Love Me Tender (20 page)

“I read the pamphlet.”

“Right. Of course.”

“The disease attacks the myelin sheath protecting the nerves of the central nervous system.” She went on in her precise, schoolmistressy tone. “The damage affects the flow of nerve impulses, and that results in symptoms, depending on where the attack occurs and how bad the damage is. Cassidy's leg, and the fatigue that she said was unusual for her, could both be symptoms. Or, as I said, anyone could have put the pamphlet in the trash can. After all, if Dr. Young had diagnosed Cassidy, surely the last thing she'd do would be to leave town. I'd understand it if she was close to her parents and wanted to be with them while she started treatment, but from what I've gathered, they're quite self-centered.”

“True.” He pressed his free hand to his forehead, as if that would somehow help him think logically. If Cassidy had this disease that caused nerve damage, would she have gone to her parents? To her brother? Why wouldn't she have told him?

He swallowed. “You mentioned treatment. So the disease is curable, right?”

“As of now, there is no cure.”

His hand fell with a thunk to the desk, but the pain barely registered. Oh God, he'd heard those words before. When Anita was diagnosed. “It's . . .” He forced the word out. “Terminal?”

“No. Most people with MS live a normal life span.”

He let out a long, relieved sigh. That was something, at least. “Wait a minute, isn't that what Mrs. Roland has?” The woman had been a successful Realtor, but then a debilitating disease had struck her down. She'd had to go into a care facility. She was only in her early fifties.

“I believe so. But the pamphlet says there are different forms of the disease, it varies greatly from individual to individual, and its course is unpredictable. It also says that early diagnosis and treatment can have a significant impact.”

He tried to corral his tumbling thoughts and still his pounding heart. “The pamphlet could have come from anywhere. It could have blown out of the garbage truck.”

“True. I only hope that if Cassidy does have this disease or any other medical condition she has the sense to commit to the proper treatment.”

“You think she wouldn't?”

“If it was something like a broken bone being set, I believe she would. A quick, straightforward fix. But according to the pamphlet, MS treatment is an ongoing thing and it needs to be carefully monitored. Having a stable life helps a great deal, as does having a support team of family and friends as well as medical professionals.” She sighed. “None of that fits with Cassidy's gypsy lifestyle. Nor with her determination to be independent.”

“I hear you.”

They were both quiet for a few moments. Then she said, “No doubt I'm a foolish old woman who is making a mountain out of a molehill that never existed in the first place.”

Yes. Please. Slowly, he said, “I doubt that anyone who's met you would ever call you foolish. Let's just hope you're mistaken.”

“Indeed.” The word lacked her usual conviction.

 

 

Thursday afternoon, Dave listened impatiently as an inn guest, a petite sixty-something-year-old with obviously dyed brassy blond hair, explained her precise needs when it came to pillows. Normally, he enjoyed providing guests with the best possible experience, but for the past two days he'd been in a rotten mood. Besides, dealing with linen requests was the job of his assistant manager—and he didn't have one.

No assistant manager, no lover, no friend. Maybe it was stupid, but he felt betrayed. He'd known his sexual relationship with Cassidy was casual, and that's exactly what he'd wanted. But he cared about her. A friend didn't run off without a word of warning or explanation.

She'd hurt his daughter's feelings, too, which was even less excusable. Oh, Robin said they'd had a couple of conversations through Facebook, but he knew Robin had wanted—and deserved—a more personal good-bye. She, like Dave, Ms. Haldenby, and everyone else who'd cared about Cassidy deserved an explanation.

He refused to phone Cassidy again. She hadn't returned his call.

As for Facebook, he'd always thought it was a waste of time—face-to-face or phone communication was so much more effective—and he was damned if he was now going to sign himself up and send a “friend” request to Cassidy. So it was through Robin that he'd learned that Cassidy was now in Cannon Beach, Oregon. She'd posted on Facebook that she'd found a discarded newspaper with an article on the beach town and was enticed to go there.

It seemed there was no good explanation for her departure; it was just her perennial itchy feet. She hadn't gone to see her parents or brother, which at least reassured him that she wasn't sick and allowed him to be mad rather than concerned.

He had completely tuned out his guest, who had finally shut up and was gazing at him expectantly. He forced a smile. “You know what? Because I want to make sure you get exactly what you want, I'm going to take you on a behind-the-scenes expedition. How'd you like to see our linen room and choose your own pillow?”

The blonde's overly made-up eyes lit. “Behind the scenes? How exciting. Mr. Cousins, when my friend Abby recommended the Wild Rose, she said you folks treat every guest as if they're special, and I see that she's right.”

This time his smile was genuine. “Of course you're special. We want to make your time here at the Wild Rose, and in Caribou Crossing, something you'll always remember.”

His smile soured. At this moment, was Cassidy regaling someone in Cannon Beach with stories of her travel adventures, with a passing mention of riding horses in Caribou Crossing?

After he dealt with the guest, he went to his office, intending to check e-mail to see if there were any new applications for the assistant manager position. He'd interviewed a couple of locals: an empty-nest mom who wanted to return to the workforce but knew nothing about the workings of a hotel, and a young man who was clearly more interested in chatting up waitresses and chambermaids than applying himself. With effort, the mom might be trained, but he'd rather have someone who could more readily step in and do the job. As Cassidy had.

He really needed to stop thinking about her. She'd left town on a whim and chosen Cannon Beach on a whim. Ms. Haldenby had indeed created an imaginary mountain out of one pamphlet that had escaped the garbage truck. And yet . . . The retired teacher had made excellent points about Cassidy's personality.

Cassidy had the discipline to do a job well, yet she never stuck with one job for any length of time. She never stuck with one place. Or one friend, except in a superficial Facebook way—and more fool him for having thought he and she shared something special.

She prided herself on her strength and independence. He'd seen how it irked her when her leg gave her trouble. If she was diagnosed with a life-altering disease that affected her physical mobility and strength, one that might cramp her gypsy lifestyle, how would she react?

Might she simply pack up and run away?

“Damn it,” he muttered. “I can't stand not knowing.”

Dr. Young's office number was in his cell phone. Even as he dialed it, he knew the effort was probably futile. Doctor-patient confidentiality would prevail.

Her receptionist, Sonya, answered.

“Hi, Sonya, it's Dave Cousins. Hey, you must be due any day now. How are you doing?”

“I'm fat and fed up and can't wait for junior to make an appearance,” she said cheerfully. “How are you? Want to make an appointment? Yourself or Robin?”

“Actually, I wondered if I could talk to Dr. Young on the phone.”

“Sure. I'll get her to call as soon as she has a spare moment.”

He thanked her, then opened his e-mail and scanned a couple of applications. Neither person was ideal, but both were possibilities. He'd conduct phone interviews; then, if the applicants looked worthwhile, he'd invite them to come for in-person interviews.

His cell rang, showing Dr. Young's name. “Hi, Carlene.”

“Hi, Dave. What can I do for you?”

“It's actually, uh, about Cassidy.”

“Ah. I'm glad she talked to you. I wasn't sure she would.”

He swallowed. So there'd been something to talk about? “She's pretty independent.”

“She is. What do you think? Are you willing to come in with her?”

She hadn't heard that Cassidy had left town. Maybe that worked to his benefit. “Well . . .” He hoped the doctor would go on, and she did.

“She needs a support person, but I know it's a lot to ask when you haven't known each other very long. And for you, having gone through what you did with Anita . . .”

Crap. Shit. Ms. Haldenby was right. “It really is true? The diagnosis doesn't allow for any other possibilities?”

“No, I'm sorry. As soon as I heard that her great-grandmother had MS, I knew it was something to test for. While it's not an inherited disease, research indicates that genetic factors can increase the risk of developing it. It's possible her grandmother had it too, though it hadn't been diagnosed. The fall that killed her might have resulted from an attack rather than from her simply tripping.”

He hadn't known about her great-grandmother and all she'd said about her grandmother was that she'd died at a young age. “I guess I'd like to know what's involved in being a support person.”

“Of course you would, before you commit to it. Did she share the pamphlets I gave her?”

Only with the garbage can. “No.”

“I'll stay late this afternoon if you can come in. I'll fill you in on what your role would be, and on the time demands and emotional demands. I'll give you more pamphlets, and then you can go away and think about it. And talk to Cassidy, if you feel comfortable doing that. If you decide you can't deal with it, I'm sure she'll understand.”

He swallowed against a lump in his throat. Was that why Cassidy hadn't told him? She knew what he'd gone through with Anita. She wouldn't ask him to be a support person to someone with a serious illness. Or maybe she didn't think he was capable of doing it.

Was he? He believed in helping others, but he'd barely held it together to be strong for Anita. He couldn't do it again. Whatever Cassidy's reasons, it was a good thing she'd left town.

“Dave? I know this is difficult, but decisions need to be made. It's important to develop a treatment plan and start treatment early.”

If Cassidy had gone to her parents or brother, he could believe she was going to start treatment. But not in Cannon Beach. No way could she afford medical treatment in the States.

He thought about Cassidy's personality: her itchy feet, her self-sufficiency, her need to be in control of her life. She would hate the idea of a debilitating disease. Maybe she'd been trying to spare him, but she'd also been running away. “A diagnosis like this is a big shock,” he said. “She didn't take it well.”

“No, especially since she's been feeling fine recently. She said that I was wrong, that she didn't have MS. I asked her to read the literature, try to get her head around it, then find a support person and come back to talk to me. To be honest, I was afraid she wouldn't tell you about it.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” he said grimly.

“It's a big thing for you to get your head around too. You need information and you'll have questions before you make a decision. Will you come in to see me?”

Sitting on the couch in her new apartment late Friday afternoon with Pooh Bear on her lap, Cassidy picked up the smartphone that both connected her with the world and provided entertainment. Who needed a computer or tablet when this little device gave her the Internet, Facebook, e-mail, a camera, books to read on the miniature screen, videos, games, and—oh, yeah—even the ability to make or receive a phone call?

On her Facebook page, she posted a photo she'd snapped with her phone. It showed Cannon Beach's dramatic sea stack rocks looming out of a misty morning fog. She typed:

The scenic beauty lived up to what she'd read in that newspaper on the bus. The discarded paper with the travel article had been a clear sign leading her to her next destination.

The Seaside Hotel didn't have the character of the smaller Wild Rose, but its beachfront location was terrific and it was clean, nicely decorated, and seemed to be well run. Chambermaid work wasn't as cool as being assistant manager, but there was satisfaction in cleaning rooms. Joe Donnelly, the HR person who'd hired her, mentioned that the chambermaid who'd left had shared an apartment with one of the waitresses. He'd introduced Cassidy to Kristie, a chirpy blonde who was engaged to a soldier stationed in Afghanistan, and the deal was done.

Of course, Kristie wasn't Ms. H. . . .

That was negative thinking. Cassidy loved having happy memories of places she'd been, but she never let those get in the way of enjoying her latest adventure. As long as she didn't think about Dave, she felt fabulous. “A new day, a new place, a fresh start,” she told Pooh.

She and the bear had the apartment to themselves, since Kristie was working tonight. The place was homey, with her roommate's magazines, posters and photos, plants, and knitting project—a scarf for her fiancé. The only things of Cassidy's in the living room were Pooh and her phone. But then, aside from her backpack and its contents, neatly stowed in the smaller bedroom, she didn't own anything else. In the past, that fact had always made her proud. Why now, faced with a smiling photo of Kristie with her guy, a stack of wedding magazines, and the striped scarf suspended from knitting needles, did she feel a little . . . deficient?

Maybe Caribou Crossing hadn't been so good for her. While she made friends and found interesting activities wherever she went, she'd never been drawn into a community in the same way as she had there over the past few months. Dave's family had come to feel . . . well, more like family than her own did, to be honest. Robin was like—she fingered the woven friendship bracelet—the cool little sister she might have wished for. And then there was Dave. To be totally objective, she'd never dated a man as wonderful as Dave.

She really hoped that whatever he was looking for in life he found it. If he wanted to remain heart-true to Anita, she hoped he still found lots of great women to have fun with. If he did fall in love again, she truly hoped he'd beat the odds this time and the two of them would grow old and gray together. And if the thought of either option gave her a twinge or two in her own heart, it certainly wasn't envy, or jealousy, only . . .

Oh, who knew? She'd never been one to obsess over emotions.

Why was she hanging around this apartment anyhow? This town had a pub or two. She'd get herself a beer and a burger, and see if she could make some friends.

 

 

Cassidy's first day of work ended at four o'clock on Saturday. “Whew,” she said to Rosita, one of the other chambermaids, as she pressed her tired hands into her aching lower back. “I'd forgotten what tough work it is, doing this full-time.”

“You get used to it.” The older woman fished a light jacket out of her locker and flashed Cassidy a smile. “It makes you strong.” She pulled the coat on over her uniform.

“True. See you tomorrow.” Cassidy planned to browse into a few art galleries and shops on the way home, so she wanted to change into street clothes.

She sponged her armpits, chest, and face with damp paper towels before putting on her jeans and T-shirt. Her time was her own. No one to account to. Just the way she liked it.

No cooking dinner with Dave, no friendly bickering with Robin over which movie to watch. No lawn mowing for Ms. H, or early evening rides with Dave. No barbecues at his parents' house, or—

She grabbed her bag and headed out. Outside, the September sun was still high in the sky. On second thought, the beach was more appealing than shops and galleries. Fresh ocean air would feel good after a day of vacuuming, stripping and making beds, and cleaning bathrooms. Her stride already springier, she headed for the beach.

“Cassidy?” A male voice stopped her. Dave's voice.

No, that was impossible. Squinting against the sun's glare, she saw the shape of a man approaching. When he arrived in front of her, it was indeed Dave, dressed in his typical jeans and Western shirt, but barefoot, sandals dangling from one hand.

A leap of joy caught her breath, made her stumble. Then worry flooded in. “Is something wrong? Is Robin okay?”

“Everything back home is fine.” His words were measured, his expression noncommittal. No smile, no hug. No doubt he was pissed off that she'd left town without telling him.

“Then what are you doing here?” God, it was good to see him, yet he had her nerves jangling. He wouldn't have come all this way just to say he was angry; he could have texted. “How did you find me?”

“An oceanfront hotel in Cannon Beach? There aren't that many.”

“The hotel shouldn't have told you.” Hotels weren't supposed to hand out employee information.

He held out a piece of paper.

Automatically, she reached for it and saw that it was a check made out to her.

“I told the manager I had your final paycheck and needed you to sign some forms. She verified my credentials; then as a courtesy from one hotelier to another she confirmed your employment and told me when your shift ended.”

“What forms?”

“I made that up.” His jaw was tight; she knew he hated to lie.

“You didn't come all this way to bring me a paycheck.”

“
I
believe in honoring my responsibilities.” A muscle twitched at one side of his jaw.

She bit her lip. “I'm sorry I skipped without giving notice.”

“Why did you do that, Cassidy?”

She shrugged. “Oh, you know.” Not wanting to keep standing there staring at each other, she slipped off her sandals and walked down onto the beach. He fell in step beside her.

“I had the impulse to pick up and go somewhere new,” she said.

“When I hired you, you said you'd give fair notice.”

“All I can say is I'm sorry.”

“You'd already cleaned Ms. Haldenby's apartment when you came to my place Monday night,” he said grimly. “You knew you were leaving and you didn't say a word.”

She wouldn't say “sorry” a third time. “What can I say? I suck at good-byes.”

“Robin deserved one in person. So did Ms. Haldenby.”

And so did he. It went without saying. Maybe she
would
say it a third time. “Okay, I'm sorry. My bad.”

“Why?”

As they crossed the sand, heading toward the ocean's edge, she kept her gaze straight ahead. “Why do I suck at good-byes?” Would he accept the sidetrack?

“Why did you leave?”

“It's what I do. You know that. I was there, now I'm here. Isn't it beautiful?” She waved a hand at the beach, with its scattering of people, the calm ocean lapping the shore, and craggy Haystack Rock and the pointy Needles standing guard.

“It is. I walked down here while I waited for you.”

“I've moved on, Dave.” Despite the fact that she'd really love to wrap her arms around him. “You need to do the same.”

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, wouldn't that be nice?”

She frowned. “So do it. What's holding you back?” He sure showed no signs of wanting to wrap
his
arms around
her
.

His only answer was a long sigh as they strolled past three kids decorating a sand castle.

“Why did you come?” she asked.

He gave another sigh. “You have multiple sclerosis.”

Her heart stopped and she stumbled. “What? No, I don't! What are you thinking?”

His voice was level. “Dr. Young says you do.”

“You . . .” She grabbed his arm, stopping him, and glared at him. “You talked to my doctor? You had no right! She had no right!” An incorrect diagnosis
and
a breach of patient confidentiality? Dr. Young should be reported. Or sued.

He freed his arm from her grip and kept walking. “She thought I was calling because you'd talked to me. Like she'd recommended that you do. I didn't enlighten her. For which she reamed me out in a major way when I eventually confessed.”

“I don't get it.” She kept pace, though she was tempted to leave him and run back to her apartment. “Why would you call Dr. Young?”

“Ms. Haldenby figured it out, about the MS.”

“I do
not
have MS. There's nothing to figure out.” Blood pounding in her temples, she stared at the sea stack rocks, hoping their majesty would calm her, but the tactic didn't work.

“Yeah, I thought you might be in denial.”

“Stop treating me like a child!”

“A child? Robin's more mature than the way you're acting. Did you even read those brochures before you threw them out?”

Light dawned. “Ms. H found them in the trash? Damn, I shoved them way down.”

“When the garbage guys dumped the can, one of the brochures fluttered out. Ms. Haldenby found it, read it, and phoned me.”

“You two have no right to interfere in my life!” Her bare feet thumped the wet sand. “Damn it, Dave, I look after myself.”

“Are you seeing a doctor here? Getting treatment?”

“How many times do I have to say it? I'm not sick!”

They'd walked some distance down the beach, away from most of the people. Dave stopped and caught her arm, not gently, making her stop too. “Cassidy, you can say it a million times but that won't make it true. And as for looking after yourself, you're doing a piss-poor job of it.” She'd rarely heard him swear before, and he'd never glared at her with such a thunderous expression: anger, disappointment, and something else. Fear?

She choked out words. “I'm doing fine.”

“I know the diagnosis was a shocker. It was for me when I heard, so I can only imagine how scary it must be for you. But denial isn't going to fix the problem.”

“I'm not in denial and there isn't a problem. What is it with you? You're so into fixing people's problems, you have to imagine ones that don't exist?” She scowled at him.

He scowled back.

“Well, guess what?” she said. “If this problem you've imagined really did exist, you wouldn't be able to fix it!”

His scowl faded. Pain replaced it. “I couldn't fix Anita's either,” he said quietly.

“Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind you.”

“It's been on my mind since I found out about your diagnosis.”

Of course. Which was one reason she'd never wanted him to know about her
mis
diagnosis. She sighed. “Dave, I'm sorry that Dr. Young made you think I have MS. But I don't. And whatever problems I might have, they're mine, not yours. I'm not Anita. You two loved each other; you were engaged. Of course you stood by her. Me, I'm just, you know, someone passing through your life.” Saying those words sent a twinge of melancholy through her. She forced it away. She'd chosen her lifestyle and it suited her. She pressed the fingers of both hands to her temples, where a tension headache had begun to throb.

His mouth twisted ruefully. “If you were, then this would be easy.”

What did that mean? That he didn't want her to just pass through? But she wasn't the kind of woman who people loved deeply, the kind they built a life around. “What are you saying?”

“Dr. Young says you need a treatment plan and a support team.”

She shook her head, wincing at the pain. Of course. Dave was playing the fixer again. He'd do the same thing if any of his friends had a problem. It wasn't that he thought she, Cassidy, was special.

“I don't have MS.” Even to her own ears, her words sounded a little . . . pathetic. Was it possible the doctor was right? That Dave was right, and she was in denial? Terror stabbed into her. She could end up like GG? Defiantly, she said, “I feel fine now, perfectly healthy.”

“Which doesn't mean you don't need treatment. The earlier you start treatment, the more effective it's likely to be. You may well not end up like your great-grandmother.”

She sucked in a surprised breath. “How do you know about . . . Oh. Dr. Young again.”

“She thinks it's possible your grandmother had it too. An attack could have caused the fall that killed her. If she'd lived longer, she might have been diagnosed.”

She bit her lip and admitted reluctantly, “Gramps wondered about that. He warned me to be on the lookout for symptoms, but I didn't even want to think about it.” And she still didn't.

“Your grandfather would want you to do everything possible to take care of yourself so you can live a full life.”