Rainshadow Road fh-2 Page 12

  “You’re already good enough,” Sam said.

  “I’m not ready to be a father. I’m worried as hell that I’m going to drop the ball.”

  “Don’t worry about dropping the ball. It’s dropping the baby that causes problems.”

  Mark scowled. “I’m trying to tell you that I think I’m more screwed up than I seem.”

  “I’ve never doubted that,” Sam said, and grinned at his expression. Sobering, he continued, “You, Alex, and I are all screwed up by virtue of being Nolans. But you’re the one most likely to turn out okay. I can picture you being a pretty decent father. Which is a miracle, and a hell of a lot more than I could say about Alex or me.”

  “I had it better than you and Alex,” Mark said after a moment. “Mom and Dad weren’t as bad early on in their marriage. It was only after Alex was born that they became raging alcoholics. So I had the benefit of … well, it wasn’t exactly family life … but it was as close as the Nolans ever got. You had no one.”

  “I had the Harbisons,” Sam pointed out.

  Mark paused in the middle of dipping a paintbrush. “I’d forgotten about them.”

  “I’d be as bad off as Alex,” Sam said, “maybe even worse, if it weren’t for them. Fred had no kids of his own, but he knew a lot more about being a dad than ours. Which leads back to what I was saying … you’re going to do fine.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Remember when we first got Holly and she was bouncing off the walls at ten P.M., and the pediatrician had to explain to us what ‘overtired’ meant?”

  “Yeah. What does that have to do with it?”

  “Only that we knew nothing about raising kids, not even the most basic stuff. But in spite of that, Holly’s doing great. You’ve been more than good enough. So you’ll just have to keep figuring it out as you go along, which as far as I can tell is what most parents do. And if you’re going to err on the side of anything, err on the side of love. Because that’s the point of all of this, isn’t it? You’re getting another person in your life to love.”

  “Jesus, you get sentimental when you’re high on paint fumes.” But Mark’s face had relaxed, and he smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “So considering all this advice you’re giving me … are you going to change your mind at some point?”

  “About getting married? Hell, no. I like women too much to do that to one of them. I’m not cut out for it any more than Alex is.”

  “Hey … have you seen Alex recently?”

  “A few nights ago,” Sam said. “Just for a minute.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s overtired.”

  A grim smile touched Mark’s face. “Lately every time I see Alex, he’s at least halfway tanked.”

  “I think that’s the only way he can face life.” Sam paused. “He’s hard up for cash now. Darcy cleaned him out.”

  “It’s what the idiot deserves, for marrying her in the first place.”

  “True.”

  They stained wood in silence for a couple of minutes. “What can we do?” Mark eventually asked.

  “Wait until he hits bottom.”

  “What if Alex doesn’t survive hitting bottom? Neither of our parents did.”

  Unable to tolerate the fumes anymore, Sam replaced the top on the can of stain and went to the open window. He took a few deep, cleansing breaths of fresh air. “I guess we could try some kind of intervention,” he said doubtfully.

  “If it gives us the chance to kick his ass around for a few minutes, let’s do it.”

  Sam cast a brief smile over his shoulder and looked out at the vineyard, the green canopy reaching skyward. “Wouldn’t work with Al,” he heard himself say. The air was filled with the scent of growing vines, of sun-braised house shingles and plump blackberries, and the salty, fecund smell of False Bay.

  When things had gotten especially bad in the past year, Alex would come over to work on the house or just sit on the porch. Sometimes Sam had persuaded him to walk through the vineyard or down to the bay with him. But Sam had had the feeling that the scenery was all shadows to Alex … he was moving through life without experiencing it.

  Of all the Nolan offspring, Alex had had it the worst. With each year their parents’ neglect had metastasized until there had been nothing left for the youngest son. Now, long after Jessica and Alan were gone, Alex was like a drowning man—you could see him submerged just below the surface. But there was only so far you could go in the effort to help Alex. Get too near someone who was drowning, and in their desperate struggle, they would claw, grasp, and drag you down with them. And Sam wasn’t at all certain that he was in any shape to save anyone—at this point it was still unclear whether he could even save himself.

  * * *

  Lucy awakened in the morning in a welter of confusion. She’d been plagued by dreams that had left her with impressions of sliding, twisting, pleasure-tensed bodies … of herself, caught beneath the heavy welcome weight of a man. She had been dreaming of Sam, she acknowledged with mortified annoyance. Maybe it was a good sign—it certainly signaled that she had moved on from Kevin. On the other hand, it was idiotic. Sam was a guy for whom any relationship was a guaranteed dead-end street.

  What she needed, Lucy decided, was exercise and fresh air. She left the inn, walked to her studio, and retrieved her bike and helmet. It was a beautiful day, sunny and breezy, perfect for visiting a local lavender farm and buying some handmade soap and bath oil.

  She rode at a leisurely pace along Roche Harbor Road. Although it was the island’s busiest thoroughfare, it had a good wide shoulder for cyclists, and it offered charming views of orchards, pastures, ponds, and densely wooded forest. The pleasant monotony of the ride helped to settle her thoughts.

  She considered how it had felt to see Kevin and Alice yesterday. It had been a welcome discovery to realize that she felt nothing for him anymore. The real problem, the source of continuing grief, was her relationship with Alice. Lucy recognized that some form of forgiveness was necessary for her own sake. Otherwise the pain of betrayal would follow Lucy like the closer-than-they-appear objects in a rearview mirror. But what if Alice never expressed any regret whatsoever? How did you forgive someone who wasn’t at all sorry for what they had done?

  Hearing a car approach, Lucy took care to ride on the outmost edge of the shoulder to give the driver the widest possible berth. But in the next few seconds she felt that the car was coming on too fast, the sound of it was directly behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. The car, a boatlike sedan, had drifted out of the traffic lane and was swerving toward her. There was a blinding moment, in which she felt the draft of the car just before its impact against the back of her bike. The scene scattered like an overturned display of greeting cards. She was in the air, suspended and topsy-turvy among pieces of sky, slivers of forest and asphalt and metal, and then the ground zoomed up to her at light speed.

  When she opened her eyes, her first thought was that it was morning, time to wake up. But she wasn’t in bed. She was sprawled in a patch of shivering weeds. A pair of strangers crouched over her, a man and a woman.

  “Don’t move her,” the woman cautioned, a cell phone up to her ear.

  “I’m just going to take off her helmet,” the man said.

  “I don’t think you should do that. There might be a spinal cord injury or something.”

  The man looked down at Lucy in concern as she began to move. “Wait, take it easy. What’s your name?”

  “Lucy,” she gasped, fumbling with the chinstrap of her helmet.

  “Here, let me help you take that off.”

  “Hal, I told you—” the woman began.

  “I think it’s all right. She’s moving her arms and legs.” He unbuckled the helmet and eased it off Lucy’s head. “No, don’t try to sit up yet. You got banged up real good.”

  Staying still, Lucy tried to evaluate the catalog of hurts in her body. The right side was s
craped and burning, and there was a dull pain in her shoulder, and she had a killer of a headache. The worst by far, however, was her right leg and foot, which felt like they had been set on fire.

  The woman leaned over her. “An ambulance is coming. Is there someone I can call for you?”

  Her teeth were chattering. The more she tried to make the tremors stop, the worse they became. She was cold, icy trickles of sweat collecting beneath her clothes. Salty metallic smells of dust and blood were thick in her nose.

  “Slow down, slow down,” the man said, while Lucy panted for air in shallow breaths. “Eyes are dilated.”

  “Shock.” The woman’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance, followed by a peppering of static.

  A name came to Lucy. Justine. The effort to collect syllables was like collecting leaves in a storm. She heard shuddering sounds coming from her lips. Was the name clear enough?

  “Okay,” the man said in a soothing tone. “Don’t try to talk.”

  There were more sounds, vehicles pulling to the side of the road, the flash of lights, the red gleam of an EMS quick-response vehicle. Voices. Questions. The faltering awareness of unfamiliar hands on her body, an oxygen mask strapped over her mouth and nose, the sting of an IV needle. And then everything slipped away, and she went spinning out into nothingness.

  Twelve

  Consciousness came back to Lucy in a puzzle that had to be assembled before she could make sense of anything. Smells of latex, tape, isopropyl alchohol. Sounds of voices, the rattling wheels of a cart or gurney, a telephone ringing, the composed blips of a vital signs monitor. She was disconcerted by the discovery that she was talking like an actress whose lines had been badly dubbed in a movie, syllables not quite matching up.

  She was dressed in a thin cotton hospital gown that she had no memory of changing into. An IV needle had been inserted at the top of her hand and taped into place. Every time an ER tech or nurse came into the little curtained-off area, the rollers on the ceiling runners made a whisking sound, like eggs being beaten in a metal bowl.

  Her right leg and ankle had been immobilized in a splint. Vague recollections of examinations and X-rays came to her. Even though she knew how lucky she was, how much worse the accident could have been, depression rolled over her in a smothering blanket. As she turned her head to the side, the pillow beneath her head gave a plasticky crackle. A tear runneled down her cheek, absorbed by the pillowcase.

  “Here.” The nurse handed her a tissue. “That’s normal after an accident,” she said as Lucy blotted her eyes. “You’ll probably be doing that on and off for the next few days.”

  “Thank you.” Lucy gripped the tissue in her palm. “Can you tell me what’s wrong with my leg?”

  “The doctor’s reviewing the X-rays right now. He’ll be in to talk to you soon.” The woman smiled, her face kind. “In the meantime, you’ve got a visitor.” She whisked the curtain aside and stopped short as she confronted someone. “Oh! You were supposed to wait in that room.”

  “I need to see her right now,” came Justine’s brisk voice.

  A feeble grin came to Lucy’s face.

  Justine swept in like a fresh breeze, her dark ponytail swinging, her presence vital in the cold sterility of the hospital surroundings. The relief of having her friend there brought a sting of tears to Lucy’s eyes.

  “Lucy … sweetie…” Justine came to her, carefully straightening the loop of the IV tubing. “My God. I’m afraid to hug you. How bad is it? Anything broken?”

  “The doctor’s coming in soon.” She reached for Justine’s hand, words coming out in a tumble. “I was riding my bike and I got sideswiped. The car was swerving like it was a drunk driver. I think it was a woman. I don’t know why she didn’t stop. I don’t know where my bike is, or my bag or phone—”

  “Slow down.” Justine gripped her hand. “It wasn’t a drunk driver, it was an old lady. She thought she’d hit a branch, but she stopped a little ways up the road and came back. She was so upset when she realized what had happened, the couple who found you thought she was having a heart attack.”

  “Poor woman,” Lucy murmured.

  “Your bag and phone are here. The bike’s toast.”

  “It’s a vintage Schwinn,” Lucy said mournfully. “From the sixties. All the original parts.”

  “A bike can be replaced. You can’t.”

  “You were sweet to come here,” Lucy said. “I know how busy you are.”

  “Are you kidding? Nothing’s more important than you or Zoл. She wanted to come too, but someone had to stay at the inn.” Justine paused. “Before I forget, Duane wanted me to tell you that they’ve figured out the problem with your car. It has cylinder compression problems.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It could involve a faulty intake valve or piston rings, cylinder head gaskets … Duane’s taking it to the shop to make sure it’s fixed right. No idea how long it might take.”

  Lucy shook her head, exhausted and disoriented. “With my leg all messed up, I probably won’t be able to drive for a while anyway.”

  “You have a legion of bikers who’ll take you anywhere you want to go.” Justine paused. “As long as you don’t mind getting there on a Harley.”

  Lucy managed a faint smile.

  The doctor, a black-haired man with tired eyes and a pleasant smile, came in.

  “I’m Dr. Nagano,” he said, approaching Lucy. “Remember me?”

  “Sort of,” Lucy said sheepishly. “You asked me to touch my nose. And you wanted to know my middle name.”

  “Part of a diagnostic test. You have a slight concussion, which means you’ll need to rest for the next few days. And in light of your X-rays, that won’t be a problem.”

  “You mean my leg? Is it broken?”

  Dr. Nagano shook his head.

  “Oh, good,” Lucy said.

  “Actually, a clean break would be preferable. A bone heals more easily than a strained ligament.”

  “That’s what I have? A strained ligament?”

  “Three of them. Plus a hairline crack in the fibula, which is the smaller of your two calf bones. Needless to say, you’re going to be completely off your feet for the next three days.”

  “I can’t even walk from one room to another?”

  “That’s right. No weight at all on that leg. Keep it elevated and iced. Those ligaments are going to require some time to heal properly. I’ll be sending you home with some detailed instructions. In three days, you’ll come back for an Aircast brace and crutches.”

  “For how long?”

  “A minimum of three months in the brace.”

  “God.” Lucy closed her eyes.

  “Any other injuries?” she heard Justine ask.

  “Scrapes and bruises, nothing major. The important thing is to monitor her for any side effects from the concussion … headache, nausea, confusion … in which case she’ll need to come in right away.”

  “Got it,” Justine said.

  After the doctor left, Lucy opened her eyes and saw Justine rubbing her forehead as if it was a wadded-up piece of paper she was trying to smooth out.

  “Oh,” Lucy murmured in dawning dismay. “You and Zoл already have your hands full, don’t you?” For the past few days, they had been frantically preparing for a huge wedding and reception that would be held this weekend. “This is the worst possible time for me to do this to you.”

  “You didn’t do it on purpose,” Justine said. “And it’s not like there’s ever a convenient time to get hit by a car.”

  “I’ve got to think of what to do … where to go…”

  “Do not worry,” Justine said firmly. “From this moment every bit of your energy is going to be spent healing up. Not stressing. I’ll figure out what to do.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lucy said with a sniffle. “I’m a pain in the ass.”

  “Shut. Up.” Justine reached for a fresh tissue and clamped it to Lucy’s nose as if she was a child. “Friend
s are the support bras of life. We don’t let each other down. Right?”

  Lucy nodded.

  Justine stood and smiled at her. “I’ll be in the waiting room, making a few calls. Don’t go anywhere.”

  * * *

  From the moment Sam had gotten Justine’s call, he’d been seized with grim anxiety. “I’ll be there” was all he’d said, and within fifteen minutes, he had reached the clinic.

  Entering the building with ground-eating strides, he found Justine in the waiting room.

  “Sam,” she said, a ghost of a smile crossing her face. “Thanks for coming here. It’s a hell of a situation.”

  “How’s Lucy?” he asked curtly.

  “A mild concussion, scrapes and cuts, and her leg is totally messed up. Strained ligaments and a fracture.”

  “Damn it,” he said softly. “How did it happen?”

  Justine explained in a flurry of words, while he listened without comment. “… so she can’t move at all for a few days,” she finished. “And even though Lucy doesn’t weigh much, Zoл and I can’t carry her around.”

  “I’ll help,” Sam said at once.

  Justine let out a deep sigh. “Thank God. I adore you. I knew you’d have enough room at your house, and Zoл and I have the wedding from hell at the inn this weekend. We won’t have one spare second, and there’s just no way we could—”

  “Wait,” Sam interrupted brusquely. “I can’t take Lucy to my house.”

  Justine clamped her hands on her hips and gave him an exasperated glance. “You just said you’d help.”

  “Yes, help. She can’t stay with me.”

  “Why not?”

  The strength of his objection had left Sam temporarily mute. He had never let a woman spend the night at his place. And he especially didn’t want Lucy in his house. Especially not wounded and needing him. He had gone tense all over, a mist of sweat covering his skin.

  “Why can’t someone else do it?” he asked tersely. “What about her parents?”