Fall From Grace

“What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

“Red.”

“Red’s good. Now it’s your turn.”

Anne thought a moment. “What’s your favorite sport, aside from miniature golf?”

“Baseball.”

This might go somewhere after all. “I’m a rabid baseball fan.”

“Great. Now, one more question,” he said. “Why didn’t you go to medical school?”

The question she’d been asked at least a thousand times. “You sound like my father. He’s never understood why I didn’t want to wield a scalpel and a mammoth ego. The truth is, I prefer the personal connection with patients, not to mention keeping doctors in line. You and I both know doctors are nothing without nurses.”

He held out his hands, palms forward. “I guess I’ve touched on a sorry subject.”

“You would be right.”

He tried on an apologetic look, and it worked well. “I agree—doctors can’t function without nurses. Okay?”

Suddenly she felt a little foolish over her semi-rant. “Okay.”

“Go ahead and ask me something really personal.”

Anne grabbed the opportunity to do a little fishing. “How many women have you propositioned tonight?” She watched for signs of discomfort in his demeanor, but found none. Then again, he could be very good at masking guilt.

“I’m taking the Fifth on that,” he said.

Which probably meant he’d delivered too many propositions to count. “You don’t play fair, do you? And that really makes me wonder if I should join you in that golf game.”

“Are you worried I’d beat you?”

Anne’s competitive nature planted a swift kick to her common sense. “That never entered my mind because it’s not going to happen. I’m good.”

“So am I. Better than most, in fact.”

She downed the rest of her drink, ready to meet the challenge. After all, it was only a game. Mindless recreation. She could do mindless, even if she didn’t do doctors. “Okay, you’re on. And you’re paying.”

“Believe me, Annie, you’re definitely worth the price.”

She should have been insulted that he’d called her “Annie,” a nickname she’d never cared for. She should rescind the offer and get away fast. But sometimes those “shoulds” weren’t at all appealing. “Let’s just see if you say I’m worth it when I kick your butt, Dr. Morgan.”

Anne expected a comeback, but instead Jack studied her awhile before he said, “Do you want an honest answer to your earlier question?”

“That would be nice.” She expected honesty from a man. In fact, she demanded it.

Jack surveyed the room for a moment, as if preparing to tell a secret, before he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “You’re the only one.”

CHAPTER 2

Delia Hayes Cooper hated only two things—raspberries and pompous asses.

At the moment, one sat in her untouched dessert plate and the other stood at the podium positioned in front of the banquet room. Her attention drifted away as Maxwell Crabtree, supercilious administrator of Dallas Regional, extolled the virtues of altruism to the group of volunteers as if he had personal knowledge of benevolence without the benefit of compensation.

Weary of the hypocrisy, Delia slid her chair from beneath the table and dismissed herself with a polite smile aimed at the dozen or so Pink Ladies, who regarded her with mild shock. Delia Cooper was never late to a luncheon, and she never left a meeting in the middle of a speaker’s address. Today she had done both.

Let them think what they would about her departure, be it due to incontinence or the apocalypse; Delia didn’t care. She had to get out of here fast before she gave in to the urge to grab a berry and lob it at the administrator’s forehead the next time he mentioned commitment. But she was the consummate Southern lady, or had been since she’d crossed over into the realm of acceptable society from her youthful beginnings as a free spirit. That Delia of nearly forty years ago would not have hesitated to hurl a fruity missile at the speaker. Today that Delia no longer existed, at least superficially.

She slipped soundlessly from the room until she reached the double doors that creaked open like worn-out joints in winter. The doors closed behind her, but that did little to shut out Crabtree’s booming oration. She made her way to the windows immediately across the hall and looked out over the crowded parking lot. Arms folded beneath her breasts, she shivered despite the fact that the temperature inside was comfortable enough. Outside was another story. The downpour that had begun early that morning hadn’t let up, fueling her gray mood. She felt restless, disturbed on a soul-deep level, as if something ominous was about to happen. Her mother had labeled the intuition a gift. Delia considered it a curse.

Right now she wanted to be someplace balmy, kicked back on a sun-warmed beach, with a gimlet in one hand and a cigarette in the other—something she hadn’t craved in at least three decades. No use wishing for what could never be. She was locked into a life of her own making, a comfortable life that included good friends and, most important, her only child and grandchild. A life that was safe, secure, necessary—and totally uneventful. Except for Anne’s divorce.

If only Delia had been able to prevent it. If only she could somehow have convinced her daughter that she was making a terrible mistake. From the first time she’d seen Anne and Jack interacting on a day much like today, she’d known they were destined to be together, even if she had been the only one who’d acknowledged it at the time.

“He’s good for her, Bryce.”

As always, Delia had to wait an interminable amount of time for her husband to comment. Profile to her, Bryce continued to stare out the front window, a glass of Scotch in his hand, worry etched on his still-handsome face. A face Delia had enjoyed waking up with for much of her adult life, even though the demands of his career had infringed on a good many of their mornings.

Following a long sip, he finally said, “He doesn’t have the sense to bring her in out of the rain, for God’s sake.”

Delia moved to his side and slid her arm around his waist. Jack and Anne were still playing a game of football in the front yard, soaked from head to toe from the downpour that had ruined the Sunday barbecue, and not seeming to mind at all. “They’re young, Bryce. And in love.”

“He told me they’re just friends, so get your head out of the romantic clouds.”

“Friendship is a wonderful place to start,” she said. “We started as friends.”

“I’m still not sure he’s good enough for her.”

“You said yourself he’s gifted. ‘Destined for greatness’ is how you put it. Maybe your standards are just a tad high?”

“But that’s the problem, Dee. Anne’s always resented my absence from her life. She’s not going to settle for anything less than all his time, and that’s not possible. Not if he’s going to be all he’s meant to be.”

“I managed fine, dear heart. Anne will, too. She’s tough. And I suspect she’ll learn that some sacrifices are simply worth it.”

Bryce draped an arm around her shoulder. “She’s her mother’s daughter.”

“She’s your daughter, honey. Headstrong. Determined. She knows her heart, so we’re going to have to trust her. And if she’s lucky, she’ll have what we have.”

He shifted to face her and braced his palms on her shoulders, even deeper disquiet showing in his expression. “If anything happened to me, would you find someone else?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“But if it does, you should find someone else,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to be alone. I’m serious about this, Dee.”

Delia didn’t care to consider a life without her husband. “If, God forbid, I do outlive you, I can’t imagine finding anyone who’d have such a dearth of sense that he’d be willing to put up with me.”

He smiled the smile that Delia had come to know so well, had come to cherish as much as she cherished him. She wished for Anne the blessings of that kind of a smile, the contentment of recognizing where you belonged and who you belonged with, the love of a good man. Anne deserved Jack’s love. They deserved each other. And regardless of what the future might hold, Delia realized that she herself would never find anyone to replace her husband—

“You look real nice in pink.”

Startled, Delia turned her attention from the window and the memory to the voice and its owner, who was standing a few feet away. With a full head of silver hair and first-class features, the man might have been labeled debonair had it not been for his tie resting loose and askew against his burgundy shirt. His navy suit was neat and nicely pressed, but definitely not Armani. More like outlet. She would guess him to be mid-fifties, and he appeared rather tall, but compared with Delia, everyone was.

Once Delia had established that he was in fact speaking to her, she sent him a tentative smile and told him, “Thank you,” when she dearly wanted to mention that about thirty other women in the adjacent room were dressed in the same color smock. But good grace dictated she be kind. Besides, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had paid her a compliment.

He forked a hand through his hair and returned her smile. “Hope you didn’t take offense at what I said.” His voice reflected the drawl many native Texans favored, a throwback to when Dallas hadn’t been such a cultural melting pot.

“No offense taken, Mr.—?”

“Gabe Burks.”

Delia lightly clasped the hand that he offered for a shake. It felt warm and dry, slightly calloused but pleasantly masculine. “I’m Mrs. Delia Cooper, Mr. Burks.”

“It’s just ‘Gabe,’ Delia.”

Had she been alive, Delia’s mother would have lectured the stranger for calling a lady by her first name without so much as an invitation. Delia found it refreshing.

“So you’re married, huh?” Gabe asked.

“Actually, I’m widowed.”

His expression brightened. “Yeah? Me, too. How long?”

“Almost eight years.”

“Three for me. Cancer?”

People always assumed that had to have been the cause of her husband’s demise. In reality, Bryce had worked himself to death. “Heart. He was very driven in his job.”

“That’ll get you every time. But not me. Not if I can help it. Life’s too short to burn the candle at both ends.”

Delia relaxed somewhat, intrigued by this man who claimed there was more to life than work. “Are you retired?”

“Nope. Not yet. I’m an attorney. One of the hospital’s attorneys.”

Bryce would be livid if he learned that his wife was socializing with the enemy—“swamp feeders,” he used to call all attorneys. Oh, well. What Bryce didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Delia had never put much stock in the theory that a ticket to heaven included a pass with carte blanche to watch over surviving loved ones. At least, she hoped not.

Gabe inclined his head toward the banquet room. “Were you in the meeting?”

“Yes, I was, but my knee started cramping, so I came out here. That old arthritis. It acts up now and then, especially in this weather.” She raised a hand to her chest, feeling a nip of guilt over handing Gabe Burks a lie. Sometimes lies were necessary. Better a lie than revealing her contempt for the keynote speaker.

“Actually, I left because I was about to fall asleep,” Gabe said.

Total honesty. That brought about another flash of guilt in Delia. “Mr. Crabtree does tend to go on and on.” He also tended to create havoc in Anne’s life on a regular basis. The man had carried a torch for her daughter for years, and he continued to do so without Anne’s encouragement.

“I take it you’re a volunteer,” Gabe said.

“Yes. I spend much of my time at the hospital.” A sad commentary on her life.

“That’s admirable. I’m a little surprised we haven’t met, but then, I’m holed up in an office when I’m here.”

Applause rang out from the nearby room, signaling the end of Crabby’s speech. Delia felt obligated to say her goodbyes to friends before manning the lobby information desk for the afternoon—a reminder of how much she had conformed to proper behavior. “Well, I need to get on with my day, Gabe.” His name rolled easily off her tongue, as if she’d known him for years, not minutes.

“Yeah, I guess I should go, too.”

Neither of them moved for a long moment, until Gabe closed the gap between them with a few steps, catching Delia off guard. Yet she didn’t feel the urge to move back, perhaps because she wanted to get a better glimpse at his eyes to further assess him. A woman could tell a lot from a man’s eyes. His were a mossy green and reflected a certain self-assurance.

“Do you think you might like to have dinner with me sometime?” he asked.

“Me?” Good grief. Who else would he be talking to? Certainly not the wilting fern in the corner—unless in reality he had escaped from the psych ward. A possibility, Delia decided. Why else would he be asking her to dinner, a total stranger and a grandmother—granted, a grandmother in the process of being dragged kicking and screeching into her twilight years.

“Just dinner,” he said when she failed to respond. “Unless you already have a boyfriend, Delia.”

How funny to have her name mentioned in the same sentence with boyfriend. She hadn’t been involved with anyone since Bryce’s death. Nor had she even considered something so ludicrous, until now. “I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”

His grin expanded, lighting up his eyes. “A woman as attractive as you ought to be fighting them off with a stick.”

He was out and out flirting with her. Flirting with Granny Delia. In response, Delia patted her hair and then did something even more absurd. She giggled. Giggled like a sixteen-year-old girl standing in the high school hallway, not a been-around-the-block-more-than-once woman standing in the corridor of a high-tech teaching hospital.

A few people began to filter out the double doors, mostly other Pink Ladies, who sent curious glances her way. Delia could only imagine what this looked like—Mrs. Bryce Cooper, M.D., engaged in a conversation with a man who was more than likely a few years her junior. An attorney, no less. Yet except for the giggling, the scenario would probably appear completely innocent to most. Just a volunteer talking to a member of the team. Then why did it seem that people were whispering behind their hands?

Feeling the need to flee, Delia said, “I really have to go, Mr. Burks.”

“It’s ‘Gabe,’ and you didn’t answer my question.”

She caught a glimpse of loneliness in his eyes, the same loneliness probably mirrored in hers at times, though she’d learned to hide it well. Perhaps even a hint of desperation. She sensed his request was costing him a lot. What would it cost her if she agreed? Oh, to hell with it. She hadn’t taken a risk in such a long time. What could be wrong about seeking companionship with a man? She was certainly beyond the age of consent. “Dinner would be nice.”

“Can I call you later?”

Excitement as fresh and welcome as dawn hurtled through Delia. “Yes. You can reach me here until 5:00 p.m. Or I’m in the phone book under B. Cooper on Magnolia.”

Nellie Mills, the medical center crier, picked that exact moment to rush up to Delia as if she had the demons nipping at her heels. “Can you believe it?”

Surely the main link to the hospital grapevine wasn’t already privy to the dinner date Delia had made only seconds earlier. “Believe what?”

“You don’t know about Dr. Morgan?”

She knew her son-in-law—former son-in-law—was supposed to be in the hospital, as always. She’d seen his name on the O.R. schedule while working in the surgery waiting room last week. Unless he’d never made it. A sickening feeling settled in her belly. “What about him?”

“He’s in ICU. I saw the admission when I was manning the information desk this morning. He had a stroke two nights ago.”

Delia’s frame went stiff and her mouth went dry. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as can be.”

A razor-sharp edge of anger over the pride in Nellie’s voice sliced through Delia. She had to find Anne, and soon, in case she had yet to hear the news.

Starting down the hall, Delia had all but forgotten Gabe Burks until she heard him call, “I’ll be in touch. Hope everything’s okay.”

She raised a hand in a brief wave without glancing back. “Thank you.”

Delia cursed the fact that her nice calm world had been rocked without mercy today, just when things were beginning to look up. Cursed her intuition. And deep down, she knew nothing would ever be the same again.

“I came as soon as I heard the news.”

Anne leaned against the open front door of her house for support and stared at her mother’s compassionate yet somber face. The rain had yet to subside, but Delia looked warm and dry, and much too young for sixty-six, though she had survived the death of her beloved husband and the divorce of her only child.

Delia shook out her red umbrella, snapped it shut, then set it aside in the foyer while Anne closed the door and locked it as if she could lock out the world, the pain. Now she was reminded by her mother’s sudden appearance of what she had tried so hard to forget. Anne wasn’t surprised Delia had learned about Jack, nor did she question how she could tell that Anne needed her at that very moment. Her mother possessed a maternal sixth sense as deeply engrained as her ability to enter a room with poise and confidence even under overwhelming pressure.

Anne turned and trudged down the corridor to the breakfast nook, the place where they had shared their best mother-daughter chats over tea with milk and an occasional butter cookie, only mildly aware of her mother’s prim footsteps behind her. She clicked on the fluorescent light above the breakfast table, washing the area in a harsh artificial glare that robbed the place of its hominess. Before, it hadn’t seemed to matter that much, but today she longed for warmth and solace. If only she’d insisted on buying the brightly colored Tiffany fixture, the one Jack had deemed too prissy for the contemporary surroundings. It wasn’t the only thing she had conceded to him. She had practically given up her soul, as well.

Collapsing into the oak barrel chair, she waited until Delia took a seat across from her. Then she let the tears flow, not bothering to hide them at all.

Delia clasped Anne’s hand and wrapped it in her own. “It will be okay, baby girl.” Her smile, motherly and forgiving, was the kind of smile Anne had hoped upon hope to present to her own daughter during a crisis. But lately her smile had been a charade due to the fatigue and frustration over not having enough hours to spend with Katie. A lonely smile that had grown only lonelier over the past few years.

Anne slipped her hand from between her mother’s and wiped at her face with one sweatshirt sleeve. “I’m okay.” She didn’t sound okay. She sounded terrified, unsure—and she hated it. She longed to be as strong as her mother. As Jack. She never had been.

Delia fished through her black leather bag, brought out a small plastic packet and offered it to Anne. After taking a tissue, she sucked in a draft of air and released it on an uneven breath as her mother continued to study her, waiting for her to speak, she supposed. Delia had always been a good listener and a friend in times of need. Anne needed her now more than any other time she could think of.

“Did Max tell you?” Anne managed to ask through a rogue sob.

Delia sent her a look filled with disdain. “Maxwell Crabtree and I don’t speak unless absolutely necessary, but I’m certain this probably thrills him to no end, considering how much he detests Jack. And that’s not only because he’s been pining for you for years between his marriages. He covets Jack’s career. Did you know he couldn’t make the grade in medical school?”

Anne wasn’t sure she could handle any more surprises today, and she certainly didn’t want to get into this now. “No, I didn’t. And I don’t care what you think of Max, Mother. He’s remained my friend over the years. He’s not cruel enough to wish ill will on anyone, even Jack.”

“Is that how you found out about Jack—through Max?” Delia’s tone sounded indicting.

“Hank told me.” Anne preferred to keep her earlier conversation with Max under wraps. “How did you find out?”

“Nellie Mills caught me outside the hospital luncheon.”

Anne couldn’t imagine why her mother didn’t spend her time someplace other than the institution that had been the center of her own husband’s existence. The place that had stolen their weekends and deprived them of being a close-knit family. Just as it had Anne’s married years with Jack.

But maybe her mother insisted on volunteering there to continue to connect with what had been her husband’s life. Anne could relate to that in a very personal way. She could have taken a job elsewhere, yet she still worked in the same place whose hallowed halls her ex-husband graced. Or had until two days ago.

Fresh tears threatened Anne, so she left the chair, walked to the stove and grabbed up the teakettle to put on fresh water to boil.

“How is he, Anne?”

Anne clicked on the burner beneath the kettle. “Hank just called. He’s out of surgery for repair of the aneurysm.”

“Why aren’t you there with him?”

“Because I’m no longer his next of kin, remember? Hank only phoned as a favor to me, not out of obligation.” Her obligation to Jack had ended two years earlier with a simple signature. “Hank says he’ll be okay if everything goes well the next forty-eight hours or so. But there’s some paralysis in his right hand and leg.”

“Oh, dear.” Her mother’s normally calm voice wavered. Anne couldn’t stand it if Delia cried. Not the one person in her life who handled crises like a four-star general, including Anne’s father’s death.

“He’ll get better,” Delia said. “He’ll go back to surgery eventually. Won’t he?”

Now her mother was relying on her for optimism. What a switch. Anne turned and feigned calm. “It’s possible, but we just won’t know for a while.”

Anne faced the counter again and absently placed two tea bags in two matching green ceramic mugs from the set of four she and Jack had gotten when they’d married. None had been broken. She wished she could say the same for the marriage. And her heart.

The whistling teakettle startled Anne, but she managed to dole the water into the cups without making a mess. Balancing them in her trembling hands, Anne made her way back to the table to give her mother the tea while preparing for her questions.

“Have you told Katherine?” Delia always insisted on calling her granddaughter by her given name, Delia’s mother’s name. She’d claimed it was much more elegant than Katie.

“Not yet.” Anne braced for the fallout, staring into her tea.

Instead of scolding, Delia said, “I’m sure you will when the time is right,” then added, “but don’t wait too long.”

Anne raised her eyes from the teacup. Her mother’s expression held no judgment, only sympathy. Delia was a master of sympathy. “I thought I would do it tomorrow.” Suddenly, Anne felt like a teenager again, explaining why she hadn’t cleaned her room.

And her mother responded in kind, like the disappointed parent, when she asked, “Why not now, Anne, while I’m here?”

“Because I don’t know what’s going to happen. If something should happen to him, then…” Anne let the words trail off, hating the thought of that something. Yet she couldn’t write off the possibility that Jack could bleed out again, and this time it could be fatal.

Now Delia looked worried. “You don’t really think—”

“I’m not sure what to think. I’m concerned.” And scared, but she didn’t need to voice that emotion. Her mother would already know.

Delia rimmed the cup with a neatly manicured nail. “I’m glad to hear you’re worried about him. Things have been so bad between you two since the separation.”

Divorce, Anne silently corrected. Her mother couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “I still care about what happens to him, Mother.” Trouble was, she still cared too much.