The Sparrow Sisters (15 page)

She walked out without shaking Henry's hand, and he had
to rush to get the door open for her. Charlotte marched down the hall ahead of Henry and if he'd seen her face, he would have noticed the unusually furtive look that crossed it. Charlotte kept her head down, phone in hand as she left. There was no need to reveal she'd seen Patience herself some months before. What was needed, really, was a reminder to Patience Sparrow that their meeting had never taken place.

Patience came to see Henry after he closed the office, coming around the back with steps so light he was always surprised to see her. He was still bothered by Charlotte's visit that day. The witch comment had been mean-spirited. As for an unnatural hold, well, he was proof of that. He was as eager as a teenager when he heard her whistle outside his window.

Patience always arrived after dark, which was later these days, and Henry missed her in the newly empty hour. She never stayed till morning, sometimes tiptoeing out while he slept; he always slept deeply when she was beside him. That night they ate hamburgers from Doyle's. Patience brought a box of profiteroles from Baker's Way Bakers for dessert. She unwrapped the hamburgers with a profiterole already between her teeth.

“I nearly told Charlotte Mayo to come see you today,” Henry said.

Patience caught the profiterole as it dropped out of her gaping mouth.

“I know,” Henry said. “What was I thinking?” He took a bite of his burger.

Patience had gone very still. Henry didn't notice; he was busy shaking French fries onto a plate.

“Why would you send Charlotte to me? Since when do you refer anybody to the local witch doctor?” There was that word again. Patience picked up the profiterole and put it back in her mouth. The pastry cream oozed out onto her bottom lip, and Henry dipped his finger in for a taste.

“I never called you that, Patience, and, I didn't end up saying anything to Charlotte. I mean, I couldn't. It wouldn't be very professional.”

“Gee, thanks,” Patience said.

“What I meant was that since you have resolutely refused to let me see behind the Sparrow Sisters Nursery curtain, I can't very well recommend you.”

“What's wrong with her anyway?” Patience was on her second profiterole, and Henry couldn't help but hope it would sweeten her.

“You know I can't tell you that,” he said.

“Then I'll tell you.” Patience wiped her mouth and stared at Henry.

“Are you trying to read my mind?”

“No, oh man of science.” Patience laughed. “I'm thinking about Charlotte.”

“I wish you were thinking about me,” Henry said and reached across the counter to take Patience's hand.

“She can't get pregnant,” Patience said. She let her hand stay
in Henry's. His was big enough that hers disappeared beneath his fingers.

“Wow, that was weird.” Henry took his hand back. “How did you do that?”

“Just a good guess. If she could, Simon would have a houseful by now. He loves kids.”

“Well, that's the end of that topic,” Henry said, reaching for his burger.

“It's not Charlotte's fault,” Patience said.

“It's not a matter of fault, medical or not.” Henry just couldn't find that physical element.

“No, it's Simon's fault. He doesn't love Charlotte, not enough,” she said.

“Patience! That's a terrible thing to say.”

“It's true. Simon and Sorrel have loved each other since grade school.”

“Then he should have married Sorrel,” Henry said with not a little irritation.

“Neither one of them could ever tell the other. They just went along, psychically bumping into each other now and then until Charlotte turned up.” Patience looked angry.

“I'm sorry for all three of them,” Henry said. “It must be miserable to go through your days without being able to touch the object of your affection.” He reached for Patience and trailed his arm over her shoulder as he came around the counter into the kitchen. “Never to do this, for instance.” Henry
brought his hand under Patience's breast. “Or this,” he pressed his cheek against hers.

Patience reached up and cupped his jaw. It was rough as a cat's tongue, a day's worth of dark whiskers scattered across his chin. “I don't think I've ever been the object of anyone's affection. Lust, yes, affection, hmmm.”

“Well, I think it's safe to say that you affect me.” Henry laughed and drew her against his hip.

“As you do me.” Patience tilted her head in a little bow.

“So, what do we do for Charlotte and Simon?”

“That's easy,” Patience said. “Charlotte really does love Simon. Now Simon has to love her or leave her. If he doesn't, they'll never have children and they'll never know happiness.”

“Well, that's it for them then, oh, woman of the heart.” Henry stifled his laugh when he saw that Patience was serious. “So it's all about true love?”

“Yes,” Patience said. “True love.” Her voice trailed off, and she moved away from the counter.

If Henry had known Patience better, he'd have recognized the smell of angelica that rose from her hair, a sharp dill-like scent that made his breath catch in his throat. He would have known that she was trying to shutter her heart.

“I'm not going to give up on the Mayos,” Henry said. “There's an ob-gyn at Brigham and Women's who does amazing things with idiopathic infertility. Simon and Charlotte deserve a chance at a family, at that happiness you're so quick to deny them.”

“The happiness you deny yourself?” Patience asked. The words flew out unbidden before she could swallow them unsaid.

“Excuse me?” Henry didn't physically pull back, but Patience felt him move beyond her reach all the same.

“The pain,” she said. “It's your punishment, isn't it?”
And driving you away is mine,
she thought.

“Stop, Patience. You do
not
want to diagnose me.”

“Why not? You dared me. I'm just taking that dare.”

“I was daring you to be with me. I still don't know what happened when I met you; I was irrational with desire.” Henry wanted to say “love,” but a mixture of anger and caution prevented him from being truthful.

With what felt like enormous effort Patience waved her hands at Henry. She would not be distracted by his detour, his ability to turn her bones to water.

“I know what happened to you, what really happened at the school in Iraq.”

“Is that so?” Henry asked, and his face became a mask. “If you really know what happened, you would know that you can't fix me. I should never have dared you. You shouldn't even try.”

“You couldn't have saved that girl,” Patience said. “I Googled you.”

“You Googled me?” Henry was stunned.

“You wouldn't tell me. I needed to know what made you. So, after Sam talked to me, I read about the attack. I know the bomb was brutal. I know shrapnel is what got you.” She pointed to his leg, and Henry, against his will, shifted his weight. “It
was an impossible situation.
You
would have died. It was a horrible thing, but it was not your fault.”

“So we're now going to dissect my service in the military and whether or not, as a doctor, a soldier, and a man, I failed.” Henry was rigid with distress. Everything he'd done was designed to distance himself from that day. If he couldn't undo the death of a child, which to Henry was the greatest of tragedies, he could at least take up a life that was harmless.

“I only want to say that I understand and, if you'll let me, I can help you,” Patience said. “Given the metallic content of the shrapnel, I have various remedies, I can feel what you need . . .” She stopped talking as she saw Henry's eyes harden until they glittered like Matty's marbles.

Henry walked to the door. “I think you should go now.”

Patience was, foolishly, surprised that Henry was doing just what she had known he would, and quickly. For some reason, an image from her childhood came to her. She'd knocked over a beautiful ironstone pitcher that had belonged to Clarissa Sparrow. She watched as it fell and smashed to pieces on the floor, paralyzed by disbelief. Yet the pitcher had done the only thing it could under the circumstances. And so, here was Henry sending her away.

What have I done?
Patience thought.
I won't let this happen.
Sometimes it really is that simple, if both people are willing. Patience was, and she reversed course and begged, her own voice so foreign to her that she almost looked over her shoulder for another woman.

“Please,” she said. “I was wrong to think I know anything at all, about you or Charlotte, or war or, really, anything.” Patience met Henry at the door and closed it. “I won't say another word. I will stop making you want to send me home.” Patience led Henry to the couch and pushed him down.

“What are you trying to do?” Henry asked.

“I'm apologizing for my thoughtlessness, something I should have done that day at the liquor store, before I ever had the chance to hurt you.” Patience pulled her shirt over her head, the camisole beneath unexpectedly lacy and feminine. It was as out of character for Patience as was her remorse.

“If this is how you apologize,” Henry said as he unbuttoned his own shirt, “Pete might have called the cops that day.”

Later, as Patience got dressed, Henry ate cold French fries and soggy profiteroles in his underwear. He thought that, contrary to her theory, he was as happy as he'd ever been. But, he watched Patience, slightly uneasy, trying to see if her duplicity showed on the surface. A “sorry” Patience was not real. He knew she had probably never apologized in her life and that he'd really frightened her when he asked her to leave. He also knew that she wouldn't stop trying to fix him, something he wished he'd never offered up.

Henry hadn't really wanted Patience to go home. In fact, he was desperately hoping for a way out of his own bad temper. Still, when she prodded him about his leg, it stung as if she'd taken a stick to the wound itself. He'd reacted like an injured animal, swiftly biting at the hand that had fed him everything
he'd ever wanted. Then, as he'd held her in his arms, their sweat mixing with the bits of leaves and streaks of sandy soil on Patience, Henry couldn't see beyond that minute. Henry had let her seduce him instead of making her understand where the line was drawn.

Patience wouldn't meet Henry's eye. She was ashamed; she'd used her beauty, her body, to get what she wanted.
And why not?
Patience would have said once. But anything she'd wanted before Henry was usually of little consequence. Tonight she had indeed be-spelled Henry using the oldest of charms. When she'd taken him to the couch, she'd seen that he favored his leg. She wondered if it was because she'd named the wound for what it was, Henry's self-inflicted life sentence. Small price for the loss of a child: was this what Henry believed was just?

The hurt was real, the injury fresh enough that pale pink still lay beneath the silver scar. She guessed it had been little more than a year. Patience had grabbed both his legs, pulling him under her until he stopped caring where she had her hands. Now, as he moved around the kitchen, clearing the counter, opening a beer, she saw that his weight was evenly placed, strong muscle sliding easily under marred skin as he walked toward her.

Henry decided to poke Patience with a similar stick.

“Did you really want me to send you home tonight?” Henry ducked his head, trying to make Patience look at him.

“I did,” she admitted. “Only because if you don't do it now, it'll hurt more later.”

“Would you stop.” Henry put his beer down with a clank. “The whole inscrutable Sparrow Sister with her mysterious gift, her self-destructive streak, her secrets. Enough.” He laughed at the look on Patience's face. She was actually offended.

“You cannot drive me away, Patience, any more than you can leave. It's done, the spell, enchantment, whatever. I am a man of science, you're right. But this”—Henry waved his hand between them—“this is something else.” He warmed to his subject. “I will not give you up. If you'll only stay to fix me, the dare is back on.” He thumped his chest. “I'm yours.”

Patience put her hand on his and covered his heart. “You are mine.”

P
ATIENCE DIDN
'
T GO
home after that and regretted it as soon as she opened her eyes the next morning. She was remarkably content spooned against Henry's stomach, but she couldn't see a thing. Patience wore contact lenses and she'd tossed them in the sink without thought after she and Henry had taken a bath together in the deep claw-foot tub. Now she was effectively blind; of course she hadn't brought her glasses—she never stayed the night. She was grateful that she hadn't driven, but the idea of walking home like this, no matter how well she knew every street in Granite Point, was more than Patience could face. She was going to need Henry's help. It was the ripple as she smacked her fist into the bed that woke him.

“What is going on?” Henry said as he sat up, taking the sheet with him.

“I can't see,” Patience said.

“Christ!” Henry barked and took her face in his hands.

“No. I don't have my glasses. I didn't expect to be here.”

Patience had to shove Henry's shoulder to make him stop laughing.

“So this is what it takes to get you to promenade hand in hand with me,” he hooted.

“Can we drive?” Patience asked.

“Nope,” Henry answered.

Henry and Patience walked to Ivy House with a stop at Baker's Way Bakers. She held his arm in an oddly formal way. Henry hummed quietly, tunelessly until Patience stepped on his foot, hard.

“This is it then,” she said as Henry held the bakery door for her.

“This is what?” he asked.