Year One, Page 3

  “I— But I didn’t even…” She had managed to bring a few candles to flame, after a couple minutes of fierce concentration. “I wasn’t even ready to start, and … You did it.”

  Amused, and secretly a little relieved, she poked a finger into his chest. “Trying to boost my confidence?”

  “I didn’t.” He laid his free hand on her bare knee. “I wouldn’t do that, and I’ll never lie to you. That was all you, Lana.”

  “But I … You really didn’t? And you didn’t, I don’t know, give me some sort of boost?”

  “All you. Try it again.” He blew out the candle, and this time put it in her hands.

  Nervous now, she closed her eyes—more to calm herself than anything. But when she thought of the candle, of lighting it, she felt that rising inside her. When she opened her eyes and simply thought of the flame, the flame appeared.

  “Oh, oh God.” Her eyes, a bright summer blue, reflected the candlelight. “I really did it.”

  “What did you feel?”

  “It was … like something lifting inside me. Lifting up, spreading out, I don’t know exactly. But, Max, it felt natural. Not a big flash and boom. Just like, well, breathing. And still, you know, a little spooky. Let’s keep it between just us, okay?”

  She looked at him through the light.

  She saw the pride and the interest on that handsome, poetic face, with the edgy cheekbones under the scruff, as he’d worked through the day without shaving.

  She saw both in his eyes, pure gray in candlelight.

  “Don’t write about it or anything. At least not until we’re sure it’s not a fluke, a just-this-one-time thing.”

  “A door opened inside you, Lana. I saw it in your eyes, just as I saw the potential for it in your eyes the first time we met. Even before I loved you, I saw it. But if you want it to stay between us, it does.”

  “Good.” She rose, stepped over to place her candle with his. A symbol, she thought, of their unity. She turned, candlelight swaying behind her. “I love you, Max. That’s my light.”

  He stood, lithe as a cat, gathered her close. “I can’t imagine what my life would be without you in it. Want more wine?”

  She tipped her head back. “Is that a euphemism?”

  He smiled, kissed her. “I’m thinking wine, and we order in because I’m starving. Then we’ll see about euphemisms.”

  “I’m in for all of that. I can cook.”

  “You certainly can, but you did that all day. You’ve got the night off. We talked about going out—”

  “I’d rather stay in. With you.” Much rather, she realized.

  “Great. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Surprise me,” she said, turning to pick up the black pants and T-shirt she’d worn under her chef’s coat—sous chef to be exact—he’d stripped off her when she’d come home from the restaurant.

  “Two double shifts this week, so I’ll be happy to stay home, eat something—anything—somebody else cooked.”

  “Done.” He pulled on the jeans and dark sweater he’d worn to work—writing in his office in the loft. “I’ll open the wine, and surprise you with the rest.”

  “I’ll be right out,” she promised, going to the closet.

  When she’d moved in with Max, she’d tried to limit her space to half the closet, but … She loved clothes, adored fashion—and since she spent so much of her time in a white tunic and black pants, indulged herself outside of work.

  Casual, she thought, could still be pretty, even a little romantic for an evening at home. She chose a navy dress with swirls of red that would float a bit just below her knees. And she could come up with her own surprise—some sexy underwear—for when they got to the euphemism part of the night.

  She dressed, then studied her face in the mirror. Candlelight flattered, but … She laid her hands on her face and did a light glamour—something she’d had the talent for since puberty.

  She often wondered if whatever spark she had depended more on vanity than real power.

  That was fine with Lana. It didn’t shame her a bit to be or feel more pretty than powerful. Especially since whatever she had of each attracted a man like Max.

  She started out, remembered the candles.

  “Don’t leave them unattended,” she murmured, and turned back to put them out.

  She stopped, considered. If she could light them, could she unlight them?

  “It’s just the reverse, right?” Saying it, thinking it, she pointed at one, intended to walk over and try.

  The flame died.

  “Oh well … Wow.” She started to call Max, then realized he’d probably get wound up in it all, and they’d end up practicing and studying instead of having their quiet dinner at home.

  Instead, she simply moved from candle to candle in her mind until the room fell dark. She couldn’t explain what she felt, or how that door Max spoke of had so suddenly opened.

  Something to think about later, she decided.

  She wanted that wine.

  * * *

  While Lana and Max enjoyed their wine—and an appetizer of melted Brie on toasted baguette slices Lana couldn’t stop herself from making—Katie MacLeod Parsoni rushed into a hospital in Brooklyn.

  The tears hadn’t come yet because she didn’t believe, refused to believe, her father was dead, and her mother suddenly was so ill as to be in ICU.

  With one hand pressed to her belly, her husband’s arm around her now nonexistent waist, she followed directions to the elevator that led to Intensive Care.

  “This isn’t happening. It’s a mistake. I told you, I talked to her a few hours ago. Dad wasn’t feeling well—a cold or something—and she was making soup.”

  She’d said the same thing over and over again on the drive to the hospital. Tony just kept his arm around her. “It’s going to be all right,” he said, as he could think of nothing else.

  “It’s a mistake,” she repeated. But when they reached the nurse’s station, she couldn’t get a word out. Nothing came. She looked up helplessly at Tony.

  “We were told Angie—Angela MacLeod was admitted. This is her daughter, Kathleen—my wife, Katie.”

  “I need to see my mother. I need to see her.” Something in the nurse’s eyes had panic bubbling in Katie’s throat. “I need to see my mother! I want to talk to Dr. Hopman. She said—” And that Katie couldn’t say.

  “Dr. Gerson’s treating your mother,” the nurse began.

  “I don’t want to see Dr. Gerson. I want to see my mother! I want to talk to Dr. Hopman.”

  “Come on now, Katie, come on. You’ve got to try to calm down. You’ve got to think of the babies.”

  “I’m going to contact Dr. Hopman.” The nurse came around the desk. “Why don’t you wait over here, sit down while you wait. How far along are you?”

  “Twenty-nine weeks, four days,” Tony said.

  Now tears came, slow drops running. “You count the days, too,” Katie managed.

  “Of course I do, honey. Sure I do. We’re having twins,” he told the nurse.

  “What fun for you.” The nurse smiled, but her face went grave when she turned to walk back to the desk.

  Rachel answered the page as soon as she could—and sized up the situation quickly when she saw the man and woman. She was about to have a grieving pregnant woman on her hands.

  Still, she thought it better all around she’d gotten there ahead of Gerson. He was an excellent internist, but could be brusk to the point of rudeness.

  The nurse on the desk gave Rachel the nod. Bracing herself, she walked over to the couple.

  “I’m Dr. Hopman. I’m so sorry about your father.”

  “It’s a mistake.”

  “You’re Katie?”

  “I’m Katie MacLeod Parsoni.”

  “Katie,” Rachel said and sat. “We did all we could. Your mother did all she could. She called for help, and got him to us as quickly as possible. But he was too ill.”

  Katie’s eyes, the s
ame dark green as her mother’s, clung to Rachel’s. Pleaded. “He had a cold. Some little bug. My mother was making him chicken soup.”

  “Your mother was able to give us a little information. They were in Scotland? But you didn’t travel with them?”

  “I’m on modified bed rest.”

  “Twins,” Tony said. “Twenty-nine weeks, four days.”

  “Can you tell me where in Scotland?”

  “In Dumfries. What does it matter? Where’s my mother? I need to see my mother.”

  “She’s in isolation.”

  “What does that mean!”

  Rachel shifted, her gaze as calm and steady as her voice. “It’s a precaution, Katie. If she and your father contracted an infection, or one passed it to the other, we have to guard against contagion. I can let you see her for a few minutes, but you need to be prepared. She’s very ill. You’ll need to wear a mask and gloves and a protective gown.”

  “I don’t care what I have to wear, I need to see my mother.”

  “You won’t be able to touch her,” Rachel added. “And you can only see her for a few minutes.”

  “I’m going with my wife.”

  “All right. First, I need you to tell me everything you can about their time in Scotland. Your mother said they only got back today, and had been there since the day after Christmas. Do you know if your father was ill before they left?”

  “No, no, he was fine. We had Christmas. We always go to the farm the day after. We all go, but I couldn’t because I can’t travel right now.”

  “Did you speak to them while they were gone?”

  “Of course. Almost every day. I’m telling you they were fine. You can ask Uncle Rob—my father’s twin brother. They were all there, and they were fine. You can ask him. He’s in London.”

  “Can you give me his contact number?”

  “I’ll do that.” Tony gripped Katie’s hand. “I’ve got all that, and I’ll give you whatever you need. But Katie needs to see her mom.”

  Once the family members were gowned and gloved, Rachel did what she could to prepare them.

  “Your mother’s being treated for dehydration. She’s running a high fever, and we’re working on bringing that down.” She paused outside the room with its glass wall, a fine-boned woman with what would have been an explosion of black curls had they not been clamped ruthlessly back. Fatigue dogged her deep chocolate eyes, but her tone remained brisk.

  “The plastic curtaining is to protect against infections.”

  All Katie could do was stare through the glass, through the film of the plastic inside the room, to the woman in the narrow hospital bed.

  Like a husk of my mother, she thought.

  “I just talked to her. I just talked to her.”

  She gripped Tony’s hand, stepped inside.

  Monitors beeped. Green squiggles and spikes ran across the screens. Some sort of fan hummed like a swarm of wasps. Over it all she heard her mother’s rasping breaths.

  “Mom,” she said, but Angie didn’t stir. “Is she sedated?”

  “No.”

  Katie cleared her throat, spoke louder, clearer. “Mom, it’s Katie. Mom.”

  Angie stirred, moaned. “Tired, so tired. Make the soup. Sick day, we’ll have a sick day. Mommy, I want my lambie jammies. Can’t go to school today.”

  “Mom, it’s Katie.”

  “Katie, Katie.” On the pillow, Angie’s head turned right, left, right, left. “Mommy says Katie, bar the door. Bar the door, Katie.” Angie’s eyes fluttered open, and her fever-bright gaze rolled around the room. “Don’t let it come in. Do you hear it, rustling in the bushes? Katie, bar the door!”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. Don’t worry.”

  “Do you see the crows? All the crows circling.”

  That bright, blind gaze landed on Katie—and something Katie recognized as her mother came into it. “Katie. There’s my baby girl.”

  “I’m here, Mom. Right here.”

  “Dad and I aren’t feeling our best. We’re going to have chicken soup on trays in bed and watch TV.”

  “That’s good.” Tears rushed into Katie’s throat, but she pushed the words through them. “You’ll feel better soon. I love you.”

  “You have to hold my hand when we cross the street. It’s very important to look both ways.”

  “I know.”

  “Did you hear that!” Breath quickening, Angie dropped her voice to a whisper. “Something rustling in the bushes. Something’s watching.”

  “Nothing’s there, Mom.”

  “There is! I love you, Katie. I love you, Ian. My babies.”

  “I love you, Mom,” Tony said, understanding she thought he was Katie’s brother. “I love you,” he repeated, because he did.

  “We’ll have a picnic in the park later, but … No, no, storm’s coming. It’s coming with it. Red lightning, burns and bleeds. Run!” She shoved herself up. “Run!”

  Angie dissolved into a violent coughing fit that sprayed sputum and phlegm on the curtain.

  “Take her out!” Rachel ordered, pressing the button for the nurse.

  “No! Mom!”

  Over her protests, Tony dragged Katie from the room.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but you have to let them try to help her. Come on.” His hands shook as he helped her take off the gown. “We’re supposed to take all this off here, remember?”

  He pulled off her gloves, his own, disposed of them as the nurse rushed into the room to assist.

  “You have to sit down, Katie.”

  “What’s wrong with her, Tony? She was talking crazy.”

  “It must be the fever.” He steered her—he felt her shaking against him—back to the chairs. “They’ll get the fever down.”

  “My father’s dead. He’s dead, and I can’t think about him. I have to think about her. But—”

  “That’s right.” He kept his arm around her, drew her head to his shoulder, stroked her curly brown hair. “We have to think about her. Ian’s going to be here as soon as he can. He may even be on his way. He’s going to need us, too, especially if Abby and the kids can’t come with him, if he couldn’t find enough seats on a flight back.”

  Just talk, Tony thought, just talk and keep Katie’s mind off whatever just happened inside that horrible plastic curtain. “Remember, he texted back he’d managed to book a hopper to Dublin, and got a direct from there. Remember? And he’s working on getting Abby and the kids on a flight out of London as soon as he can.”

  “She thought you were Ian. She loves you, Tony.”

  “I know that. It’s okay. I know that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Aw, come on, Katie.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m having contractions.”

  “Wait, what? How many?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, but I’m having them. And I feel…”

  When she swayed in the chair, he gathered her up. He stood—holding his wife and their babies, feeling the world fall apart under him—and called for help.

  They admitted her and, after a tense hour, the contractions stopped. The ordeal following the nightmare, and the conclusion of hospital bed rest and observation, left them both exhausted.

  “We’ll make a list of what you want, from home, and I’ll run and get it. I’ll stay right here tonight.”

  “I can’t think straight.” Though her eyes felt gritty, Katie couldn’t close them.

  He took her hand, covered it with kisses. “I’ll wing it. And you have to do what the doctor said. You have to rest.”

  “I know, but … Tony, can you just go check? Can you go see how Mom’s doing? I don’t think I can rest until I know.”

  “Okay, but no getting up and boogying around the room while I’m gone.”

  She worked up a wan smile. “Solemn oath.”

  He rose, leaned over, kissed her belly. “And you guys stay put. Kids.” He rolled his eyes at Katie. “Always in a hurry.”

  When he stepped ou
t, he just leaned against the door, struggled against the gnawing need to break down. Katie was the tough one, he thought, the strong one. But now he had to be. So he would.

  He made his way through the special care section—the place was a maze—found the doors to the waiting area, check-in, elevators. Tony suspected Katie would have to stay long enough for him to learn his way around.

  As he stepped to the elevators, a slightly built, pretty black woman in a white lab coat and black Nikes stepped off.

  His mind cleared. “Dr. Hopman.”

  “Mr. Parsoni, how’s Katie?”

  “It’s Tony, and she’s trying to rest. Everything’s good. No contractions for the last hour, and the babies are both fine. They want to keep her at least overnight, probably for a few days. She’s asking about her mom, so I was coming up to check.”

  “Why don’t we sit down over here?”

  He’d worked in his family’s sports equipment store since childhood—managed the main branch now. He knew how to read people.

  “No.”

  “I’m so sorry, Tony.” She took his arm, guided him to the chairs. “I told Dr. Gerson I’d come down, but I can have him paged, have him come talk to you.”

  “No, I don’t know him, I don’t need that.” He dropped down, lowered his head into his hands. “What’s happening? I don’t understand what’s happening. Why did they die?”

  “We’re running tests, looking for the nature of the infection. We believe they contracted it in Scotland, as your father-in-law had symptoms before he left. Katie said they stayed on a farm, in Dumfries?”

  “Yeah, the family farm—a cousin’s farm. It’s a great place.”

  “A cousin?”

  “Yeah, Hugh, Hugh MacLeod. And Millie. God, I need to tell them. Tell Rob, tell Ian. What do I tell Katie?”

  “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. What I could use is a good, stiff drink, but…” He had to be strong, he remembered, and wiped at his tears with the heels of his hands. “I’ll settle for a Coke.”

  When he started to get up, Rachel put a hand on his arm. “I’ll get it. Regular?”

  “Yeah.”

  She walked over to the vending machines, dug out change. A farm, she thought. Pigs, chickens. A possible strain of swine or bird flu?