Long May She Reign (95 page)

“Can I see your hand?” he asked.

What? Where had
that
come from? “I, um, I don't—” She swallowed. “Why?”

“Because you've never let me,” he said.

Which was her prerogative, surely.

He got up and sat next to her on the bed. “Either you think I'm going to hurt you, or you don't,” he said.

That wasn't playing fair.

She didn't move for a while, but neither did he.

Crap. He wasn't going to let her out of this, was he.

But, Christ, if he
did
hurt her, when her knee was already in bad shape, she would end up in the Emergency Room tonight, after all.

She took as much time as possible unstrapping her splint, raising her right shoulder to block his view—and any sudden moves he might make. Then, she set the splint aside and used her left hand to move her injured one onto her thigh, where it would be supported.

He slid his hand next to hers, palm up. “Can I hold it for a minute?”

No
.

“Meg,” he said.

She didn't need this. She really didn't. But she picked it up with her left hand, and set it on top of his open hand, blinking in case she was going to burst into anticipatory tears, and trying not to hold her breath.

Then, she waited.

He raised both their hands, so that he could look at hers more closely. He didn't say anything, and she couldn't tell whether it was the artist studying the deformed anatomy, or the boyfriend, who was shaken to see the extent of the damage. The entire time, she could feel her hand trembling—except that it wasn't just
her
hand; he must be petrified, too.

“You probably had the best surgeons in the world,” he said.

One of the few fringe benefits of being the President's daughter.

“And they still really couldn't put it back together again,” he said.

No. Not even close.

He ran his thumb very gently across some of the scars, and she held her breath. It didn't hurt, exactly, but the sensation made her shiver, anyway.

“Were you scared?” he asked.

She had been
happy
. “Only that enough bones wouldn't break,” she said.

He nodded, although she felt his hand tense underneath hers.

They stayed in the same positions, Meg pretty sure that she was going to jump out of her skin.

“You should put the splint back on,” he said. “Make sure it's protected.”

God, yes. She nodded gratefully, and transferred her hand into it as quickly as she could, not relaxing until all of the straps had been attached, and it was resting on her lap where she could guard herself from anything unexpected.

“Probably shouldn't have put you through that,” he said.

Too late now.

Her silence must have seemed more damning than a response, because he was fidgeting, and looked at the door once or twice.

“You know what you could do which would really help a lot?” she asked.

He looked tentatively eager.

She pointed at the warm gel packs resting on top of her knee. “You could try to find me some damn
ice
somewhere.”

He was on his feet in about half a second. “You bet,” he said confidently. “Can do.”

Which struck her as being awfully American, but also charming.

He was gone longer than she expected, but returned lugging three full plastic bags of ice and, much to her delight, a large latte.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, as she reached for the coffee. “Knew you'd go for that, first.”

Well, one had to have one's priorities.

When he saw how swollen her knee really was, he tried to talk her into having her agents drive her to the hospital, after all, but she just sipped the latte and enjoyed the luxury of having
lots
of ice to surround her leg, for once, while he fretted about what would be the best way to arrange it, so that she would be as comfortable as possible. By now, the painkillers had her feeling drugged enough so that she didn't hurt as much, and she was able to watch what he was doing with more detachment than interest.

“Is there a way we can make out really intensely without moving my leg?” she asked.

He grinned, and gave her a kiss before turning his attention back to the ice, some of which had melted and was starting to leak onto her quilt. “Probably not, but let me put my little thinking cap on, okay?”

If she found herself in possession of a thinking cap, she would want it to be very, very
big
—but everyone was different.

Whenever they fooled around, her hand had always been something of an impediment, but her knee—even when it wasn't the approximate size of Kentucky—was an outright albatross. There were too many things that it was hard to do, although Jack had such an intuitively accurate sense of the way people's bodies worked, that he was generally good at adjusting their positions without making her feel quite so crippled. In fact, at one point, a few days earlier, he had picked her up and moved over to the desk, which he employed in a way that would never have occurred to her—but, it was a creative, and effective, use of space.

“How'd you hurt it, anyway?” he asked, putting Scotch tape on a hole in one of the plastic bags.

Duct tape might work; Scotch tape wasn't going to do the trick. “I played tennis,” she said.

“No, really, what happened?” he asked.

The bag continued to leak, but she was too benevolent to make any remarks about this, or criticize his efforts in any way. “I borrowed Susan's racket, and went over to the courts to try and play with Tammy, but I ended up hitting with this person who's on the tennis team, instead, and it was
great
,” she said. “Even though I guess it was a pretty dumb thing to do.”

This was enough to distract him from the dripping water. “Wait, you're serious,” he said. “You really played
tennis
?”

By some definitions. She shrugged. “Well, I hit forehands for a while, and maybe eight backhands.”

He sat back, grinning at her. “That's totally cool, Meg. I'm—I'm
gobsmacked
.”

Well, okay. Why not. “Are you chuffed, too?” she asked.

He nodded. “I am. Totally and completely chuffed.”

He was often an odd fellow, if sweet. “I have to ask,” she said. “Why are you such an Anglophile?”

“Well, I mean, my
mother's
British,” he said.

Really? News to her.

“That's the way she talks,” he said, “so I guess I do it sometimes, too.”

In the photos she had seen, his mother appeared to be just as classically Californian as the rest of his family, so she was going to have to adjust her internal image to fit the new details. “So, that makes you half British,” she said.

He looked at her curiously, and maybe glanced at her bottle of pain pills, too. “I don't really think of it that way, but yeah, I guess so.”

Was she, just possibly, about to achieve one of her lifelong Holy Grails? “Does that mean you know something about cricket?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “My uncles are really into it, so they always have us out there playing when we visit. I'm not the greatest bowler, but I'm a pretty decent batsman.”

Ergo, he really
understood
cricket—and she was on the verge of a great personal victory. “Can you explain it to me?” she asked. “In depth?”

He laughed. “Sure,” he said.

Yay!

*   *   *

WHEN SHE WENT
to physical therapy the next afternoon, Vicky was pleased that she had attempted something bold, but disturbed by the degree to which her knee had continued to swell overnight. Orthopedists were promptly summoned, and she ended up back inside her home away from home, the MRI machine, as well as having a creepily large amount of fluid aspirated from the joint. There didn't seem to be any new ligament tears, but she had to sit through three different lectures about why she needed to be more careful, and what she had to do in order to maximize her chances for healing. Her lone accomplishment of the afternoon was convincing them
not
to call her parents.

Except that when she got back to the dorm, there were two messages from her father, and one from her mother, so while the doctors might not have talked to her parents directly, they had apparently had no qualms when it came to alerting Dr. Brooks about this latest damn setback.

When she caught him between appearances, she told her father, several times, that she was fine, and that he definitely didn't have to rush off and get on a plane, and once she and her mother finally spoke, she gave her the same assurances, although her feelings got hurt when her mother immediately suggested that maybe her father should fly up, as opposed to offering to come herself.

Not that she wanted either of them to race to her side because of her—admittedly extreme—version of a garden-variety sprain, but it might have been nice if her mother had barely been able to restrain herself from doing so.

Regardless, she changed the subject, and answered questions about her classes, and whether she was eating enough, and how she was sleeping, and that sort of thing, instead.

Right before they hung up, her mother coughed.

“I hesitate to bring this up, but did you grope your strikingly handsome wealthy blond Republican boyfriend at a crowded party, to the shock of nearby onlookers?” she asked.

Ouch. More merry fun for the tabloids, it would seem. And she was pretty sure exactly which party it must have been, since they maybe
had
been a tad indiscreet at a beer-sodden brawl some of the guys on the Ultimate team had thrown one night. “You know, someone on your staff has way too much free time,” Meg said.

“I happen to agree, and shared that opinion with him quite strongly,” her mother said, “but I'm still not hearing the outraged and offended denial I'm expecting.”

She was going to have a long wait for
that
one. Meg tried to think of a reasonably adroit way out of this. “I wouldn't say they were shocked, exactly.” Or that more than a couple of people had even noticed. Although someone had apparently felt the need to report it, and probably got paid a chunk of change for doing so, which posed a significant security breach to consider. “I mean, most of them were pretty drunk, and—” No. That was an unfortunate detour. “Juliana said she was maybe a little taken aback.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“I might be wrong,” her mother said, “but from what you've told me about her, I would think that it takes a great deal to startle Juliana.”

Yeah.

Her mother sighed. “I don't want to tell you what to do—”

But.

“But,” her mother went on, “would it be too much to ask for you to confine yourself to groping him when the two of you are alone together?”

A far less demanding request than she would have predicted. “Okay,” Meg said. “I can do that.” No point in mentioning that he'd mostly been groping
her
, not the other way around.

There was more silence.

“Would you be upset if we didn't pursue this conversational thread any further?” her mother asked.

Delighted would be a better description. “Not in the slightest,” Meg said.

*   *   *

SHE DID HER
best to take it easy, but every time she put any weight on her leg, her knee seemed to puff right up again. On Wednesday, she considered skipping physical therapy altogether, because she really didn't feel like having a surgeon stick a huge needle into her joint again, while other doctors hovered around with strained expressions. But if she didn't go, her father and Dr. Brooks would probably jump on a plane, so she was going to have to haul herself down there.

As a result, she was in a pretty foul mood, and also really tired. She napped in the car on the way, and Paula had to wake her up once they arrived, so she felt sluggish and logy before the appointments even started.

Afterwards, she was all the more exhausted, and it took a great effort to put on a big smile and pose for a photo when some people stopped her in the main lobby as she was trying to leave. But, the man's son was on crutches, and she would have been a complete jerk if she said no, so she did her best to look enchanted by the opportunity to have her picture taken yet another time with a total stranger.

Then, once she stepped outside, a grey-haired woman wearing a beige raincoat approached her, holding an envelope and what looked like a Raggedy Ann doll. It could also probably be a Raggedy Andy—she really wasn't up on her dolls. As far as she was concerned, they were all sort of spooky-looking, and best avoided whenever possible.

“Would you mind signing this for my granddaughter?” the woman asked, indicating the card inside the envelope.

God-damn it, she felt too lousy to be friendly and polite. Nevertheless, Meg smiled as though nothing would please her more, and accepted the pen she was holding out. “Sure. What's her name?”

“Gladys,” the woman said.

Hmmm. Either she was even more sleepy than she thought, or that was a hard one to spell. “Um, okay,” Meg said. “That's G, L—?”

“—A, D, Y, S,” the woman said.

Right. Okay. Meg nodded, trying to repeat the letters silently to herself, since she would look like an imbecile if she had to ask twice. “Thanks. As you can see, I've been getting a
really
good education.”

The woman smiled widely, although there seemed to be a bit of a disconnect there, somehow.

But, okay. Whatever. Maybe she really
wasn't
as damned funny as she thought she was. Meg balanced the “Get Well” card on her right arm, above her splint, and tried to sign it as neatly as possible.

“Your mother kills babies,” the woman said, still smiling away.