The woman was lucky she hadn’t hurt anything else—she was lucky to be alive—and yet, she was still far from being out of the woods and headed toward recovery.
Unable to stop worrying, I pressed my hand to her brow. When I sucked in a breath over how hot she felt, she waved a hand to dismiss my concerns. “Yes, I have a bit of a fever,” she said. “The nurse said she’d be back with some ibuprofen.”
I nodded and pushed more water at her. I don’t think she was thirsty, but she took a drink to humor me. And then we waited, and waited, and waited. The nurse didn’t return until over half an hour later. By then, my mother’s cheeks had flushed and a sheen of sweat coated her brow.
“Sorry it took so long to return,” she apologized, “but the results from one of Margaret’s blood tests came back, and I needed to call the doctor.”
I sat up straighter, on full alert. “Is everything okay?”
The nurse wouldn’t quite meet my gaze as she focused all her attention on giving Mom her pills. Then she cleared her throat and answered, “It looks as if there could be an infection. The doctor can talk to you more about that when he arrives.”
She left soon afterward, and I glanced at my mother, whose head was lulling to the side as she began to fall asleep. I reached out again to touch her brow. I knew there was no way the medicine could work that quickly to fight off her fever, but I swear she felt twice as hot as she had the last time I’d checked. It worried me.
She tutted softly and murmured my name as if trying to reassure me, and then she was out, sleeping fitfully between the occasional coughing.
By noon, I realized there was no way she’d make it home before the next day, and there was no way I would be able to tear myself away from her side, so I called Porter Hall.
Henry himself answered the phone. I’d been expecting Constance or maybe Mrs. Pan, but when I heard his voice, I was a little disappointed Isobel hadn’t answered instead.
After explaining to him what had happened and telling him I wasn’t sure when I’d be back to work, he was extremely understanding. And yet I still kept apologizing.
“Don’t worry about it, Shaw. Your mother needs you. I totally understand. Take as much time as you need.”
I nodded gratefully and mumbled a gruff, “Thank you.”
My mind turned to Isobel. As it had many times throughout the night while I’d been sitting there, worrying about my mother. Her dad hadn’t mentioned her. I wasn’t sure if he knew about the outcome of our date, or if he was politely not mentioning it because I had other concerns, but I wanted to hear how she was doing.
Actually, I wanted to hear her voice and talk to her for my own selfish needs. I wanted to tell her what I’d been through and heap all my worries on her, gush how scared shitless for my mother’s life I was. But I was afraid if I asked to talk to her and I heard her voice, the ache to see her would grow so strong I’d beg her to come sit with me at the hospital. I needed her, greedily wanted her with me, supporting me through this. I needed her hand wrapped around mine and her soothing rose scent in my nose.
But she was dealing with her own problems, and I didn’t want to ask her to leave home if it was too much to ask.
So I simply said, “You’ll let Isobel know?”
Her dad answered, “Yes. Yes, of course.” And I felt marginally better, hoping maybe—if she was improved from the night before—she’d come to me on her own.
After I hung up, I stared bleakly at my mother’s face while she slept. Her tossing and turning grew worse. Her coughing turned to hacking. And the doctor, who finally showed, shook his head as if to say, This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.
More blood tests were taken, more painkillers administered, and Mom didn’t improve.
I stayed in the hospital by her side for three days straight, only leaving to find food in the cafeteria or to use the bathroom, where I splashed water onto my face as the only way to wash.
By the time Gloria appeared in the doorway of the hospital room on Tuesday, I was sure my hair was a nasty matted greaseball and my clothes—or rather Ezra’s clothes—were about to wrinkle right off me.
I blinked at her from bloodshot, exhausted eyes and shook my head. “Gloria? What’re you doing here?” How had she even learned where I was?
She swept into the room, her hazel eyes full of worry as she shifted her gaze between me and my sleeping mother. “I went to your apartment, but no one answered the door. A neighbor finally told me about an ambulance they saw the other night, loading your mom onto a stretcher. My God, Shaw.” She sat in the chair next to mine and took Mom’s pale hand as if genuinely worried about her. “What happened? And why are you wearing a suit?”
It didn’t matter that she wasn’t my favorite person on earth; she really did seem to adore my mother, so I ignored the suit question and explained everything Mom had been through. I even set my hand on her shoulder when she turned teary-eyed.
“She could’ve died,” Gloria choked out.
I swallowed painfully and nodded. “She’s a fighter, though.” I turned back to Mom. “She’ll fight it off.”
“Of course she will. She has something very precious to fight for.”
When I realized she was referring to me, I sent her an exhausted glance, not in the mood to deal with any kind of advance from her.
But she merely sighed. “Oh, Shaw.” She squeezed my arm. “You look awful. How long have you been here with her?”
I shook my head, not answering, but I was sure I looked bad. My muscles were sore from sleeping and sitting all day in the hard chair at Mom’s bedside, and my stomach hurt from eating nothing but vending machine food.
“Go home,” Gloria urged gently. “Take a shower, steal a nap, get some real food into your system. I’ll sit here with her for a couple hours.”
I started to shake my head no, but of course Mom chose that moment to wake from her nap. Gloria I could have easily denied, but when my mother urged me to go home for a while as well, I couldn’t tell her no. So I left, reluctantly.
I was only gone a few hours. I cleaned up and fixed myself some food but no way could I sleep. Not while my mother was still in the hospital, fighting an infection.
When I returned, Gloria was actually in a rush to leave.
“She slept most of the time,” she said, rising to her feet and grabbing her purse as soon as I entered the room.
I paused, blinking at her. Mom was coughing in her sleep, but there didn’t seem to be any other reason why she’d chase someone away the way Gloria seemed so eager to leave. But she hurried by me, not even making eye contact as she mumbled a harried farewell, saying she had somewhere to be, and disappeared out the door. She hadn’t even given me a chance to thank her for sitting with my mom.
I stared after her, not upset about her being gone but pondering why she’d been so eager to go.
Curious. Very curious.
Then, with a sigh, I turned back to Mom and settled into my chair beside her.
Another two days passed. Gloria never returned, and Isobel didn’t appear. I thought about her though. More than once, I was tempted to call to see how she was doing, to tell her how I was doing. But after the way we’d left off on Saturday, I was uncertain how to proceed from there. I missed her, though. I missed her with an ache that struck at the oddest moments. Whenever I felt my lowest, I wanted her there to help me through. Whenever Mom had a good moment, I wanted her there to celebrate with me. Whenever Mom was asleep and I was bored, I wanted her there to talk about books or her flower shop plans, or anything. I just…I wanted her there.
Thursday evening arrived before anyone else non-medical appeared in the doorway of Mom’s hospital room. My oldest sister, Alice, peered into the room before she took in Mom’s sleeping form and gasped.
“Lord,” she breathed, coming closer to gaze down at our mother with wide, surprised eyes. “She really is bad off, isn’t she?”
“She’s better than she was,” I said, not sure why I
was trying to comfort Alice. I wanted to be mad at her for staying away for five days. Where the hell had she been? Why had it taken her so long to check in? Did our mother mean that little to her?
But she looked genuinely concerned as she sat next to me, and besides, she was the only sibling to show at all. So I decided I was glad to share some of the worry with her. I filled her in on all the progress Mom had made. She nodded and asked questions, then offered to help.
I nodded, grateful for the support. “I’ve been away from work for four days.” Plus, I needed to see Isobel. “Do you think you could sit with Mom tomorrow?”
Alice nodded mutely, and everything felt better.
It felt better until Friday morning, anyway, when I stopped at the gate to Porter Hall and pressed the button, requesting entrance.
They opened for me immediately, and I drove up the lane between the pear trees, eager to see Isobel, anxious to hold her in my arms and bury my face in her hair.
When Henry opened the side door and folded his arms across his chest, waiting for me as I parked, I blinked, confused. He didn’t typically stay home on Fridays. What was even more concerning was the stony expression on his face.
Something was wrong.
“What’s going on?” I asked, popping out of the truck and hurrying to meet him.
“Mr. Hollander,” he greeted, his voice hard and unyielding, his eyes the same. “Your services here are no longer required. Please vacate the premises and never come back. If you do, we’ll treat it as trespassing and have you arrested.”
chapter
TWENTY-SIX
My mouth fell open.
Shock and confusion mixed with anger. But seriously, what the fuck? I’d just survived a week from hell, almost lost my mother, and still might lose her if she didn’t recover. Why would he do this to me?
Offering no explanation, he held out his hand. “The keys to the truck, if you please.”
I blinked, not quite able to process what he was saying. After a second of making no sense of his words at all, I shook my head, even as I dug the keys from my pocket. As I dropped them into his waiting palm, I said, “I don’t understand. What happened? Is this because I missed four days?”
“Of course not.” Henry stepped closer, his eyes narrowed. “I thought I made it explicitly clear to you not to hurt her.”
I squinted, even more confused. “You mean Isobel?”
He drew in a sharp, livid breath as if offended I would dare to say her name.
“I didn’t hurt her,” was all I could think to say. “I would never.”
“Oh really?” he challenged, lifting his eyebrows. “Then explain her rose garden to me.”
With no idea what he meant by that, I blew past him, marching into the house and toward her garden.
“Hey,” he boomed, hurrying to catch up. I began to walk faster. He latched a hand around my upper arm just as I shoved open the French doors leading into the conservatory. But I didn’t need to take another step. All the heads of her roses had been chopped off and lay scattered on the ground like dead soldiers who’d lost a war.
I stood there, frozen, gawking. Air rushed from my lungs. “Who…” I gasped for breath and whirled toward Henry. “Who did this?”
I would kill the bastard. I’d grab him—or her—by the neck and smash his head into a wall for touching Isobel’s precious roses. How could anyone be so cruel?
“Who do you think?” Henry said quietly. “Isobel did it herself.”
I blinked, not understanding. But the look in his eyes narrowed until I knew it had to be true. His expression was too bleak, too defeated.
Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to the roses. “No. No way. She wouldn’t.”
“I caught her in the act, scissors in hand.”
“But…” My head wouldn’t stop moving back and forth, denying it. “Why?” I croaked. “Why would she do this?”
“You tell me.” His voice was low and full of venom.
I glared at him. “If you think I caused this, that I did something to make her upset enough to do this? You’re fucking insane. I’d never cause her this much despair.”
Needing to see Isobel, to learn what was wrong, I started toward the library. But Henry caught my arm, his fingers digging deep into my bicep.
I growled at him. “I’m going to find Isobel.” And then I was going to kill whoever had hurt her.
“No. You’re leaving. Right now.”
I barked out a harsh laugh. Yeah right. The woman I loved was suffering. No one was going to keep me from seeing her.
“Get out of my way.” I didn’t want to hurt the old man, but he was beginning to piss me off.
“Constance,” Henry called, “call the police.”
Shocked, I glanced over to find Constance, Lewis, Mrs. Pan and even Kit standing there, gaping at me. Mrs. Pan was crying softly into a tissue, Kit was hiding behind her as if scared of me, and Constance held a phone in one trembling hand. Lewis stepped forward, murmuring my name gently as if to call me off.
I just stared at them, confused. “What the fuck is going on?” I demanded, only to turn back to Henry. “Do you really have no idea why she’s so upset? None at all?”
He finally wavered, looking sad instead of mad. “I wish I did.”
“Then give me ten minutes with her,” I pleaded, “and I’ll find out. I swear. This isn’t about me. It can’t be.”
But he stubbornly shook his head no. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
Shards of my breaking heart stabbed into me from the inside. “She said that?”
“Not in so many words,” Henry allowed as if not certain himself, but then he straightened and said, “But the meaning was clear. So you are no longer welcome at Porter Hall.”
I ground my teeth. “You realize how messed up this is, right? You think I did something wrong, but you don’t know what. You think I hurt Isobel, but you don’t know how. So you’re just…you’re sending me away forever? Just like that? Without any proof or explanation?”
“I made myself very clear the first day you came here, Hollander.”
“And I’m making myself very clear right now!” I shouted right back, spreading my arms wide. “I didn’t hurt her. When could I have? I’ve been stuck at the hospital with my dying mother. For God’s sake, don’t…” My chest heaved as I tried to steady my breathing. The only thing that had been keeping me together these past few days was the thought of seeing Isobel again, of her being there for me. And now…now they were telling me that wasn’t going to happen?
“Don’t do this to me,” I begged. “Just let me see her. I can fix everything. I know I can.”
When he shook his head, Lewis hurried over to help him contain me in case I resisted. I stared at both men, then I glanced at the women, and I wanted to howl at the injustice of it. Why were they keeping me from her?
Shaking my head, I turned away and left the house. I started toward the truck before I remembered it was no longer mine to drive.
Stewing, I walked back to the hospital. None of this made sense, and it was even more maddening that no one felt inclined to seek answers. I alternated between anger and heartbreak.
I could only guess what had happened to Isobel, but none of the reasons I came up with added up to why she’d never want to see me again.
Determined to find out, I snuck back onto the grounds of Porter Hall at 5 a.m. on Saturday morning to catch her on the lake before she began her run. I wasn’t sure if she’d run at five or seven. She’d only adjusted the time to seven after I’d started running with her, so I had a feeling she’d move it back to her normal pre-Shaw time now that I was supposedly gone from her life. But she didn’t show up at either five or seven, and I hated being away from Mom for any longer than that. So I returned to the hospital.
My mother didn’t improve, and yet it was impossible for me to focus all my concern on her. I wanted to hate Isobel for taking that away from me, except I was too worried about her to
feel such a nasty emotion.
The next day, I was back at five. It was a Sunday. I didn’t know if she ran on Sunday mornings, but I went anyway.
She never showed up.
Alice grew pissed at me. I’d taken off two days in a row and disappeared from 3:30 a.m. to 8:30 a.m. But I couldn’t help it. I left again on Monday, needing to see Isobel.
Something in my life needed to go right. Sooner or later, I was going to get my answer as to why Henry had fired me.
My heart leapt at seven on Monday when I finally saw Isobel walking up the path toward the lake, wearing her jogging gear. Seven. She’d kept our running time. For some reason, that gave me hope. I stepped from the shadow of a tree I’d been waiting under and murmured her name.
She slowed to a stop, her stance turning weary. “What’re you doing here?”
It broke me to see her on guard. It confused me, and then it pissed me off. I hadn’t done anything wrong enough to deserve this.
“I need to talk to you.”
She turned right back around and started back down the trail toward the house. “Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Why?” I started after her. “I’m so confused, Isobel. I have no idea what happened. Are you okay? Why did your dad kick me off the property and tell me never to come back? Why did you vandalize all your roses? Please, just tell me what’s going on here.”
“Don’t,” she warned. “Stop pretending to care. Your act won’t work on me any longer. It was a good performance; you were very convincing. But it’s over now.”
“Performance? What the hell are you talking about? I don’t understand any of this.”
She spun around to march up to me and glare into my eyes. “If you don’t already know, then you don’t deserve to understand. Now get off my father’s property. No one wants you here.”
I only shook my head. “You don’t mean that,” I said, desperate for it to be true. “You can’t mean that. We love each other. We—”
She slapped me. Hard. Right across the face. Then her finger shook as she pointed at my nose. “Don’t you ever say that to me again.”