Out of the Shadows (14 page)

Gus grinned. “I’ll take that as a no.” And turning to Wade, he said, “Well, there’s one thing to be said for predictability.”

Grinning, Wade put in, “I’ve always hated surprises.”

And how predictable of him to come to her defense,
Patrice thought. “Then, you must love me like crazy!” she blurted.

Instantly, she slapped both hands over her mouth, prayed the raucous laughter of the salesmen at a nearby table had drowned out her words. But Wade had heard her, all right, and the proof was written all over his red-cheeked, wide-eyed face.

Their waitress stepped up to the table just then. Bella, her name tag read. “Have you folks decided what you’d like to order?”

Saved by the Bella,
Patrice thought, grinning sardonically.

“I’ll have the gnocchi,” Gus said.

“Same here,” Wade echoed.

Pen poised above her pad, Bella looked at Patrice. “And you, ma’am?”

“Um, sure. Okay….” She looked at the menu, but it was no use. She couldn’t focus on anything except her dopey declaration. Patrice looked up at Bella. “I, uh… Me, too.”

The waitress tucked the tablet into her apron pocket and picked up their menus. “Gnocchi times three,” she said. “I’ll be back in a jiffy with your salads.”

While Patrice took tiny sips of her water and Wade picked at a loose thread on his napkin, Gus polished his spoon with a corner of the tablecloth. “Just wait till you taste this salad, Doc,” he said, breaking the clumsy silence. And touching all four fingertips to his thumb, he smacked his lips.
“Bellissima!”

Wade held Patrice’s gaze for a spellbinding moment. “You can say that again” was his grating reply. “Then you can say it
again.
”

Heart beating like a parade drum, she swallowed.
Whether he meant it or not didn’t much matter, because she was a goner.

Give me strength, Lord,
she prayed, looking into Wade’s mesmerizing eyes,
But it sure would be nice if I didn’t need it.

I
t wasn’t like Gus to fall asleep in the car. If he hadn’t endured endless hours of medical tests, Patrice knew, he’d be wide awake now, saying “Watch out for that truck!” or “There’s a red light up ahead!” Much as she appreciated the quiet, it unnerved her.

Would the tests Wade had performed uncover the reasons for Gus’s lethargy, his lack of appetite? Would they explain his occasional dizzy spells and insomnia? She prayed they would. Prayed, too, that Wade wouldn’t have to disqualify himself as Gus’s doctor, because the men were slowly becoming pals—as evidenced by their joviality during dinner—and wasn’t it a violation of some medical rule for a doctor to treat a friend?

Thanks to Wade, tonight her dad had seemed more animated, more like his old self than he had in weeks.

And so had
she
….

Patrice smiled, remembering those last minutes at Chiaparelli’s, as they waited for the valets to bring the cars around. Gus had rolled himself to the end of the block in an attempt to see if he could figure out “Where
do those kids
put
our cars, anyway!” leaving Wade and Patrice alone on the sidewalk.

It had started to drizzle, and Wade insisted she join him under the big green awning at the restaurant’s entrance. “It’s Dad who ought to be under here,” she’d said, frowning.

He’d given her a little sideways hug, kissed her temple. “You worry too much. He’s a smart guy—I think he knows enough to come in out of the rain.”

Patrice now turned the windshield wipers a notch faster and licked her lips, remembering that just as she’d opened her mouth to agree, Wade had given her a long, sweet kiss that she could taste still. When it ended—much too soon, she thought—he’d looked deep into her eyes and smiled. “Okay to call you later?”

“Sure,” she’d said, grinning and nodding dumbly.

She hadn’t asked why he wanted to call, because what if he said in that oh-so-serious doctor tone of his that it was a subject better discussed in private? And what if that subject was their relationship…such as it was?

The dashboard clock glowed a bright blue 9:55. Another fifteen minutes and they’d be home; ten minutes later, Gus would’ve downed his aspirin with a big glass of water, and God willing, he’d be sleeping—peacefully for a change—before the grandfather clock struck ten-thirty. How long till Wade called?

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Gus asked, his voice sleep-foggy and quiet.

“Oh, this and that.”

“Any of ‘this’ have to do with Wade?”

She only sighed.

“He’s a good guy. I think you picked a winner this time.”

A winner, indeed. What proof did she have that Wade
wanted more than a friendship? Still, a girl could hope…. She glanced at Gus, and seeing that he’d meant it, smiled. “You really think so?”

“Well, nothing in this world is absolute. But something tells me you’ll be safe with him.”

Safe.
How would she recognize something so elusive? Another sigh. “I dunno.”

“Yes, you do.” He reached out, laid his hand atop hers on the gearshift knob. “You’re the coffee bean, remember?”

She shot him a feeble grin. “Sometimes no coffee at all is better than a weak brew.”

He chuckled. “What a horrible metaphor! Besides, you don’t really expect me to swallow that. You’re strong as they come. Why, you wouldn’t know ‘weak’ if it bit you on the big toe.”

Patrice wheeled the van into the driveway and killed the headlights. Turning slightly, she looked him in the eye. “You’re a piece of work.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Because you always know just the right thing to say to make me feel better.”

He shrugged. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“And an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

“You are the apple of my eye,” he sang.

“Apple polisher,” she teased.

“Now, now, don’t upset the applecart.”

She’d given it her best, but Patrice just wasn’t in the mood for their traditional “Top that Pun” game. Hands high in mock surrender, she said, “You win. I give up!”

She hurried around to the back of the van to get his wheelchair, then standing beside the passenger door, the note of concern that had been ringing in her head became a chord as she watched him climb into it. Gus had
lost the use of his legs, but constant exercise had made his arms strong and steady as oak trees…so why were they trembling so badly now?

As she locked the van, Patrice saw him run a hand over his face. It was what he always did when exhausted or frustrated…or in pain….

She pushed his chair up the wide wooden ramp, parked it near the front door. “You okay, Dad?” she asked, digging in her purse for the house key.

“’Course I’m okay,” he barked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She ignored the brusqueness of his tone and unlocked the front door. “Well, I’m sure beat. It’s been a long, grueling day and I can’t wait to get into my robe and slippers.”

He nodded as she pushed the chair toward his bedroom. “Yeah, that pillow is gonna look mighty inviting tonight.”

“Think I’ll have a cup of tea before I turn in. How ’bout I fix you one while I’m at it?”

“No thanks. I’m just gonna hit the hay.” He grabbed her hand. “But thanks, Treecie,” Gus said, smiling wearily. “You’re a peach.”

She pretended not to notice the slight hitch in his voice, tried not to question what might have put it there.

She got onto her knees beside the wheelchair and began unbuttoning his shirtsleeves.

Gus stopped her by grabbing her wrist. “I can do it myself.”

She straightened, regarded his haggard face, his worried eyes. “Well, of course you can,” she said, forcing a brightness into her tone that she didn’t feel. Then, looking right and left, she whispered, “I’m just looking for excuses not to sit alone in this storm.”

A house-shaking roll of thunder was followed by a sizzling bolt of lightning, as if to remind him how much she’d always hated storms.
Thank You, Lord,
she prayed silently.

“Good thing you’re a counselor,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

“Why?”

“’Cause you’d make a terrible salesperson.”

Brow furrowed, Patrice said, “I don’t get it.”

He touched the tip of her nose. “I ain’t buyin’ your ‘I’m scared of storms’ malarkey.” And with a light kiss to her forehead, he added, “Now, go fix your tea and let your old man catch some
Z
s, will ya?”

She got to her feet. “You sure you don’t want a cup?”

“Positive.” He waved her toward the door. “Now shoo. Skedaddle. Make tracks.”

From the hall, she said, “G’night, Dad. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And as she pulled the door to, she heard his gentle postscript: “Till the day I die….”

Heart hammering, Patrice paced the family room, left forearm pressed to her waist, chewing on her right knuckle. She’d never been any good at waiting, and yet, it seemed to be the thing she was forced to do most. Wait for the coffee to perk, wait in Beltway traffic, wait for donations to trickle in on behalf of the hospitalized kids.

Wait for test results….

Something was wrong, terribly wrong with Gus. And it was more than Gus’s pale complexion, his sluggish voice, his shaking hands that frightened her—he’d experienced all that before, and had come back stronger than ever—it was the look in his eyes that worried her.
No, she corrected, it was more what she
didn’t
see—that old spark, the mischievous glint, the teasing twinkle….

She’d been around the hospital long enough to know that when a doctor said “two or three days,” it could very well take a week to get test results. She prayed Gus’s health wouldn’t get worse in the meantime. “And, Lord,” she whispered, “please give me the fortitude to be strong for Dad.”

Her pacing set the crisp, thin pages of her Bible to fluttering slightly. It sat on the coffee table, right where she’d left it after morning devotions. Patrice bent to retrieve it, pressed it to her chest. “You said ‘Ask and ye shall receive,’ so I’m asking.” She closed her eyes. “No, I’m begging. Whatever it is, let it be minor, something easy to fix, because he’s already been through more than anyone should have to bear.”

The muted, hollow gongs of the grandfather clock announced the quarter hour. Ten-fifteen. Is that all? she wondered. It seemed like hours had passed since she’d left Gus’s room to check on him and take his temperature.

After putting the Bible back where she’d found it, Patrice walked into the kitchen and turned on the tea-kettle. She started for the stairs, thinking that by the time she’d changed into her pajamas, the water would be hot enough to brew a mug of herbal tea. Then she’d sip it in the family room, with the Good Book in her lap.

Another clap of thunder shook the glass in their panes, making her freeze halfway up the steps. The unrelenting rain pummeled the roof as the wind moaned around the house. It was the kind of night that would have her up, walking from window to window, checking to see that every tree was still upright in the yard, every flowerpot secure on the porch.

Smiling a bit as she stepped out of her shoes, Patrice marveled at how well the Father knew her.

The only cure for a heart burdened with worries and distress was time with Him, so He’d given her a storm to provide her with that time.

There was one chair in the cramped apartment, and Wade sat in it now, ankle propped on knee, fingers steepled under his chin, wondering how it had happened. Because it
shouldn’t
have happened, not after his vow to remain a bachelor, forever. He remembered the precise moment when he’d taken the oath.

Just shy of his twelfth birthday, he’d started hanging around with Buddy Mauvais and his bunch. The five boys had a lot in common, from being fatherless to the mediocre grades they earned in school. Individually, they were outcasts; together, a strange family. One night, he’d come in nearly two hours past his curfew; his mother, tired after a long workday, had waited up for him. Tugging him by the ear, she’d plopped him onto the seat of a kitchen chair.

After several tense minutes of silent pacing, she sat across from him. “I’m trying my hardest to be both mother and father to you, Wade, but you have to help me out, here.” He’d tried
his
hardest to look older, wiser, badder than he was—a “Buddy lesson” mastered in the principal’s office—and found out real fast that what worked on Mr. Gardner
didn’t
work on his mom. “Keep this kind of behavior up,” she’d steamed, “and you’ll become the kind of man who leaves a trail of broken hearts everywhere you go. Is that what you want!”

“The kind of man” meant “like your father,” though she’d never uttered those exact words.

If he hadn’t paid attention in biology class the week before, he wouldn’t have known a whit about genetics. But the subject had fascinated him; he’d even taken notes! So he understood that his hazel eyes and sandy-brown hair were his mom’s doing, while his dad’s input had been a ruddy complexion and a burly build. He hated the fact that he got teary-eyed at sad movies—that, he could blame on his mom. What horrible characteristic could he charge his dad with? The inability to follow through on a promise?

Staring at the phone now, Wade remembered the delicious, soul-stirring kiss under the awning at Chiaparelli’s. Every time he’d taken her in his arms, she’d melted against him like butter on a hot griddle. If he closed his eyes, he could see her uptilted face, eyes aglow with a light that could only be love.

The thought sat him upright. What had he ever done in his life to earn the love of a woman like that!

It didn’t seem enough that Wade had cleaned up his act after that night in the kitchen with his mom—working harder in school, getting a part-time job, helping out more around the house. God in Heaven knew his mom deserved his best. And after a while, it became second nature, got easier still when he saw his name on the honor roll, or got appointed the youngest assistant manager, at sixteen, in Burger Stall history, or saw the pride in his mom’s eyes when he was awarded a full scholarship. He’d gotten downright
good
at presenting himself as “good.” But in truth, the performance got tougher with each passing year.

He hadn’t worked for stellar grades, or a promotion at the burger place, or the four-year scholarship because he’d
wanted
those things. He’d done it to keep peace, because
peace,
it seemed—even at twelve, at fourteen,
at thirty-one!—was the dream state that seemed to elude him.

Except when he was with Patrice, that is.

With her, he hadn’t felt the need to perform, because everything about her made it clear she liked him best when he was being himself. And Gus echoed that attitude.

Was it any wonder he felt drawn to the simple, cozy Victorian they called home?

Sitting forward, he grabbed the telephone, started to dial her number. But the clock read 10:35. Too late to call? he wondered, punching in the last digits.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” he said, unaware of the width of his smile. “Glad you made it home okay. There was a big wreck on Route 40. I heard about it on the radio.”

After a slight pause, she said, “Who is this?”

Wade recognized that teasing tone, could almost picture her, smiling as she said it. “Officer Stoneface, from the Wisecracks Police. Are you aware that you’re in danger of violating the Serious Code?”

Her merry laughter filtered through the phone lines, caressing his ear and soothing his soul. “You’re a nut,” she said on a giggle. “So, how’re you?”

Chuckling, he said, “Same as I was half an hour ago—fine.”

Another lull, and then she said, “It was more like an hour ago. Lots can happen in an hour, you know.”

Don’t I know it,
Wade thought.
A guy can realize he’s completely dazzled by a li’l gal and—

“Could I ask you a favor?”

He acknowledged a trace of worry in her voice. “Sure, anything,” Wade said, meaning it.

“Is there any way you could hurry up the results of those tests? I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to—”