Mad River Road (4 page)

Jamie pulled out one of the stools at the long bar and signaled the bartender for a drink. Just wait till Cynthia hears about tonight’s little fiasco, she thought, deciding
to be bold—opting for a glass of the house Burgundy over her regular white wine spritzer. She peered through the dim light, swallowing the large room in a single glance. It was a long rectangular space that spilled out into a sidewalk patio. A series of banquettes ran along the interior west brick wall, the bar directly opposite, with dozens of tables occupying the center and front sections of the room. The tile floor amplified the noise of the crowd, a crowd that consisted largely of young women much like herself.

Where were all the men? Jamie wondered absently. Aside from a nearby table of forty-somethings who were so caught up in their discussion of redesigning the company logo that they hadn’t even looked at her when she squeezed by in her tight, low-rise Juicy jeans and even tighter pink sweater, and a morose-looking man with an overgrown Tom Selleck mustache nursing a drink at the far end of the bar, there were none. At least not yet. Jamie checked her watch again, although only minutes had passed since her last peek. It was probably too early for the men to be out, she realized. Seven o’clock meant that if a man saw a woman he liked, he’d feel obliged to buy her dinner, instead of only a few drinks.

The bartender approached with her wine. “Enjoy.”

Jamie took the glass from his hand. She gulped at the wine as if it were air.

“Tough day?”

“My boyfriend’s in the hospital,” Jamie said, instantly feeling like a walking cliché. She was confiding in the bartender, for God’s sake. How pitiful was that? Except maybe if she told the bartender her sad tale of woe, she wouldn’t be tempted to tell her sister, and then maybe
the bartender, who was tall and cute and had an interesting scar below his right eye, might ask her to wait around until he finished his shift, and they’d sit by the fountain at the end of the street, and he’d turn out to be sensitive and funny and smart and … “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

“I asked if your boyfriend was sick.”

“No. He had an accident at work and needed surgery.”

“Really? What kind of accident?”

“He tripped on a piece of carpet on his way to the john and broke his ankle.” She laughed. How ridiculous was that!

“Bummer,” the bartender said.

Jamie smiled and took a long sip of her drink, waiting until the bartender moved away before looking back up. So much for funny and smart, she was thinking, deciding that no matter how lonely or desperate she got, she would never go out with a grown man who said
bummer
.

She stole a glance at the man with the Tom Selleck mustache, but he was hunched over his drink, protectively. He looked up briefly, caught her gaze, then turned his head away, as if to underline his disinterest. “Mustache looks fake anyway,” Jamie muttered, staring into her glass, temporarily mesmerized by her reflection in the deep purple of the wine.

In the next instant, she saw herself walking up the front steps of Good Samaritan Hospital and asking the regal-looking black woman at the reception desk for directions to Tim Rannells’s room. “He was scheduled for surgery on his ankle this morning,” she informed the woman, tightly clutching the gift she’d brought him, the plastic bag crinkling beneath her fingers.

The woman typed the information into her computer, a worried look flashing across her handsome features. “I’m afraid Mr. Rannells has been moved to intensive care.”

“Intensive care? For a broken ankle?”

“That’s all the information I have.”

The woman directed Jamie to the intensive care ward on the third floor. But the doors to the ward were locked and nobody answered when she pushed the call button, so Jamie spent the next several minutes pacing back and forth in the sterile waiting area, trying to figure out how a healthy, thirty-five-year-old man could enter the hospital for a relatively minor operation and end up in intensive care.

“You might as well sit down,” a middle-aged woman with pale white skin, short brown hair, and tired blue eyes said from one of the orange plastic seats lining the bare walls. “I think they’re pretty busy in there.”

“Have you been waiting long?”

“I’m actually waiting for a friend.” She spread the
People
magazine she’d been reading across her lap. “She’s inside visiting her daughter who was in a car accident. They’re not sure if she’s gonna make it.”

“That’s terrible.” Jamie looked around, but there was nothing to see. “My boyfriend was scheduled for surgery this morning,” she offered, unprompted. “Somehow he ended up here.” She returned to the call button, pushed it several times in rapid succession.

“Yes?” a disembodied voice answered seconds later. “How can I help you?”

“My name is Jamie Kellogg. I’m here to see Tim Rannells,” Jamie shouted at the button.

“Are you a relative of Mr. Rannells?”

“You better say yes,” the woman advised from her orange plastic chair. “Or they won’t let you in.”

“I’m his sister,” Jamie answered without thinking. Probably because she had her own sister on the brain. Cynthia had been bugging her for weeks about coming over to go through their mother’s things.

“Please have a seat for a few minutes,” the disembodied voice said before clicking off.

Jamie swiveled back toward the woman in the orange chair. “Thanks for warning me.”

“They have these rules,” the woman said with a shrug. “I’m Marilyn, by the way.”

“Jamie,” Jamie said. “I wish someone would tell me what’s going on.” She stared at the call button. “You don’t think something terrrible’s happened, do you?” A stupid question, she realized immediately, although that didn’t stop her from asking another. “You don’t think he could have died, do you?”

“I’m sure someone will be out in a minute,” Marilyn said.

“I mean, he just came in for a broken ankle.”

“Try to stay calm.”

Jamie smiled, although tears were already forming in the corners of her eyes. Her mother was always telling her to stay calm. “My mother was always telling me that,” she repeated out loud. “She said I was too impulsive, too quick to react, that I had a tendency to jump to conclusions before I was in possession of all the facts.”

“That’s quite a mouthful.”

“My mother was a judge.”

“She certainly sounds judgmental enough.”

Jamie sat back in her chair, unsettled by Marilyn’s remark. People were forever reminding Jamie what a great woman her mother was. She was surprised by this stranger’s unsolicited comment, and by how grateful she felt for it.

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“You didn’t.”

The woman turned her attention to the magazine in her lap.

“I have a sister,” Jamie continued, unprompted. “She’s pretty much what I was supposed to be—a lawyer, married, two kids, you know … perfect.”

“A perfect pain in the butt, you mean.”

Jamie smiled. The more Marilyn talked, the more Jamie liked her. “She’s okay. It’s just hard sometimes because I’m the big sister. She’s supposed to be the one looking up to me, not the other way around.”

Jamie waited for Marilyn to say, I’m sure she looks up to you too, which, even if it wasn’t true, would have been nice to hear, but the woman said nothing. Suddenly the door to the intensive care unit swung open and an attractive woman wearing black pants, a yellow sweater, and a wide scowl strode into the waiting area. At least two inches taller than Jamie, and older by several years, she was pretty in an aggressive, in-your-face kind of way, her chin-length hair a little too black, her lipstick a little too coral.

“Which one of you is Jamie Kellogg?”

Jamie jumped to her feet. “I’m Jamie.”

“You’re Tim Rannells’s sister?”

Was this Tim’s doctor? Jamie wondered, thinking the woman needed to work on her bedside manner. “Half-sister actually,” Jamie heard herself say, then bit down on
her lip to keep from embellishing further. Hadn’t her mother told her that you could always tell when a witness was lying by how many unsolicited details he or she felt compelled to supply?

“Tim doesn’t have a sister. Half or otherwise,” the woman said, as Jamie felt the color drain from her cheeks. “Who are you?”

“Who are
you?”
Jamie asked in return.

“I’m Eleanor Rannells. Tim’s wife.”

The words hit Jamie like a giant fist, knocking the wind from her lungs, so that it was all she could do to remain standing.

“I repeat, who the hell are you?”

“I work with your husband,” Jamie said quickly, almost gagging on the word. “And this is Marilyn.” She pointed to the woman in the plastic orange chair, who immediately dropped her magazine to the floor and jumped to her feet.

“Nice to meet you,” Marilyn said, extending her hand. “You work at Allstate?”

“I’m a claims adjuster,” Jamie said. “Marilyn’s in payroll.”

“Payroll,” Marilyn agreed.

“I don’t understand. What are you doing here? And why would you say you’re Tim’s sister?”

“We heard about Tim’s accident,” Jamie explained. “And we thought we’d drop by and see how he was doing. We bought him a present. It’s the new John Grisham.”

Eleanor Rannells took the book from Jamie’s outstretched hand, tucked it under her arm.

“Apparently the only people allowed into intensive care are relatives,” Marilyn continued, picking up the slack. “So …”

“So you became the sister he never had,” Eleanor said to Jamie.

As opposed to the wife he does, Jamie thought, wondering if Eleanor was actually buying any of this, or if she was simply too polite to cause a scene. “How is he?”

“He had a bad reaction to the anesthetic. It was touch-and-go for a few minutes there, but it looks like he’s out of danger now, although they aren’t allowing any visitors.”

“Please give him our love,” Marilyn said.

“I’ll do that.” Eleanor patted the novel, which was now securely wedged beneath her arm. “Thanks for the book. Grisham’s his favorite. How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Jamie said, watching the door of the intensive care ward close behind her boyfriend’s wife.

“Are you all right?” Marilyn asked from somewhere beside her.

“He’s married.”

“Apparently so.”

“He’s married!”

“Can I get you a glass of water?”

“We’ve been going out for four months. How could I not know he was married?”

“Trust me,” Marilyn said. “It happens to the best of us.”

“I’m so stupid!” Jamie wailed.

“You aren’t stupid. You just fell for the wrong guy.”

“This isn’t the first time.”

“No, and it probably won’t be the last. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“That lying bastard!” Jamie burst into a flood of bitter, angry tears.

“Thatta girl. That’s more like it.”

“What am I going to do?”

“I’ll tell you what you’re
not
going to do, and that’s waste any more tears on guys like that.” Marilyn wiped the tears from Jamie’s cheeks with gentle fingers. “You’re a sweet and lovely young woman, and you’re going to find another guy in no time at all. Now, go home, pour yourself a glass of wine, and climb into a nice, hot bubble bath. You’ll feel much better. I promise.”

Jamie smiled through her tears.

“And stop crying. You’ll ruin your mascara.”

“Thanks for coming to my rescue before.”

“I enjoyed it. Now, go on. Get out of here.”

Jamie began walking toward the bank of elevators, then stopped, turned back. “I hope everything works out with your friend’s daughter.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Jamie asked, jumping back into the present tense with the sudden reappearance of the bartender.

“I said the gentleman at the far end of the bar is wondering whether he can buy you a drink.”

Really? Jamie thought. He’d barely looked her way when she sat down. And there’d been something vaguely sinister about his posture, as if he was hiding something. The last thing she needed was another man with secrets. But the man with the Tom Selleck mustache had disappeared, and in his place sat a clean-shaven young man with a buzz cut and a crooked smile. He lifted his beer glass into the air in a silent toast.

Jamie pictured Tim Rannells lying in his hospital bed, his wife at his side, reading to him from the gift she’d brought him. Eleanor Rannells was soon joined by Jamie’s sister, Cynthia, then by their mother, the three women
shaking their heads at Jamie in collective disapproval.
How can you even be considering something so foolhardy?
they demanded in unison.

Jamie shook the women aside with a dramatic toss of her blond hair, downed what was left in her glass in one concerted gulp, then handed her wineglass to the bartender. “Tell him I’m drinking the house red,” she said.

“S
o can I buy you dinner now?”

Jamie laughed, gathering the blanket around her naked breasts and staring at the handsome stranger she’d allowed into her apartment, then into her bed. He had soft, full lips, a small, almost perfect nose, and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. How’d I get so lucky? she was thinking. She, who was always lurching from one disaster to the next, stumbling from one ill-conceived relationship into another, had somehow stumbled onto the ideal man. In a bar, no less. In a fit of despair and desperation. And not only had he turned out to be even better-looking than he’d first appeared in the bar’s dim light, not only did he possess the deliciously sculpted body of a Greek god—she’d almost gasped out loud when he removed his shirt—but he’d proved to be a surprisingly generous and thoughtful lover, as concerned with her pleasure as his own. They’d spent the last several hours in a blur of tireless carnal activity, and her body was literally aching with pleasure, every nerve ending exposed and raw. She felt the pleasant tingling between her legs and brought the blanket to her face to hide a self-satisfied grin.
His scent, masculine and clean, immediately filled her nostrils. He was everywhere—on the sheets, her pillow, the tips of her fingers, the creases of her skin. It was a wondrous smell, she decided, leaning back against the headboard and taking a long, deep breath. Everything about the man was wondrous. Even his name. Brad, she repeated silently. Brad Fisher.
Jamie Fisher
, she caught herself thinking. Then,
Whoa girl, don’t start that nonsense. This is what always gets you in trouble. Slow down
. “You really want to buy me dinner?”