Mother's Promise (30 page)

D
arcy did a double take as she walked through the farmers' market, intent on finding the ingredients she would need for the fresh vegetable pasta dish she planned to make for Ben that night. He had agreed to come for dinner after she had called to say how sorry she was to hear that Sally was back in the Tampa hospital. She was pretty sure she'd woken him up, poor thing. Of course, that had worked in her favor because he'd been too groggy to refuse her invitation.

Darcy loved to cook. As a teenager she had found refuge from her parents' constant nagging about what they perceived as her lack of ambition and her failure to appreciate the importance of building friendships with “the right people.”

“If you're to have any chance at all of getting ahead in this world, then you'd better learn one lesson: It's not so much what you know but who you know,” her father had instructed.

She vividly remembered the night she had prepared a five-course gourmet dinner for her parents and six of their friends. That night her parents had glowed with pride as their friends exclaimed over Darcy's cooking. But when she had tested their approval by announcing that she intended to one day open her own restaurant, her parents had smiled tightly.

She had taken their smile for encouragement and gone on to lay out the rest of her plan. “A restaurant where there is nothing on the menu but good healthy food beautifully prepared and served, food that even a truck driver would eat,” she exclaimed.

Later that night, her father had come to her room and informed her that if she thought he was going to stand for her throwing her life away as she slung hash in some roadside truck stop she was dead wrong. Her mother had tried to soften the blow by adding that cooking for friends and family was a lovely little hobby. “But it's not a career, dear.”

And so cooking had become her way of calming herself from the stresses of achieving the success her parents had expected. Forcing the memory aside, she reached for a bunch of fresh parsley and noticed a man sitting cross-legged on the ground between the herb stand and the next booth. He was strumming a battered guitar.

Since she regularly came to the market, she was well aware that Zeke Shepherd often hung out there, playing for the loose change and occasional dollar bills that people dropped into his open guitar case.

But this man could not be Zeke. In the first place, he was wearing jeans and a freshly laundered plaid shirt—both of which actually fit his lanky frame. Second, the long black hair was a lot shorter. The man strumming the guitar, his face bent low over the instrument, had thick wavy hair that barely covered the tips of his ears. It shone in the sunshine, black as onyx marble. And he was not begging—although Zeke really did not accost people or ask outright for money. The guitar case was nowhere in evidence.

And then as if he felt her staring at him, assessing him the way she might tackle a vexing problem at work, the man looked up and the smile that spread across his burnished face was pure Zeke. “Hey there,” he said. “I took your advice.” He fingered his hair. “What's next, coach?”

“Very nice,” Darcy said primly and turned her attention back to the parsley.

“Ever try this variety?” Zeke asked, moving to his feet and pointing to a curly-leafed parsley. He was standing next to her now, his guitar resting against the support pole of the vendor's stand. He picked up the parsley and sniffed it then sighed. “Heaven,” he murmured and held it out to her.

Not knowing what else to do, she leaned in to sniff the fragrance. “Very nice,” she said and turned away on the pretense of picking out some other fresh herbs.

“
Very nice
seems to be the slogan you've chosen for today,” Zeke teased. “What are you going to make with all these herbs?”

“Spaghetti sauce.” Why was she answering him? It would only encourage the man.

“You cook, then?”

Darcy bristled and turned on him in spite of her determination to escape him. “You don't have to sound so shocked.”

He grinned. “No worries, Darcy. Simply making conversation.”

“Yes, I enjoy cooking. Because of the demands of my work I rarely get to do much of it except on the weekends.”

His smiled faded to a frown. “That's the trouble with work, all right—especially working for somebody else. Ever thought about going out on your own?”

She had paid for the herbs and realized that the two of them were moving slowly down the row of vendors—together, him with his guitar slung over his back, her with a cloth bag of fresh produce in her arms. “There isn't a high demand for hospital administrators outside of actual hospitals,” she reminded him.

He shrugged. “You could do something else.”

As if it were that easy. As if all a person had to do was wish for something and it would be there. “Such as?” She'd meant to deliver the words as a line of dismissal, but the truth was that she was curious about his answer.

“I don't know. You say you love to cook.”

This whole conversation was beyond ridiculous. “And speaking of that,” Darcy said brightly, “I really do have errands to finish so I can get home. Spaghetti sauce is best simmered slowly.”

“No worries.” Zeke turned to go but instead of feeling relieved, Darcy felt a tinge of regret. She stood watching him and as if he realized she was still there, he turned. “Hey Darcy, you forgot to give me that second piece of advice,” he called out.

Several shoppers turned to look at her—as if they too were waiting. She almost turned and walked away, but then it came to her. Malcolm had worried about Zeke's lifestyle choice for months now. If she could help guide Malcolm's brother to a more traditional lifestyle, then her boss would be in her debt.

“Ditch the flip-flops,” she called back.

Zeke grinned and waved as he headed away from her.

The man did have the most engaging smile.

After they all met at the bus, John and Justin loaded the bikes into the van from the co-op, while Hester led the way to her car. “We decided to drive separately. That way the boys can go on back, and then you and I can join them after we meet with Jeannie.”

Rachel had to smile at the way Hester lumped Justin and John together as
the boys.
“Tell me about Jeannie,” she asked as Hester drove.

“Jeannie is still so fragile and right now that makes her shy away from others, even people she's known all her life. If you wouldn't mind I think it would be best if you didn't know her story. Let's start with three women having coffee and see where things go.”

Jeannie was a small woman, dressed in the clothing of the outside world. Her hair was the color of flames that fell in soft curls around her face. She looked as fragile as a porcelain doll.

“Over here,” she called when she spotted Hester.

Rachel and Hester dodged traffic as they crossed the busy street to a small café with tables set outside among a garden of potted flowering plants.

“Jeannie Messner, meet another dear friend, Rachel Kaufmann,” Hester said.

Over coffee they got better acquainted. Rachel liked Jeannie immediately. But when the conversation came to Rachel's experience with VORP, a shadow of suspicion crossed Jeannie's face. She shot Hester a look.

“Subtle,” she murmured as she took a sip of her coffee.

“Okay, tell her,” Hester replied with a nod to Rachel.

As Rachel explained the VORP program, Jeannie sat so still and expressionless that Rachel was unsure of how best to proceed. She talked about how James had died and her feelings afterward. When tears welled in Rachel's eyes, Jeannie reached over and squeezed her hand. “I know,” she whispered. “I understand.”

“Going through the program allowed both Justin and me to talk openly about how much we were hurting to the very person whose action had brought us that pain.”

Abruptly, Jeannie stood up. “I'll get refills,” she announced. Rachel was relieved to see that she was not leaving—at least not yet. That meant that there was a chance she might consider the idea.

Hester squeezed Rachel's hand. “I think it's working.”

But Rachel knew that it would not be that easy. When Jeannie returned, the three of them talked for some time, and finally Rachel offered to act as mediator for the two families.

Jeannie sighed. “Do you really think that you can help us?”

“It depends,” Rachel admitted. “Everyone needs to be willing. I'll do my best,” she promised. “It will be hard—really hard—for some time, but it will get better.” Rachel thought of that same promise that she had given Justin.

Who was she, to go around handing out such assurances as if she had the slightest power to deliver the goods?

Impulsively, Jeannie hugged her, and as Rachel patted the woman's thin shoulders, she squeezed her eyes closed and prayed for the wisdom and guidance to help in whatever way she could.

Driving back from Tampa, Ben's thoughts were consumed with Sally. He'd been reluctant to leave her, but Sharon—upon hearing that Darcy had invited him to a home-cooked meal—had practically pushed him out the door.

“Go. There is not one thing you can do here except sit there looking worried, and frankly that is of no help at all to Sally— or me. So do us a favor and go have dinner. Come back tomorrow full of stories about your evening with Darcy.”

But when he thought about who he wanted to talk about his fears for Sally with, it was not Darcy who came to mind. It was Rachel. He glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. He had time to stop by Sharon's house and check to be sure that everything was okay there. If Rachel was at home he would stop by for a minute to give her the latest update. Plenty of time to do all that and still be at Darcy's by eight.

With his plan in place, he stopped first at his condo where he showered and changed and chose a bottle of wine to take with him to Darcy's. When he arrived at Sharon's house he was disappointed to see no sign of life down at the guesthouse. Instead he found Zeke sitting by the pool, a cup of coffee on the table beside him.

“What's the word?” Zeke asked as if the plan all along had been for Sally's two uncles to meet.

“The diagnosis of ocular GVHD was confirmed.”

“In English?”

“She has a chronic condition known as Graft-Versus-Host Disease or GVHD that has settled in her eyes.”

Zeke let out a long low whistle. “Is she … I mean, tell me she won't go blind on top of everything else.”

“No, although there can be some permanent damage. Right now the doctors in Tampa are running a series of tests.”

“And you had no pull to speed up getting the results?”

Ben bristled. “It's the weekend, and I'm not on staff there anyway.”

“Sorry, man. I just …” Zeke shook his head and concentrated on his coffee.

“You got a haircut,” Ben said, trying not to sound as shocked as he was.

“Seemed like a good idea. Tell me about the GVHD thing.”

Ben pulled a chair closer to Zeke's and sat down heavily. “It comes in two forms—acute or chronic. The acute form usually shows up in the first few months following the transplant. It's usually treatable and short lived. Sally had passed that milestone already.”

“And the chronic?”

“Shows up later in various parts of the body—eyes, liver, lungs, skin—can be treated successfully. Or the effects can last a lifetime.”

“Treatment?”

“Steroids—prednisone, sometimes with cyclosporine, and a whole cocktail of other drugs.”

The two men were silent for a long moment. Then Zeke cleared his throat. “I thought she was being tested. I mean, it seemed like she was always going to have blood drawn and stuff.”

“That's the thing. Her blood counts were all within normal range until last night, and then they shot through the roof.”

“You know that day we all went to watch her game? She was rubbing her eyes a lot that day.”

“Yeah. I missed that. Blamed the wind and the dust blowing off the ball field. I thought it was normal.”