“It wasn’t on my vacation itinerary either.” Stephanie twisted her wrist to expose the face of her watch. “You still want to paint, or would you rather pass after this depressing discussion?”
“I’ll paint. If I sit around here, I’ll—whoops. Call coming in. Give me a sec.” She pulled out her vibrating cell.
“Maybe it’s Zach with an update.”
No such luck. Simon’s number flashed on the screen.
“Crud.”
“Not someone you want to talk to?”
“No. My agent can’t seem to grasp that I don’t want to be disturbed.” She let the call roll and put the phone away. “Let’s go paint. Can I get you a drink while I change?”
“No, thanks—but if you have a truffle lying around, I wouldn’t object to that.”
“I do have a few rejects.” She told Stephanie about the batch she’d taken to the tearoom—and the reception.
“You’re a woman of many talents, that’s all I can say. And rejects are fine with me. They may not be as pretty as the ones you delivered to the lavender farm, but they’ll taste just as delicious.”
Katherine retrieved two from the kitchen and handed them to her on a paper napkin. “Enjoy.”
“Every bite—even if they’ll dampen my appetite for tacos.”
While her guest sank back on the couch to savor the chocolates, Katherine retreated to the bedroom, changed into the same outfit she’d worn while stripping wallpaper with Zach—and mulled over Stephanie’s subtle warning not to disrupt the placid life her nephew had here.
It was hard to fault.
Starting something she didn’t intend to finish would be wrong—which made yesterday’s good-bye kiss all the more inappropriate. Zach had been through too much turmoil in his life already, had lost too many people he cared about. For all she knew, his last-ditch effort to salvage his relationship with his dad would also nosedive.
He didn’t need another broken romance on top of all that.
What he needed was a woman who had her act together, who’d found her place in the world—as he had—and was content with life in a small seaside town, away from the cameras and lights and accolades . . . and the magic of acting.
Truth was, she could do without the first three. The compulsion to prove herself to the world had diminished, and notoriety had become more exhausting than exciting.
Yet she did enjoy the magic part.
The question was, did she enjoy it enough to walk away from the most intriguing and appealing man who’d ever crossed her path?
She fingered a piece of wallpaper stuck to her sweatshirt. Pulled it off.
That wasn’t a question she was going to be able to answer today.
But in two weeks, she owed Simon a decision on the movie—and that choice could have implications far beyond one starring role.
In the meantime, all she could do was pray—and hope her pleas for guidance would be answered before that looming deadline was upon her.
He’d survived.
As the world around him slowly came into focus and that reality sank in, Richard frowned.
Was that good or bad?
The answer eluded him.
Yes, he had his job to fill his days—but without the woman he’d loved . . . without the younger son he’d once doted on . . . with Zach off in Oregon—so far away in every respect he, too, might as well be dead—what was the point of it all?
But those weren’t questions he should be dwelling on. They were disruptive. Unsettling. And it was important to present a strong, confident face to the world.
Even if you were shaky and uncertain inside.
“Mr. Garrett?” The summons came from somewhere to his left, and he peered that direction.
A woman in scrubs, her hair covered with a cap, mask pulled down, was watching him.
“Yes?” His reply came out scratchy, as if he were recovering from laryngitis. He tried to clear his throat.
“Don’t worry about your voice. The hoarseness is from the breathing tube. I’m your surgeon, Dr. Edwards.”
He frowned at her. Did she think the arteries to his brain were blocked too?
“I know.”
She smiled at his gruff response. “Excellent. Sometimes it takes a while for patients to emerge from the mental fog after surgery. You’re recovering fast. Right now, you’re in the ICU—that’s common for the first day after surgery, as we discussed. I expect to move you to a regular room later today. The surgery went fine. We took veins from your leg and redirected the blood flow around three partially blocked sections of arteries in your heart. Any questions?”
“When can I go home?”
“Let’s see how you do—but if there are no complications, Friday or Saturday would be realistic.”
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
He’d lost an entire day?
“What happened to Monday?”
“Most patients don’t remember much about the first twenty-four hours after surgery. But here’s someone who does.” She shifted aside, and a man took her place.
Zach?
All at once, the events of Sunday night clicked into focus.
His son had shown up on his doorstep. And despite a less-than-cordial welcome, he’d stayed the night. Driven him to the hospital. Squeezed his shoulder in the moments before they’d wheeled him into surgery.
From his scuzzy appearance, he hadn’t left the hospital since then either—nor clocked much shut-eye.
“Hi, Dad.” He leaned down, putting them on the same level.
At this proximity, Zach looked even worse. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his hair was unkempt, and the whiskers on his cheeks and chin had passed the stubble stage.
“You need a shave—and sleep.” The words rasped past his throat.
“You could use a shave yourself.” The corners of his mouth rose. “But you’re on the mend. That’s all that matters.”
“Go home. Sleep. Eat.”
“I will.”
“Now.”
“I’ll get a meal in the cafeteria.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I want to.”
A wave of fatigue crashed over him, and hard as he fought to remain alert, his eyelids drooped.
“Rest, Dad. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
He stopped struggling. If Zach wanted to stay, he would. That boy had always had a one-track mind once he set a goal.
It was no wonder he’d caught the attention of management and risen at lightning speed through the ranks at his firm in Chicago.
If only he’d—
He lost his train of thought as his hand was grasped in a firm, comforting clasp.
The contact felt . . . odd.
No one had held his hands in years.
No one had to hold his hand now.
He could cope on his own, as he always had.
Yet the warmth of that caring, human touch seeped into his pores—and zoomed straight to his heart, chasing away the chill that had kept that defective organ in cold storage since his sons had deserted him.
No.
That wasn’t quite accurate—or fair.
Both had tried to maintain contact, but he hadn’t been receptive to their appeals.
Thank God he and Joshua had reconnected before his younger son’s death—but Zach walking away from a promising career had been like déjà vu. Why had neither of them taken advantage of the educations they’d received to create a safe, secure future?