Family Fortune

“Knock, knock. Incoming adult,” she warned before she invaded the boys’ space. “Hide the stash of peanuts, candy and bubble gum, guys.” All six occupants burst into giggles.

“You’re early.” Skipper punched the mute button on his TV remote control, which garnered loud complaints from his roommates.

“Early, and I come bearing gifts.” Crystal produced the signed football from the depths of her handbag and handed it to Skipper with a brief “Ta-da!” Then she hauled out the signed action shots of Tanner. After counting out one for each child, she discovered she had two left. Maybe she’d give one to André’s son, Andy-Paul. She didn’t have a clue what she’d do with the other. Paste it on a dartboard, perhaps.

“This is so cool, Crystal,” Skip said. “Look, Randy. Cale wrote, ‘To Skip. Kick ’em high, throw ‘em true. Caleb Tanner.”’

Crystal leaned over to look. “I thought he only wrote, ‘To Skip from Caleb.’ I can’t figure out why he’d give such off-the-wall advice. I explained about your accident.”

“I’m gonna play football again, Crystal. Cale knows that.”

“Yeah,” his friends chorused enthusiastically.

She gazed into uncompromising green eyes, realizing for the first time how closely Skipper’s eye color resembled Caleb Tanner’s. Both pairs were indecently dark-lashed, too. The resemblance ended there. Skip had sandy red hair, pale skin and freckles. Tanner’s hair was hard to describe. Full and thick, it seemed to have variegated hues from light blond to toffee. His skin was evenly tanned. Today, she’d noticed his jaw was shadowed by a slight stubble. Based on her limited visits, she judged him to be a man who shaved regularly. Except for the earring, he seemed conventional. And even the earring was pedestrian compared to those worn by some of her jazz compatriots.

Gracious. Why had her mind wandered so far afield? Crystal had barely shaken herself out of her stupor than the orderly she’d encountered in Tanner’s room strode through the door.

“You get around,” he said, grinning at her.

She didn’t respond to that, but asked, “You’re here for Pablo?” Of the six in the room, he alone had progressed to the point of physical therapy.

The orderly, whose name tag read Gibson, checked the top sheet on his clipboard. “Nope. The patient I want is West Skip West. Or if you want to get technical, Sinclair West.”

“Yuck!” Skip rolled his eyes as the other boys made rude gagging noises.

“There must be some mistake,” Crystal said faintly.

“Nah,” Skip said, ducking his head. “It’s awful, but my mom named me Sinclair Malone West. After her daddy. I never met him or nothin’. He died when she was little.”

Before Crystal could explain that she hadn’t been referring to his name, Randy broke in. “How come everybody calls you Skipper, then? Was that what your old man called you?”

Skip shook his head and thrust his jaw out pugnaciously. “I never had no old man. So what?”

“Everybody’s got an old man,” Randy scoffed with worldly knowledge. “My mom says they don’t all stick around after they’ve had their fun bouncing between the sheets.” Over Crystal’s sharply indrawn breath, he added, “It’s plain dumb, Skipper, saying you don’t got an old man.”

The boys paid no attention to the fact that Skip looked ready to explode. Pablo injected his two cents’ worth from the other side of the room. “Yeah, dude. Even test-tube babies got a padre.”

“Well, I don’t!” Skipper shouted. He jabbed a thumb into his skinny chest. “My mom said there was just her and me and nobody else. After she got shot by the coke-head who robbed the store where she worked, there was only me.” His face had turned a mottled red.

Crystal stepped between the beds, put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Then she made a T with her hands. “Time-out, guys. Randy, you and Pablo read a comic book or watch TV. I want a word with Mr. Gibson.”

Though sullen, the boys settled down. “Now,” she said to the orderly, “could you check with your office? Skip had surgery yesterday. I find it hard to believe they’d start PT today. Have they even had you sit up yet?” she asked Skip.

“Yeah. ‘Course they have.”

“Are you some busybody patient liaison sent by administration to bug me?” Gibson sputtered. “I’m just following orders from my boss, lady.”

Crystal spread her palms. “You questioned whether or not Tanner should have therapy because he was still in traction. I’m merely doing the same on Skip’s behalf. I don’t work for the hospital. I’m the business manager for Lyon Broadcasting, and Skipper’s friend.”

“Nurse Pam said Crystal is a financial wizard,” Skip put in, his temper obviously cooled.

Though Gibson muttered to himself, he looked at Crystal with new respect as he slouched over to the wall phone. In the children’s ward, patients didn’t have telephones beside their beds. Administration was probably afraid they’d run up long-distance bills. The kids came to the ward from all over the state. Pablo, like Skip, was in local foster care. Randy’s mother lived in Baton Rouge. Felipe reportedly had family in the Atchafalaya Swamp; he spoke only French, and Crystal had never seen anyone visit the boy. Barry Hodges needed more specialized care than was available in Vidalia; he had a cousin in town who visited occasionally. Moses Brown, the last of the six to be admitted, never mentioned family; he hardly said boo. Crystal knew he liked the picture of Caleb Tanner only because Moses had immediately tucked it into his pillowcase. Nurse Pam said that was where he squirreled away his few treats. Crystal had heard that Moses was Jamaican. One of a large family. He’d been injured playing street ball. Which specific sport, she didn’t know. Surgery hadn’t rescued his pitifully small body from pain-that she did know. It’d be a while before they scheduled him for physical therapy.

The orderly hung up the phone and turned. “Dr. Snyder ordered this young man to start upper-body exercise today. That way he’ll be able to balance on the bars in two weeks when they cut off his cast.”

Skipper’s eyes glazed in sudden fear. He grasped Crystal’s hand. “I’m scared it’ll hurt. Will you come with me?”

She glanced at the orderly. “Is that permissible?”

Gibson hitched a shoulder. “It’s a big area. If the PT who’s scheduled to work with Skipper has any problem with you being there, he or she will ask you to wait outside. There’s a nice waiting room. We do a lot of outpatient work, as well as inpatient care.”

“Then I’ll go.” She smiled at Skip, who still had a stranglehold on her fingers. He didn’t let go, either, which made it awkward when Gibson tried to transfer the boy to the wheelchair. The man worked around the inconvenience. He kept up a line of banter without making Skip feel like a baby for needing to hang on to someone. For all his size, the man was gentle.

“You’ve obviously been at this job awhile,” Crystal said.

“Six years. I hope to be a physical therapist someday.”

“It’s a tough course, I understand,” she murmured sympathetically.

The man rolled Skip’s chair into the hall. “It’s finding the time and money to take classes. I have a family to support.”

“No wonder you’re so patient with Skip. You have children.”

“Yes. And I’m responsible for two sets of parents who are getting on in years.”

“That’s rough,” Crystal said. “The broadcasting company I work for ran a series recently on what’s being called the sandwich generation. I caught part of it. Mostly people talking about the difficulties involved in juggling care for both.”

He grinned at her. “I wish they’d talked to me. We bought a big house in town. All of us live together. My kids know their grandparents. They’re learning early about love and compassion and helping out around the house. If you ask me, it beats the alternative of growing up in small isolated families.”

Skipper leaned back in the wheelchair so he could look up at the man who pushed him. “Your place sounds neat. I don’t s’pose you have room for one more?” The wistful tone of his voice caused Crystal to tighten her hold on his hand.

“I’m afraid all the beds are taken,” Gibson said lightly. He raised a brow at Crystal as if wondering what he’d inadvertently stepped into.

“Skip is in foster care,” she informed him. Then, speaking to the boy, she asked softly, “You like living at Sandy’s, don’t you?”

“She and Mark are okay,” he said listlessly. “There’s a lot of kids and the house isn’t very big. And Mark doesn’t like us to make noise. Sandy says he takes complaints from customers all day. When he gets home he wants peace and quiet.”

“But they treat you well?” she pressed.

“Yeah. Mark don’t hit any of us like Leroy did at my last house.”

“Good. Because if you were having problems, I’d call Rachel.”

His face brightened. “I forgot you know my caseworker real well. Ms. Fontaine is nice. Not grouchy like some of ’em are.”

“That’s because she’s walked the walk, kiddo. She was a foster child in the house where I live. André Lyon, my boss, would’ve adopted her, but her mom refused to sign the papers. Lucky for Rachel, her mother agreed to permanent foster care. Rachel said the move to Lyoncrest changed her life. She knows the system can work, Skipper. Promise me that if you ever have problems, you’ll let her know at once.”

“Sure. Okay. Wow!” His voice rose excitedly and he tugged on Crystal’s jacket sleeve. “Isn’t that Cale over there?”

Gibson had wheeled Skipper’s chair to the doorway of a huge room that reminded Crystal of a fancy gym. She couldn’t begin to identify all the equipment, but Tanner worked at one machine that seemed designed to strengthen his upper body. Crystal didn’t want to stare. However, she couldn’t seem to help it. Caleb was bare to the waist. Ridges of muscle stood out across his shoulders as he hoisted himself from the seat of his wheelchair using nothing but his arms. Sweat glistened on his skin. A few drops pooled like tears in the rough hair that fanned his broad chest. The thatch of light brown narrowed before it met his navel. Beyond that, Crystal could only guess. And guessing made her uncomfortable.

“Well, isn’t it him?” Skip hissed, his eyes huge and eager.

Crystal wet her lips and cleared her throat. “Y-yes, it certainly is.”

“Wait’ll I tell the guys! He looks terrific. He don’t have a cast on or nothin’.”

As if sensing he was under scrutiny, Caleb glanced toward the door. The minute his eyes met Crystal’s he lost concentration and relaxed his grip on the rings.

Even across the room they heard the slap of his butt as it hit the vinyl seat of the wheelchair hard. Crystal flinched. Her teeth snapped shut and she closed her eyes, imagining the pain. Next the air curdled from his harsh expletive.

Skip’s cheeks paled. “I think that hurt him bad, Crystal. I guess maybe he’s not doin’ as good as he looks.”

“Healing bone and muscle takes time,” she murmured.

The therapist assigned to Skip walked up just then and blocked Caleb from Crystal’s view. But not before she saw him grit his teeth, tune her out and reach up to repeat the exercise. Logically Crystal knew that the other woman with a clipboard, the one who stood beside Caleb, must be his therapist Crystal wanted to scold the woman for assigning Caleb tasks that obviously hurt him.

Crystal didn’t know how long Skip’s therapist had been talking to her when she realized they were both staring at her and that some response was required. “Excuse me,” she said. “I must have zoned out for a moment.”

The young woman grinned. “I understand completely. All the women who work here have been drooling ever since Gib brought Caleb in. All except me. I like nerds. One football jock is the same as the next. It’s body by Mattel, brains by Brio.”

The insult didn’t go over Crystal’s head, but neither did she crack a smile. And when the therapist shrugged and looked at her with pity, Crystal had to wonder why she felt like retaliating on Tanner’s behalf.

“Gib said Skipper asked to have you stay for his therapy session,” the PT said, getting down to business. “I don’t mind. Gib’s bringing you a chair. We’re starting Skip with basic upper-body testing. This session is more or less to evaluate his muscular strengths and weaknesses. Boring stuff, really.”

“Will I hafta do what Cale’s doing, ma’am?” the boy asked apprehensively. “He’s really hurting, don’t you think?”

Crystal followed Skip’s troubled gaze. Indeed, Tanner seemed to be struggling. Veins stood out in his forearms, as did the cords in his neck. His therapist chewed gum and looked on. “His PT will call a halt if Tanner tries to overdo it, won’t she?” Crystal asked.

“Tanner’s her patient. My worry is this young man.” Skip’s therapist knelt to his level. “Call me, Mindy, okay? We’re going to be meeting like this two or three times a week over a long period. We’ll get to be friends. After your cast comes off, I may ask you to stretch some muscles that will hurt a bit, but today we’re doing easy stuff.”

He nodded, although his gaze kept straying to Cale’s corner. It was obvious from his straining that he wasn’t having an easy time of it. “Isn’t this Cale’s first day of therapy, too?” the boy managed in a high threadlike voice. “I think he’s in pain big time.”

Mindy didn’t seem to know how to answer. Crystal intervened. “Honey, I know for a fact that Tanner’s been working out with hand weights in his room. Plus, his athletic training has been far more intense than yours. You concentrate on what Mindy tells you to do, okay?”

“Yes, Skip. Lynelle is taking care of your friend. He’s fine. I promise.”

“All r-right.”

Skip still kept turning to watch Caleb. But how could Crystal blame him when she was sneaking looks, too? Tanner did possess an impressive physique. Broad shoulders, but not too bulky. Each of his hands would probably make two of hers. But they were well shaped and his nails were short and clean.

When Crystal started to imagine what it’d feel like having those hands roam over her breasts, she made herself turn her attention to Mindy and Skip again.

Why on earth do they keep it so warm in here? Crystal stood and walked to the door. She just needed to find the courtyard and get some air. Her sitting here served no purpose; Skip was doing fine with Mindy.

Crystal remained oblivious to the fact that the sway of her hips stopped Tanner’s therapy session cold. He had to lean around his therapist to gain the full effect of Crystal’s sudden departure. Lynelle didn’t like losing his attention. Clearly the therapist, in her spandex shorts and crop top, thought she was hot stuff. But Caleb had never been crazy about buxom blondes. Especially when they were closer to his kid sister’s age than his. Cale had accepted long ago that he might be the only football player on the face of the earth who was that choosy.

As a rule he gravitated toward tall leggy redheads. This week he’d changed his preference to petite saxophone players who wore their long black hair in a single braid. And he didn’t even know why, since he and Crystal Jardin hadn’t gotten past arguing. Then again, maybe that was the reason. Generally, everywhere he went, women of all ages fawned over him. Crystal was definitely not in that category.

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