The Missing Year (16 page)

Camille waved to the obviously disappointed realtor as Ross backed out of the driveway.

“That was interesting,” he said.

“She seems a little eager to offload that house.”

Valerie had insisted Dr. and Mrs. Cletus Clements have a second and third look.

Ross felt a bit bad about being dishonest with someone who either needed the Wheeler house gone or needed the commission.

Valerie didn’t mention Lila’s attempted suicide or Blake’s tragic death, but there was a sense that she knew about it and that it was affecting potential sales. Her hopes had been a little too high for the out-of-towners.

Halfway down the road, Ross’s cell phone vibrated in the cup holder. He reached to grab it and jerked the wheel.

“I got it,” Camille said. “You drive.” She tapped the screen. “Who’s Mark?”

“He works at the center. Why?”

“He’s called seven times.”

Ross pulled into a nearby gas station and parked. “Let me see that.” He took the phone and played the messages, the last of which said, “Check your e-mail.”

Ross refreshed his inbox and downloaded an attachment that had him promptly returning Mark’s call.

“Hello?”

“Mark, it’s Ross.”

“Dr. Reeves, where are you?”

“I had to take a couple of personal days. What’s going on?”

“Did you get the file?”

“I did, but I told you not to worry about that.”

“And I told
you
I’d do what I could.”

Mark had sent digital copies of Blake Wheeler’s hospital records.

“How did you get them?” Ross said.

“Doesn’t matter. Did you read the chart?”

“The print is too small on my phone. Can you give me the abbreviated version? Is there something in there I can use.”

“I’d say, but I think it is better if you read for yourself. When will you be back?”

“Monday at the latest.”

“Lila’s asking for you.”

“Tell her I’ll be back soon.”

“Will do.”

“And Mark, thanks.”

“I wouldn’t thank me just yet.”

* * * * *

Ross checked into Sutherland’s Bed and Breakfast a half hour later under his assumed name, Cletus Clements, which is how Camille had reserved the room as a gag.

“Honey, I just
love
this place,” Camille said in her southern belle accent. “Isn’t it darling?”

An elderly woman with the tea-stained teeth handed Camille the room key with a smile. “Honeymoon Suite’s at the end of the hall on the second floor.”

Ross waited until they were out of the innkeeper’s earshot. “You booked the Honeymoon Suite?”

“It’s not like we haven’t slept in the same bed before.”

“When you play a role, Camille, you really commit. This place has Wi-Fi, right?”

“You said to make sure it did, so yes, it does.” Camille dragged her suitcase down the hall, its wheels silenced by a worn carpet runner. “Honeymoon Suite comes with a Jacuzzi tub, you know?”

“Perfect for keeping you busy while I do some reading.”

“You’re at least going to take me to dinner, right?”

“This isn’t a vacation, Camille.”

“That’s Mrs. Cletus Clements to you,” she said, back in character.

“In that case, of course I’m taking you to dinner.”

Camille unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Ross made a face. “I haven’t seen a canopy bed since ’92.”

Camille shook her head, her eye on the two-person tub in the center of the room. “It’s a good thing you’ve been through medical school because I didn’t bring a bathing suit. Still,” she shrugged, “it’s nicer than your room at Peak View.”

Ross set his suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed and opened his laptop on the desk. “You okay for a bit?”

“I think I can manage.” Camille took a white robe and a pair of one-size-fits-most slippers into the bathroom.

Ross called the front desk for the Wi-Fi password and downloaded the seventy page PDF Mark had sent him.

“How long are you going to be?” Camille sat on the side of the bubble-filled tub, book in hand, ready for her bath.

“A while.” The mix of handwritten and typed reports was hard to read, even on his laptop.

Ross averted his eyes as Camille undressed and stepped into the water. He enlarged the first page of the file and read the emergency care report from the shooting.

The paramedics detailed Blake’s condition upon their arrival at the convenience store. He had sustained a single, small caliber gunshot wound to the right front-temporal region of his head. The injury caused his jaw to lock, forcing the paramedics to use a bag-valve-mask to support his breathing. The handwritten emergency room notes were harder to decipher, the doctor’s penmanship worse than his own, which bordered on illegible. Words were half-written in a cross between print and cursive. Ross zoomed in further. Blake had been intubated on arrival to the hospital and moved directly to surgery. The bullet had never exited his brain. The surgery to retrieve it had been successful, but left Blake comatose for nearly a month. Neurology notes recorded brain activity, making Ross wonder at what point the issue of removing Blake from life support had come up.

Camille added water to the bath, momentarily distracting him.

“Water’s getting cold.” She turned the page in her book. “How are you making out?”

“The plot thickens.” Ross shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair, rubbing his aching back.

Paperwork from administration spoke of an advanced directive Lila had brought to their attention. A summary prepared by the Chairman of the hospital’s Ethics Committee noted that Blake being held on life support was a direct violation of his right to choose, and that furthermore, in compliance with Blake’s wishes, Dr. Jeremy Davis’s request for something called ASO had been denied.

Ross had gone to medical school, but he didn’t recognize the term. He made a note to look it up and kept reading. Joyce Coleman, the hospital’s CEO’s, extended her sincerest written apologies to Ruth who had fought removing Blake from life support and lost. The letters were copied to Lila as well as to two different attorneys.

Blake’s advance directive was ironclad.

Lila discontinuing life support wasn’t her idea, it was his.

Ross opened a browser and typed the search string: “ASO neurology,” returning a dozen articles on an experimental treatment called “antisense oligonucleotides.” When he saw what the treatment was for, an alarm went off. Blake’s surgical error, Lila’s nursing school—if Ross was right, everything made sense.

Jeremy Davis wasn’t working
with
Lila.

He was working
against
her.

And the reason why was Ross’s smoking gun.

No matter what Ross said, there was no way Camille was letting him out of taking her to dinner. He wanted to continue his research on Blake and to keep trying to get in touch with Mattie who he had been calling non-stop. Camille insisted Ross taking her out was the closest thing she’d had to a proper date since her divorce, though he found that hard to believe.

For all Camille’s faults, she was as wittily charming as she was beautiful, and not just for her age. Mid-forties looked like late twenties on her, only more refined and sophisticated. He hadn’t seen the allure when they were younger, but understood now why Sarah had loved her so much.

“Why don’t you go and get us a table,” he said. “I’ll be right in.” Letting Camille out at the door was the gentlemanly thing to do, and it bought Ross time to call Mattie.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” Camille said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Camille shut the car door and went inside. Everyone from the man holding the door to the passing waiters eyed her.

Ross waited until she reached the hostess station to pull away and then dialed his cell phone.

“Pick up.
Pick up.
” When Mattie didn’t answer by the third ring, Ross knew he was going to voicemail again. “Mattie, honey. Please call me back. I’m worried. At least let me know you got home safely. I’m sorry for everything, even though nothing happened.” Ross had monitored the late news the night Mattie flew home. He had no idea what flight she was on, but the fact that no domestic plane crashes had been reported was the only thing allowing him to sleep. He had left over a dozen messages since. Probably well over a dozen, but he had lost count. Every one said the same thing: “Nothing happened.” And nothing did, though he didn’t know why it mattered. He and Mattie had broken up.

Then why did he feel so guilty?

Ross straightened his yellow tie and finger-combed his dark hair, heading toward the restaurant and praying he wasn’t overdressed in the Armani suit Mattie had picked out for a fundraiser back home. He never felt right wearing it, no matter how many times he had been complimented. The pants hung a little too straight, the jacket uncomfortably narrow, and the overall look had him feeling like he was playing dress up, attempting to be younger. He tried not to read too much into Mattie’s intention.

She said their thirteen year age difference didn’t matter.

Ross was bothered for her.

What kind of life could they have when he reached his twilight and she was still thriving? And was it right of him to leave her alone so young? Nothing was set in stone, but Ross placed his bet on nature taking its course, sooner in his case than Mattie’s later. He had always thought it was Sarah he’d grow old with, but things don’t always go according to plan.

His cell phone chimed as he reached the hostess station.

The text message from Mattie made him smile.

“You’re listed as my emergency contact. They’d have called you if something had happened.”

She was nothing if not practical.

“Good evening, sir.” A young man in a black and white waiter’s uniform greeted him.

“Good evening,” Ross replied, about to describe Camille when he saw her hand waving in the air from a table to the right of the entrance.

“Hey, over here,” she said.

Ross couldn’t tell if it was her lack of decorum, or the fact that she looked breathtaking in the low-cut red dress, stiletto heels, and matching red lipstick that made her the focus of attention. From the women’s shaking heads and the men’s eager eyes, Ross guessed it was a combination of both.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said.

Camille smiled, having downed a half a glass of Chardonnay in the time it took for him to make the call. “No problem at all, Sugar.” She was Adele through and through.

“Are we going to play Cletus and Adele all night?” Ross whispered.

“I wondered how long you could keep up.”

“Not long enough for Community Theater, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right. One actor at the table is enough. I was starting to wonder if you left me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Who knows? I half expect you to jump a plane to Chicago at any minute. You were calling the girlfriend, weren’t you?”

“Her name is Mattie.”

The woman seated at the next table glanced over.

Camille stared back with crazy eyes that warned the woman to mind her own business.

“And yes, I called her.”

“Still no answer?”

“Define
answer.
I got a text message, so that’s something, right?”

A young waitress wearing the same androgynous uniform as the waiters approached their table. She wore no jewelry, her hair in a tight bun, and modest makeup, but under other circumstances, she might have been attractive. Something the uniform did its best to hide.

“Good evening,” she said. “Welcome to The Captain’s Roost. May I bring you something to drink?”

“I’ll have what she’s having,” Ross said.

“Another Chardonnay for me, too.”

The waitress nodded and went to the bar to fetch their drinks.

“Adele the Belle, I thought the jig was up.”

“And confuse the poor girl?” Camille laughed.

Ross rolled his eyes, thanking the waitress when she quickly returned with two glasses of white wine.

“Can I ask you something?” he said to Camille. “Was I imagining it the other night, or were you purposely giving Mattie a hard time?”

“I’m going to answer that question with another question. When you and I first ran into each other at the market, were you expecting I was still married to Adrian?”

“I guess so,” Ross said. “I knew you two had trouble but I hadn’t heard you divorced.”

“Then you can understand why me walking in on my best friend’s mostly naked husband with another woman got my hackles up. You and Sarah left New York as a perfect couple. There were never two people more meant to be together. Feel free to analyze this if you want to, but on the days that I really miss Sarah, I mean the days I can’t face that she’s gone, I pretend she’s with you in Chicago, living the good life.”

“The ‘good life,’ huh?” Ross smiled to keep from tearing up.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. And when you put it that way, I get it.”

“I saw that woman—”

“Mattie.”

“I saw the lovesick way
Mattie
looked at you and I wanted to hurt her. Not physically. Well, maybe physically at first, but I wanted her gone. I was defending Sarah.”

“I know.”

Camille finished her first Chardonnay and started on her second. “I was wrong.”

She said it so quietly, Ross wasn’t sure he heard correctly.

“What?”

“Do you need me to hire a skywriter? I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I should’ve let the bra thing slide, but I had to open my big mouth.”

“I’ve done worse, believe me,” Ross said. “Mattie’s too good at getting shit on—excuse the expression.”

“No worries. People get shit on sometimes.”

“I’m not the guy to do it.”

“I know that,” Camille said. “You were always one of the good ones. This woman, Mattie, do you love her?”

“More than I realized.” Ross could see it wasn’t the answer Camille was expecting. “But—”

“But what?”

“But I love Sarah more.”

Camille forced a smile when the waitress brought a basket of bread. “Thank you,” she said in a purely northern tone.

“Are you ready to order?”

“I think we need a couple of minutes more, please,” Camille said.

Ross sneered when the waitress left. “You broke character. I’m afraid I might have to fire you.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Speaking of, why don’t you tell me about this appointment tomorrow? Did you come up with a plan?”

“I did. And it’s a good one.”