now, except that the conclusion was one-hundred-and-eighty degrees from the first one. Had she finally come to her senses?

“So you've changed your mind about remodeling the house?”

Stacey had begun to walk back to the family room. The contractor had left his estimate on the coffee table, along with a list of references and even a brochure. She would hold on to those. Just in case.

“No,” she told him, “just about letting J.D. do it.” There had been only about five minutes during the first ten that she'd contemplated hiring the man, but it would have been rude to cut him short and she was open to persuasion.

Brad sighed. He should have known it was too good to be true. Without thinking, he followed her to the other room.

“Out of curiosity, what took him out of the running?” He was too tired to attempt to block the sarcasm from his voice. “Was it his haircut?”

It seemed strange to her that Brad would think she based things on something as shallow as looks. She knew for a fact that looks never entered into any decision that he
made when it came to hiring the nurses who worked for him.

“He was too laid back.”

Brad thought for a minute, trying to make sense of her comment. “I thought you didn't like pushy people.”

“I don't.” Nothing turned her off more quickly than a fast-talking salesman. “But I do like people who are enthusiastic about their work. He didn't have a single suggestion when I showed him the drawings. He just said everything was fine.”

Now, that might have been just to get on her good side, which was why she'd decided to hang on to his papers. If no one else rose up head and shoulders above the rest after she'd conducted all of her interviews, she might revisit her opinion about Conrad. But for now, the man was going to the bottom of the list.

Brad looked at her. “Drawings?”

She nodded. “Of the plans I worked up.” Beckoning him over to the coffee table, Stacey opened the oversize bright yellow folder that was on it.

He'd thought the folder belonged to the contractor. The color had been a definite turn off for him. He'd never cared for yellow, preferring more somber colors. Curious now, Brad turned the folder around to get a better look at the drawings. Sitting on the edge of the table, he went through them, one by one. There appeared to be at least one sketch for each room in the house.

Closing the folder, he turned it back around and looked at her. “I didn't know you could draw.”

Stacey half lifted one shoulder carelessly. “I guess the subject never came up.”

“We've been together for more than thirty years.” He lumped in the time that they had gone together with the years they had spent as a married couple. “How could it not have come up?” He opened the folder again and looked at the top drawing, amazed. “This is damn good.”

A compliment. More rare than a perfect day Back East, she thought. That it hadn't always been that way was something she wasn't going to dwell on. She savored what she had.

“Thank you.”

Brad looked at the drawings a moment longer. Were there other talents, other facets to his wife that he had somehow missed or was oblivious to?

And then his stomach growled, reminding him that he was miles past being hungry. And exhausted to boot. Any exploratory tours of his wife's hidden talents were going to have to wait.

Stacey looked at him. “Is that your stomach?”

He nodded, closing the folder again and rising to his feet. “Can you get me something to eat? It's been a hell of a long day.”

She was already crossing to the kitchen. “Sure.”

They could have their differences all day long, but she was still his wife, still liked doing for him. Now that Julie and Jim were gone, Brad was her only excuse to experiment in the kitchen. If there were only herself to cook for, she knew that she would have taken most of her meals standing up, at the sink, eating from something that came off the shelf. It always seemed like too much trouble to cook just for herself.

He found he had just enough strength to turn his head in her direction. “I'm going to get myself a drink.” And with that, he made his way to the family room.

More than food, he realized, he needed to unwind. Because
he was both exhausted and uptight at the same time. Maybe once he was relaxed, he'd call the hospital to see how Mr. Simmons was doing. The man should be out of recovery and in the ICU in about another half hour.

Stacey raised her voice so that he could hear her as he walked away. “Hard day?”

“Yes.”

A huge sigh had accompanied the admission, saying volumes more than the single word could.

Stacey crossed to the doorway as he poured Scotch into a chunky glass. “Want to talk about it?”

Glass in hand, he sank down into the recliner. He didn't even seem to know she was only a few steps away. “No.”

That sounded like her Brad, she thought. Stacey withdrew and went back to the kitchen.

In the beginning, when their relationship was fresh and new, Brad would talk about everything, sharing with her this brand-new world that he found himself in. But it had been years since then, she thought sadly, washing her hands. Slowly, as the surgeries became more familiar, more commonplace to him, as the different paths he trod took on a semblance of sameness, Brad stopped verbally bringing his work home.

She dried her hands on a kitchen towel, then draped it over the back of one of the swivel stools. She wasn't sure if Brad had divorced himself from it, or had chosen to divorce her from it, but the result was the same. She knew nothing about the days he spent, the gut-wrenching, soul-searching moments he endured, both during a surgery and after, making decisions that permanently affected the lives of his patients.

And him.

“Thanks for sitting in,” she called out. Opening the refrigerator, she removed the large pot of stew she'd put there less than two hours ago. “I think interviews go better when a man's present.”

It bothered her sometimes that this was still a fact of life, but there wasn't much she could do about it.

“Why's that?”

Brad's voice sounded sleepy to her. She started moving faster, reaching into the cupboard for a large bowl. She placed it on the counter.

“Because, no matter what strides we've taken in the workplace, mechanics and plumbers and contractors still have a tendency to take advantage when they're dealing with a woman.”

“Advantage?” He said the word as if he were chewing on it. “You mean sexually?”

Stacey smiled to herself as she shook her head. He really did live in a bubble all his own sometimes, didn't he?

But then, as a man, especially one with the kind of presence he had, Brad had never had to encounter this kind of thing. Whenever he entered the room, there was something about her husband that told people he knew what he was about, that he wasn't about to be taken advantage of by anyone. Ever. And no one had ever tried.

She envied him that.

“No, honey, financially.” Looking around for a ladle, she found one in the third drawer. “They like to up their fees because they think we don't know what's involved.”

Which was why she'd taken a night course at the local junior college on auto repair. She'd taken another course on
basic plumbing for the same reason. So that she knew what was involved and, more important, so that none of the repairmen she called in could take her for a ride.

After removing the lid from the cast-iron pot, Stacey ladled out a healthy portion of the stew into the bowl.

She might as well tell him, she thought, and get this out of the way. “I've got two more contractors scheduled for tomorrow night.”

She heard him groan loudly from the other room. “How many of these contractors are you planning on seeing, all told?”

“As many as it takes.” Until she found the man she felt was right for the job. “Right now, I've got the names of six altogether, but I'm still looking around.” Finding the right contractor was turning out to be almost as important as finding the right man to marry.

“Uh-huh.”

Putting the lid back on the large pot, she smiled to herself. There was a definite lack of enthusiasm there, but at least Brad wasn't shutting her out the way he'd been doing for the past two weeks. She opened the microwave door and put the bowl inside, then put a large plastic cover over it. She tapped in a minute and a half, then pressed the start button. Brad didn't like anything to be too hot, but she didn't think he'd want to have parts of his dinner ice cold, either.

Unaware she was doing it, she caught her lower lip between her teeth, thinking. Maybe whatever had happened today at the hospital that he wasn't talking about had put things in perspective for him. Or, at the very least, had consumed all of his energy so that he wasn't railing about her lack of fiscal responsibility anymore.

The microwave bell went through its paces, counting off the last three seconds audibly, then chimed, announcing that it had finished its part of the dinner ritual.

Stacey opened up the door and used pot holders to remove the bowl. She poured the stew, steaming now, into yet another bowl. This way, he wouldn't accidentally burn his fingers.

You coddle him too much.

“Yes, Mother,” she murmured softly to the voice in her head that echoed what her mother had told her more than once. “I know.”

“Okay,” she announced, raising her voice, “dinner's ready. It's stew. The meat and vegetables are so tender, they'll melt on your tongue. You won't have to chew a thing,” she promised. Stacey placed the bowl on the dining room table in front of his chair.

There was no response from the other room. “Honey?”

Still nothing.

In no mood to shout, Stacey walked into the family room. “Didn't you hear me, honey? I said that…”

Brad had fallen sound asleep, the chunky glass half filled with alcohol still clutched in his hand. He'd had maybe a couple of sips, no more.

Stacey smiled to herself. “Poor baby,” she whispered. Very gently, she removed the glass from his hand and placed it on the coffee table.

“I
found one,” Stacey announced late one evening in the dining room nearly four weeks later.

Coming in from the kitchen, she set a plate in front of Brad and took a seat opposite him. The steak's aroma wafted up, moving around the still air.

Though tempted by the sight of the steak, he glanced up at Stacey. “Found what?” He wasn't terribly interested in the answer at the moment, but he knew that he was supposed to ask.

Her own portion was half the size of his and she didn't even want that. Her appetite tended to wane this time of the evening. “Not what, who.”

“Okay,” he amended gamely, taking another bite, “found who?”

She had spent every free moment she had going over her notes as well as tracking down references and reviewing estimates. She had a multitude of pros and cons lists, one for each contractor who had been to the house. “A contractor.”

He couldn't refrain from allowing a light note of cynicism to enter his voice. “How could you have missed them? There's been a different one underfoot every time I came home.”

He was exaggerating. It wasn't an everyday event. She only
scheduled appointments for Thursday and Friday afternoons after work. The rest of the time she'd spent doubling up at the office. Not by choice but by necessity. Andrea, the woman she'd taught to do the medical group's insurance billing, had gone into labor almost a full month before her due date. With Sheila, the other receptionist, on vacation, she'd had to do her own work and cover for Andrea until such time as the new mother felt strong enough to get back on her feet and back into the office.

Stacey didn't bother correcting him. Brad hated being corrected, and her need for tranquillity was greater than her need to be right.

“I meant that I found
the
one.” Was that a wary look in his eyes? She listed the winning contractor's attributes. “Someone who comes highly recommended. Who'll do a good job—and who's reasonably priced,” she said, saving what she knew Brad would think of as the best for last.

He blew out a breath, feeling a little like a freedom fighter discovering that the occupation of his country was finally at an end.

“So this means that you're finally going to stop interviewing contractors.”

She took a small sip of her wine. She didn't normally drink at dinner, but tonight she felt like celebrating. Phase one was over and she was going to be moving on to phase two shortly. Could a beautiful, new-looking house be far behind?

“Yes, thank God.”

He laughed shortly. There was no humor in the sound. “Just when I was getting used to coming home and trying to find a parking space within walking distance of my front door.”

Reaching across the table, Stacey moved the serving dish of diced, roasted potatoes glazed with Parmesan cheese closer to her husband. He tended to have tunnel vision when it came to food, and right now, all he could see was his steak.

When he looked up at her, she offered a tight smile in response to his sarcasm.

“I guess now you won't have to.”

He inclined his head, as if to agree with her. “So what's this saint-with-a-tool-belt's name?”

“Alex Stone.”

The name was unfamiliar to him, but then, he hadn't committed any of the names of the contractors to memory. That was her job, since this was her project. He was just the outsider she refused to listen to.

Still, he thought the last name rather appropriate, given the man's chosen profession.

“Let me guess.” His mouth twisted in a half smile. “He likes to work with masonry.”

She and Alex hadn't even discussed her plans for the patio. That would come last, after everything inside was taken care of. “No.”

As if suddenly becoming aware of the potatoes, he picked up the serving spoon and transferred the vegetable from the bowl to his plate. “Too bad, he could get a lot of mileage out of that. No Stone Unturned, things like that.”

Retiring the spoon, Brad sampled the potatoes as if he'd never had them before. They were good and he began to eat with pleasure. She could see it on his face even if she rarely heard it expressed verbally.

Brad wasn't prone to wasting words on compliments. He'd
pointed out long ago that if he didn't like what she served, he wouldn't be eating it. She knew better now than to ask if he liked a meal.

She was just about to fill the silence when he raised his eyes to hers and asked, “I take it he commented on your drawings.”

She was surprised he remembered that, her reason for not being keen on the very first contractor she'd interviewed. She smiled at him. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. And he had a lot of good suggestions.” Her enthusiasm emerged and took over. She'd promised herself to remain low key around Brad, because he didn't share her feelings, but she couldn't help herself. “That's what sold me. He's on the same page as I am.”

“Sounds like a prince. Which one was he?”

Stacey shook her head. “You didn't meet him. I interviewed him the day you came home from the hospital after eleven.”

He nodded grimly. He knew exactly the day she was referring to. There were times when his days all seemed to run together, but not that day. Because on that day he'd lost a patient. A patient he'd fought to keep alive. He took failure hard.

No matter what his former instructors and his colleagues said about distancing himself from the people who came to him seeking help, he couldn't do it. Couldn't stand apart and pretend it hadn't happened or that it hadn't affected him. Deeply. A life had dribbled through his hands. One moment, he'd had a firm grip, certain he was winning the battle. The next, it was gone and he had lost.

Just like that. His patient had expired.

And he'd been left with a guilt that he had never learned how to cope with. So he'd buried it, denying its existence.
He vaguely remembered coming home that night and just crawling into bed, praying for oblivion. He didn't remember driving. Luckily, the car knew the way.

Brad took a breath, realizing he'd allowed the moment to haunt him. The moment that he'd looked down at Bart Johnson's face, discovering that no amount of chest compressions, no amount of volts traveling through the paddles that he'd been applying to the man's still heart, was going to bring him back.

He shook it off. Stacey was watching him. There was sympathy as well as confusion in her blue eyes. Sympathy was second nature to Stacey. If he'd wanted to, he could lay his burden down before her, put his head on her shoulder and for a second shrug off the intense weight of his guilt. Stacey would be there for him. But he couldn't do it. Men were supposed to suck it up and just continue with their lives. It was almost the only thing he remembered his father saying to him.

He looked back at his dinner. The steak, what there was left of it, was getting cold. He began to eat again. “So when does he start?”

Something had just happened here, Stacey thought. It seemed to her that Brad was withdrawing from her more and more these days. And she had no idea what to do about it, how to get him to talk to her. All she could do was wait it out. And pray that it would change.

“As soon as possible, I hope,” she answered.

Brad looked annoyed. “That's the ‘date' he gave you? ‘As soon as possible?' Seems to me that this answer-to-a-prayer would have been a little more specific.”

“He would be, if I gave him the green light.”

Mild interest nudged at him. “So, what's stopping you?”

“I want you to meet him first.”

“Why?”

Was he baiting her, or was his apathy really that pronounced? “Because you're the husband. You should be more involved in this process. It's your house, too.”

Brad shrugged. If it was his house, then he'd have a say in this and they wouldn't be dealing with contractors. But he didn't feel like arguing with her. At least, not just yet.

“Make the appointment,” he told her.