Fortune's Cinderella (8 page)

“But…I could use some help getting home,” Christina said. “Since you’re here and all.”

“Oh.” Sandra checked her watch. Something flashy. Christina was guessing Harry had Money. Taste, no. Money, yes. Then blue eyes rimmed with far too much eyeliner met Christina’s. Her mother had been pretty, once upon a time, blond and cute and curvy.

And she still was, on a good day, in the right light. Hospital fluorescents, however, were not kind to older women with penchants for fake tans and frosted lipstick. Her all-black outfit wasn’t helping, either. “But…if I hadn’t come, what would you have done?”

After Christina’s father walked out—there’d been some talk of Christina’s being a “surprise,” that her father had only married Sandra out of guilt—Sandra hadn’t exactly embraced single motherhood with grace and fortitude. Oh, she’d done her best, Christina never doubted that. Unfortunately, her “best” hadn’t been very good.

“Never mind,” Christina said, even though she had no earthly clue what to do. She didn’t have cab fare, if she could even find a driver willing to haul her all the way to Red Rock. And her seventy-eight-year-old landlady didn’t drive anymore. At least not that Christina knew about. She supposed she could call Jimmy, her boss, for a ride, but the very thought made her skin crawl. Recently divorced, Jimmy was a lonely man. A fact which he took great pains to impress upon Christina every chance he got.

“Oh, now, I’m sure you’ll figure out something,” her mother said. “You always do. Here,” she said, upending a used Walmart bag onto the end of Christina’s bed. Out tumbled a pair of blindingly purple Spandex capris and a badly pilled, black and silver sweater, along with a pair of underpants—at least three sizes too large—and a stretched-out camisole top. “I brought you some clothes, like you asked. But I didn’t figure there was any point in bringing one of my bras—it would be way too big for you. Don’t bother returning them, it’s all stuff from the Goodwill pile, anyway.”

Christina stared at the clothes, closer to tears now than when she’d thought she might die. Which at the moment seemed preferable to wearing these clothes. She never asked, or expected, anything from her mother, but just this once—since, you know, she had cheated death and all—would it have killed the woman to drop a few bucks for a pair of Hanes sweats or something? Some new underwear in Christina’s size—?

“Oh, good—you’re still here! They said at the nurses’ station you were being discharged.”

She looked up to see a grinning—and cleaned-up, she noticed—Scott, precariously hanging onto a potted plant, a ridiculously large stuffed hound dog, a box of candy and a helium-bloated “Get Well!” balloon in about a thousand eye-popping colors, bobbing up near the ceiling.

And her heart stuttered.

“And who is this?” her mother asked, her nostrils flaring like a bloodhound catching a scent.

“Mama, this is Scott Fortune. He…he and his family were also in the airport when the tornado hit. Scott, this is my mother, Sandra.”

Somehow he shifted all the offerings into his left arm to shake her mother’s hand. “Do you live in Red Rock?”

“Oh, good Lord, no. Not anymore. Been in Houston for several years now.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Fortune? Related to the Red Rock Fortunes?”

“Distantly, yes.” Scott set the plant on Christina’s rolling food tray, handed her the dog. “I’m from the Atlanta branch of the family.”

“I see,” Sandra said, her voice frosting, and Christina’s face warmed. Especially when her mother shot her an all-too-familiar look.

“So your family will be returning to Atlanta, I suppose?”

“Tomorrow, if all goes well,” he said, and Christina breathed a sigh of relief, that he was leaving, taking her inappropriate feelings with her. Because the last thing she needed was some rich dude who kissed like he invented it and brought her stuffed hound dogs.

And dumb balloons.

“Well, honey,” her mother said, “you take care of yourself,” and vanished, leaving Christina wondering exactly who else she thought was going to.

Witnessing the obvious lack of affection between Christina and her mother, Scott realized he’d take his mother’s obsessive worrying about her children any day. At least she cared.

But if her mother’s aloofness—she hadn’t even kissed her daughter goodbye, he realized—hurt Christina, she didn’t let on. That is, until she gave Scott a bright smile that was so fake it made his chest ache. “What’s this all about?”

“I couldn’t decide what you’d like.”

Blushing, she cuddled the stuffed dog to her hospital-gowned chest, her gaze fixed on the top of its head as she fingered the soft plush. “You know, you’re not obligated to bring me presents just because…we, um, kissed.”

The barest hint of melancholy in her voice turned him inside out. As though people didn’t give her gifts very often. Or kissed her.

“Actually,” Scott said as he eased himself onto the edge of her bed, “if I think a woman’s worth kissing, I think she’s worth at least flowers. Or a box of candy.”

“Or a stuffed animal?”

“She has to be really special to warrant one of those.”

Suddenly, she met his gaze, mischief tangoing with the wistfulness in her blue, blue eyes. A very strange, and oddly appealing, combination. “The kiss was that good?”

“Amazing is the word that comes to mind.”

“Oh, stop,” she said on a cute little giggle. Then she set the dog aside, patting it as if saying goodbye. “You’re very sweet. But you didn’t have to get me anything at all. Let alone half the gift shop. Also—” she sighed “—I have no idea how I’m gonna get all this stuff home.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to take you.”

Her eyes shot to his. “I can’t let you do that. You’ve got your family to think about—”

“All under control,” he said, adding when she opened her mouth to protest, “Really. My parents are quite safe here for the night, and the others have hotel rooms. Strange as it might sound, nobody needs me.”

Christina stared at her lap for what seemed like forever, then picked up the box of chocolates, slipping one finger underneath a seam in the cellophane and carefully peeling it away. “I wish I could say I don’t, either. Need you, I mean.” The box open, she carefully selected a piece of candy, popped it into her mouth, then held the box out to Scott, who declined. “Oh, right. You don’t like sweets.” She shrugged. “More for me, then.”

Genuinely bewildered, Scott folded his arms. “I don’t understand.”

“About why I wish I didn’t need you? I don’t expect you to. So…I’m simply going to say thank you for the gifts—I’m crazy about chocolate, as you can probably tell—and for offering to take me home. Since I hadn’t figured out how I was going to get there. Although…” Her forehead creased. “Fair warning—my place…it’s nothing special.”

“And why on earth would I care about that?”

“Because, well…we’re not exactly talking Ethan Allen here.”

Remembering his Atlanta decorator’s horrified expression when he’d proudly shown her the Ethan Allen sofa he’d picked out all by himself for his condo’s living room, Scott smiled. To Christina, Ethan Allen clearly had a different connotation than to dear Aileen, to whom Ethan Allen reeked of bourgeois. Poor woman never had recovered.

“I’m sure it’s fine. But couldn’t your mother have taken you?”

“Apparently not. And now I need you to leave so I can get dressed.” She grimaced at the strange assortment of clothes piled on the bed, picking up the shiny, lurid purple…things. “Although dressed might be overstating it.”

Chuckling, Scott left her to it. But he’d no sooner shut her door behind him than his phone buzzed—a text from Wendy: In OR

waiting room. Dr here. Where r u?

On my way, he texted back.

Twenty minutes later, Scott stood on the hospital’s rooftop deck, his phone clamped to his ear. He’d caught Dr. Rhodes as the man was about to leave for the very gala the Fortunes were supposed to be hosting. Scott succinctly relayed what Javier’s surgeon had said about his case—that they’d operated to relieve the pressure, were keeping him in a medically induced coma until the swelling subsided—then released a sigh.

“They’re not even being ‘cautiously optimistic.’”

“Understandable, given the circumstances. Although obviously I can’t comment, not being familiar with the case—”

“That’s why I’m calling. To see if you’d consider flying out—on our dime, of course—to see Javier yourself.”

“Damn, Scott…I’m sorry. With my schedule that would be very tricky. But you said San Antonio Memorial?”

“Yes.”

“Liz Cuthbert’s head of neurology there, as I recall. We did our residency together a million years ago. She’s excellent, trust me.

In fact, if I ever needed a neurologist, I’d want it to be Liz. I swear. Look…what I can do is give her a call, make sure she’s aware of the case. And I’ll be glad to consult by phone, if Liz thinks it’s warranted. But your friend is in very good hands already. And their rehabilitation facilities are second to none.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Couldn’t be more so. Can’t promise miracles—I learned a long time ago that way lies madness—but I can promise you if any team could pull him through, it’s that one. But, from the sounds of it, you all are damn lucky things weren’t a lot worse. Please give my best to your parents, won’t you?”

Marginally reassured, Scott slipped his phone back inside his pocket and returned downstairs to check on his parents. His mother was overjoyed to be reunited with her luggage, especially her carry-on with her jewelry.

“Jewelry can be replaced, Mom,” Scott said, as she pawed through the various pieces with her good hand, her eyes alight.

“And if I’d bought it for myself, I’d completely agree with you. But your father gave me each and every one of these. And that can’t be replaced. And yes, I know he probably had his PA pick out half the pieces—”

Try all of them. But whatever.

“—but in his case, it really is the thought that counts. Especially since I know he’s never bought jewelry, personally or otherwise, for any other woman. Except for your sisters, of course,” she added with a smile.

That much was true, at least, although his mother’s conviction was a testament to her faith in her husband. That, or the services of a private investigator. Still, for all his father’s faults—his workaholic tendencies, his emotional detachment—he’d never cheated on his wife. And not, Scott knew, for lack of opportunity, since he’d witnessed firsthand his father rebuff any number of all-too-eager, would-be successors to his mother. And with, as far as Scott could tell, not even a trace of regret.

Oh, yeah, his father had left broken hearts strewn all over Atlanta. But his mother’s was not one of them.

As if on cue, John Michael appeared at the doorway to his wife’s room, the only man on earth who could manage to still look dignified in a faded hospital gown and wrinkled cotton robe. “I asked the nurse to bring my meal in here so we could eat together,”

he said, and his mother beamed.

“What a good idea!” She giggled, her loose hair around her face making her look like a girl again. “I ordered the fish. How about you?”

“The same.” With a heavy breath, he took the chair beside her bed, his mouth curving at the sight of the jewelry. “Got you that bracelet when Emily was born, as I recall.”

“You did indeed,” his mother said, her “told you” gaze sliding to Scott’s.

Perhaps it wasn’t as difficult as he’d thought to understand what bound them to each other. After all, there was a lot to be said for simply knowing the other person would never leave you.

Which he supposed began, he mused as he left his mother’s room and started the long trek back downstairs where—he hoped—

Christina was waiting, with finding someone you never wanted to leave.

By the time Scott returned, Christina had had some time to think over a few things, not the least of which was to wonder what on earth had prompted her to apologize for where she lived. It was what it was, she was who she was, and since he was leaving the next day, anyway, what the heck difference did it make?

“Turn left at the light, then keep on to the end of the road.”

Scott glanced over at her, his brow drawn. “How’re you doing?”

“Just dandy.” She glared at the lovely, knee-high contraption she was sporting, courtesy of the House of Frankenstein. Which hadn’t seemed so bad while she was still in the hospital. Out here in the wild, however, especially when she factored in the crutches…

“If it’s any consolation,” Scott said, “I broke my foot my senior year of high school.” A grin pushed at the corners of his mouth.

“And please don’t ask how. My brothers still won’t let me live it down. But anyway, I had the boot, the crutches, the whole nine yards. In my case, for eight weeks.” He sighed. “So much for that track season.”

“You ran?”

“Not that year, I didn’t. I did, however, make straight As. Since there wasn’t a whole lot else I could do other than study. And play Nintendo. Although I have to admit…” The grin spread. “There were certain…advantages.”

“Ah. As in, pretty girls falling all over themselves for the privilege of lugging your backpack around?”

“More than could be numbered.”

Christina sputtered a laugh, only to feel her eyes sting. Because in her case there would be no entourage eager to fetch and carry and wait on her. Oh, her landlady would certainly help out, but Enid had her own life, and there was only so much she could do. All her old friends had either moved or married and had their hands full with husbands and houses and little kids…

The stinging spread to the back of her throat, forming a lump. How on earth was she going to manage, with no car, no job, this blankety-blank cast…?

When a renegade tear slid down her cheek, Christina dug in her purse—which one of the rescuers had amazingly found in the rubble nearby—for a tissue to blow her nose, hoping Scott wouldn’t notice.

“Hey,” he said, and she thought, So much for that.

“What?”

“It’s going to be okay.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it—”

“You have no idea what I’m facing, Scott,” she said, his equanimity suddenly irritating the very life out of her. “None. And since you don’t, you have no right to tell me everything’s going to be okay. You don’t know that. I don’t know that. So please—spare me the platitudes.”