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“Not a thing.” She grinned.
A moment passed where the only sound was the rain outside.
He saw her glance at that flashlight, so he asked her another question about her work.
She sat back, getting more comfortable. And for a while, they talked about their jobs, the challenges and the rewards.
Eventually, she got up. He didn’t try to stop her, since she didn’t reach for the flashlight first. She went over to the credenza to look at the family photos there. One by one, she picked up the pictures, studied them, then set them down.
When she came to a studio shot of Patricia, she asked, “Your wife?”
He nodded. “It’s been a little over two years since she died. Acute myelogenous leukemia.”
In her eyes, he saw a doctor’s understanding of the words: cancer of the white blood cells, starting in the bone marrow, multiplying swiftly until they disrupted the production of normal blood cells. And then moving out, into the bloodstream, invading organs and tissues, especially the spleen and the liver.
“We thought she had a bad case of the flu. Not four months later, she was dead. It was…hard on all of us. And on Andrew—I mean, Drew—particularly, I think. He was seven, old enough to understand what was going on a little better than Lisbeth and Griffin could, old enough to have some idea that he was actually losing his mother, to know that when she died, she really wasn’t coming back.”
Ronni made a low, musing sound in her throat. There was a world of understanding in that sound. And sadness. Very carefully, she set the picture of Patricia in its place with the others. She returned to her chair, but then didn’t sit down in it.
“I should—”
He put up a hand. “Hear that? Still raining…”
“It may never stop.”
“It’ll stop. Eventually.”
They shared a long look, at the end of which she dropped into the chair again. “So what now? Should I choose a book to read?”
He considered, then replied, “No. You should tell me what movies you like.”
And she did. She liked comedies.
He preferred action-adventure, and said so.
They moved on to favorite foods and dream vacation spots. To the schools they’d each attended, to the professors they each remembered.
She talked about med school, and how she didn’t believe she’d ever slept more than two hours at a stretch through the whole of her residency.
Finally, they got onto the subject of the things that really bugged them.
“Price stickers that won’t come off,” she said.
He opted for “Voice mail. I really hate voice mail. It’s just another excuse for people not to answer their phones.”
“But I bet you have voice mail.”
He had no defense against that. “Guilty as charged.”
The rain was still drumming away when she glanced at the clock on the bookcase near the window. “Omigod. It’s 4:00 a.m.”
It couldn’t be 4:00 a.m. But it was.
And still, he wanted her to stay. “Listen. Hear that rain? You can’t leave yet. You need to give yourself a little more time, see if it slows down some before you slog back across the yard.”
“I’ve already been here for two hours.”
“And maybe you’ll just have to stay for two more.”
“Right. And then I might as well just stay for breakfast….”
“Why not?”
“Because…”
“Because why?”
Ronni stared at him. There were surely a hundred reasons why she should leave now, why she should have left a long time ago. She just couldn’t think of one.
She cut her eyes away from him. Had two hours really passed since she’d entered this room? It didn’t seem possible. He had started her talking and then…time had just melted away.
“Come on,” he coaxed some more. “Stay. Just a little while.” She looked right at him again. He smiled. He had the kind of smile that seemed unwilling, as if he didn’t do it often—which made it special, made her feel special.
Ronni had heard it said that Ryan Malone could get money out of a stone. He’d spearheaded the plan to raise millions so that Honeygrove Memorial could add on a much-needed new wing. The new wing was under construction, scheduled to open in September, just eight months away.
Everyone marveled at him, wondered how he’d done it. But looking into his eyes right then, Dr. Ronni Powers understood the mystery completely. The man possessed a commanding presence, a natural reserve—and a reluctant knock-’em-dead smile. An unbeatable combination, whether it came to convincing wealthy donors to put their money in his hands—or coaxing a woman to stay up all night talking about everything from the tragic death of his beautiful wife to why she preferred the name Ronni over Veronica.
Say you have to go, and say it now, her wiser self insisted. But when she opened her mouth, what came out was “Well, maybe I could—”
“Oh! Ryan. I never imagined the doctor would still be here.”
The mother-in-law to the rescue, Ronni thought. The woman was standing in the doorway to the entry hall, clutching her robe at the neck and squinting as if she’d just been awakened from a sound sleep—which she probably had.
“I woke up and thought I heard voices, so I came down to check. I…I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Ronni scooped up her flashlight and started toward the door and the woman standing there. “I was just leaving.”
“Well, I’d imagine. It is so late.”
“Wait.” Ryan Malone stood from his swivel chair. “I’ll walk you back across the yard.”
The mother-in-law piped right up. “Ryan. It’s pouring out there.”
“She’s right,” Ronni agreed quickly. “No reason for both of us to get soaked.”
“I’ll walk you back,” he said again, his tone allowing no room for argument. “Let me grab an umbrella.” He came out from behind the desk and walked between the two women, commanding over his shoulder as he went out the door, “Lily, you go on back to bed.”
Five minutes later, Ryan and Ronni stood before the French doors that led to the guest house bedroom. She cast a rueful glance down at his feet. “Now your slippers are ruined, too, just like your son’s.”
“They’ll dry out.” The rain poured off the overhang above them and landed hard on his umbrella, flooding off the back side, splashing the slippers in question, soaking his pajamas to mid-calf.
She looked up at the umbrella, at the rain coming off it in sheets. “Don’t you just love Oregon? If it isn’t raining, it’s getting ready to rain—but why am I complaining? I did my residency in Seattle, did I tell you? It was even worse there.”
“And here,” he reminded her, “we actually get sun in the summer. And then there’s the salmon fishing. And the gorgeous, rugged Pacific shoreline less than two hours’ drive away.”
“And the tulips in the spring, miles and miles of them spread across the valley floor…” She laughed, a breathless little laugh. And then the laugh trailed off. “I…” She didn’t know what to say next, he could see that in her soft green eyes. At last, she continued shyly, “Thank you for…”
He helped her out. “Keeping you up all night?”
“Yes. And not only that. For walking me back here. For being so…gallant.”
“Gallant,” he said, rather idiotically. “That’s me.”
“Well, Mr. Malone, I—”
“Don’t you think we’ve reached the point where you can call me Ryan?”
She hesitated, then surrendered. “All right. Ryan. And you’ll call me Ronni.”
He already had called her Ronni. Repeatedly. In his mind, anyway. But if she wanted to think he’d been waiting for permission, that was just fine with him. “It’s a deal.”
Her hair looked so bright and alive. He wanted to touch it, to rub it between his fingers and feel the wetness of the rain in it. He wanted to bend down and bury his face in it, to let that faint, seductive perfume of hers invade all his senses. Then he wanted to kiss her.
Slowly and thoroughly.
She said, “Well. Good night—Ryan.”
He had to step back so she could open the door. She slipped in with a wave of her flashlight.
“Goodnight, Ronni,” he whispered as she pulled the door closed. It took him a minute to remember to leave. He stood there, the rain thudding on his umbrella, his shoes and pajama legs soaked clean through, looking in at her as she gave another quick wave and began shutting the curtains, first the filmy ones and then the outer drapes, too.
Finally, when it became utterly preposterous for him to stand there one second longer staring at a glass door and drawn curtains, he made himself turn and stride swiftly away toward the gate to the drive.
Chapter Three
Back in the main house, Ryan reset the alarm that his son had left disengaged. Then he climbed the stairs to his own bedroom, changed into dry pajamas and tried to sleep. But he couldn’t. He felt too edgy. Too…energized, in spite of the fact that he’d only slept for a couple of hours before Ronni and his son had disturbed him.
At a little before five, he threw back the covers and got out of bed. He found another pair of slippers and a second robe and then didn’t know what to do with himself.
He decided to check on his children.
Both of the younger ones were still sound asleep. Lisbeth was wrapped up tight in her blankets, only her button nose peeking out. Griffin had kicked the covers down and then curled himself into a ball against the nighttime chill.
Looking down at him, Ryan thought of Tanner.
Tanner, his younger brother. Tanner used to kick the covers down on winter nights sometimes. Before Tanner was five, they were separated for the first time. But during that initial year and a half after they lost their parents, they’d slept in narrow beds, side by side, in the state home. And when Tanner would kick his covers down, it was easy for Ryan to slide from his own bed and cover him back up again.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, Ryan pulled the covers close around his four-year-old son. Griffin let out a small sigh, his little body relaxing as the blankets banished the cold.
Ryan peeked in on Andrew—correction: Drew—last. He turned the doorknob slowly and pushed the door open with great care. Once he’d slid inside the room, he closed the door without letting the latch hook, to avoid the small click that might have disturbed a light sleeper.
He was halfway across the floor when Drew sat up in bed. “Dad?”
All he could think to whisper was a rebuke. “You should be asleep.”
“Dad, I’m sorry. About what I did.”
Ryan sat on the side of the bed and looked at his son through the predawn darkness. He was thinking that he should spend more time with him, and that he really ought to say something meaningful and profound right now. But all he could think of was “It’s okay—as long as you don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
“Well, all right.”
“Ronni wasn’t mad. She’s nice.”
Ryan felt a thoroughly witless smile try to pull at the corners of his mouth. “You like her, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“I like her, too.” A lot.
“Dad?”
“What?”
“You can go back to bed now. Everyone’s safe.”
Ryan still felt as if he should say something. Perhaps about Patricia. About what his son had lost, what they had all lost. The one who tied everything together, the unifying thread.
“Drew, I…” What? I’m sorry your mom is dead.
Sorry I’m not a better father.
Sorry the right words won’t come…
So many damn things to be sorry about.
He stood. “Lie down, now. Go on back to sleep.”
Obediently, Drew stretched out again and pulled his covers up under his chin. Ryan started for the door.
“Dad?”
“What?”
“You talked to Ronni about me, didn’t you? She told you to call me Drew.” Ryan hesitated before answering, long enough that Drew said, “It’s okay with me, Dad. If you talked to her.”
“Yes. I talked to her. Now, go to sleep. Pizza Pete’s tomorrow.”
