A Hunka Hunka Nursing Love (Women's Fiction) (7 page)

She definitely liked the idea of seeing Keith beyond physical therapy. She liked the idea of getting physical with him period. But he probably had a wife, or at least a girlfriend, not to mention the age difference.
Get real, woman
. “Are you sure you’d have time?”

He gave her a cockeyed grin. “Single guys have lots of time.”

A butler answered the door. Never in Keith’s life had he been to a house with a butler. Granted, the trim, graying gentleman in a tailored pink shirt and pressed camel-colored slacks didn’t resemble the stereotypical butler Keith had seen in movies and TV shows. But the man identified himself as Douglas, Mrs. Wittenwyler’s butler, and Keith had no reason to doubt him.

Douglas gave Keith a warm, almost enthusiastic smile and handshake. “Mrs. Wittenwyler is in the conservatory. Follow me.”

The house was humbling, too. Valerie Palka’s home had been quite nice, but this place suggested major-league wealth. Not only was it huge, it was located right on Lake Michigan. Keith couldn’t even guess the value of such a place.

They finally arrived at the conservatory, where a fragile little woman with curly white hair sat on the edge of a wicker chair, weeding a plant with her gloved left hand and wearing a sling on her right arm.

“Mrs. Wittenwyler?” Douglas spoke with forceful enunciation, and she turned to him. “Your health care provider is here.”

She peered at Keith through silver-rimmed glasses, and it seemed to take her a moment to register who he was. Then she smiled, baring a set of unnaturally white teeth. “Oh yes, my health hunk. Come in, come in!” She waved Keith inside with her gloved hand, then realized she was sprinkling herself with tidbits of soil. “Oh, Douglas, take this glove off, will you? And bring us some refreshments. Please.”

Douglas removed the glove, and Mrs. Wittenwyler gave Keith another heavily lipsticked grin. “Now let me take a look at you.” She thoroughly eyeballed him down and up.

Keith had tried to prepare himself for this type of scrutiny, but it felt a lot sleazier than he’d imagined. Sweat prickled his face.

“Yes, you’ll do just fine,” she said. “Now help me up and we’ll go sit on the divan.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t ‘ma’am’ me. Makes me sound ancient. It’s Mrs. Wittenwyler or Margaret. All right?”

Keith doubted he’d ever be comfortable calling her Margaret. “Yes, Mrs. Wittenwyler.”

After helping her over to the wicker couch, Keith seated himself next to her and removed his laptop and some medical supplies from his canvas briefcase.

She squinted her puffy eyes at him. “What’s your name again?”

“Keith.” He pointed to his nametag. “Keith Nuber.”

“Keith,” she repeated. “May I call you Keith?”

“You certainly may.”

“And I promise I’ll never call
you
ma’am.” Her self-satisfied smile made her eyelids crinkle like walnut shells, and something tender cracked open in Keith’s chest. Maybe she wouldn’t be so crotchety after all.

He cleaned his hands with some disinfectant and began unwrapping the bandage on her arm. “So how did you break your arm?”

“I was playing croquet with my great-grand-nephew Zachary, and that little rascal is a cheater. So I was chasing him with my mallet—just teasing, you know—and I tripped over one of the wickets and fell on the mallet.”

“Ouch.”

“Yes, you should have seen it. Blood, the bone—it was atrocious.”

“I can imagine.” Keith removed the dressing and inspected the stitches. “It’s healing nicely though.”

Mrs. Wittenwyler examined the wound herself, and Keith saw her already-pale face blanch.

“Perhaps you should turn away while I do this,” he said, grabbing the shoulder of her good arm to steady her.

“Yes,” she said softly, redirecting her gaze. “Perhaps I should.”

Keith finished replacing the bandage and took her temperature before Douglas showed up with a tray of lemonade and blueberry scones.

“Thank you, Douglas.” Mrs. Wittenwyler then shooed the butler out with all the subtlety of a referee. A tiny sneer snagged Douglas’ lip as he gracefully exited.

Mrs. Wittenwyler picked up a glass of lemonade. “Please, help yourself.”

“Thank you.” Keith quickly gulped down an entire glass. The conservatory was the last room he would have chosen to hang out in during the summer.

“Goodness, you’re a man of great thirst! I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, with a physique like yours. You must have a very high metabolism.” She scanned his body again, and Keith could hardly believe being appraised by an 88-year-old woman could make him squeamish.

He lifted his computer onto his lap. “Let’s see what exercises we have to keep your arm in good working order.”

“Oh, yes, physical therapy.” She awkwardly replaced her glass on the tray with her left hand. “We wouldn’t want the old lady’s arm to stop working, would we? Then she couldn’t write all those big checks to you medical types.” Her simper was playful rather than bitter.

“It’s not the checks I’m concerned about. I want you to be able to swing that mallet. Somebody’s got to keep Zachary in line.”

Mrs. Wittenwyler laughed. “Right you are.”

Keith guided her arm through the exercises, and at one point, her hand grazed the crotch of his pants. For a moment, he suspected it had been intentional. But no, she was weak and a little wobbly, he concluded. Bound to happen sometimes.

Then when they finished the exercises and he assisted her in returning to the couch, she slid her good hand down his backside as he eased her onto the seat. He locked eyes with her and saw a sheepish look of feigned innocence. That time he knew it was no accident. She was copping a feel.

His jaws muscles tensed, but he remained polite. He confirmed the time of her next appointment and gladly vacated the Wittenwyler mansion.

He had an hour off for lunch, and he was tempted to go home and shower.
Oh, chill out. She’s just a pathetic old lady with nothing better to do than . . . fondle health care workers?

He tried to shake it off as he drove to a restaurant, but one aspect of the incident niggled at him: If the genders were reversed, it would be a clear-cut case of sexual harassment. He had no doubt that’s exactly what it was. But did he want to make a stink about it? Should he tell Valerie?

Valerie
. His shoulders eased as he recalled his appointment with her that morning. He’d seen her at what was probably her worst, appearance-wise, and yet she still registered high on the hot scale. And those eyes . . . like a Rocky Mountain sky on a bright winter day. Their brief meeting back in January had indeed left an impression on him. But hadn’t she been wearing a wedding ring then? She wasn’t anymore, so perhaps—

Whoa there, dude! No hoochie-coochie with the patients, remember
? Of course, the circumstances were kind of different . . .

Nah. The job paid too well to jeopardize it. Still, he admired her. It took some serious guts to start a business like Triple-H. And even with her injury, he could sense the fire that drove her ambition. No harm in having a good working relationship, right?

Chapter 7

Valerie’s home phone rang, and she didn’t even need to see the Caller ID to know who it was. Mom called every day around 2 p.m.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How are you feeling today, sweetie?”

“Not bad. I get a little stronger each day.”

“Good. But don’t overdo it. It’s easy to think you’re more recovered than you actually are.”

Mom loved reverting to the protective mother role, and Valerie had to admit she enjoyed knowing her mom still wanted to take care of her. When Valerie was a kid and either she or her brother Russell were ill, Mom would call in sick to her department-store job and devote herself to being Mama Nurse, as she called herself. She served them meals in bed on a homemade tray made from an upside-down cardboard box with arches cut out for their legs, and the box was plastered with color comics from the Sunday newspaper.

“So did you ever hear back from that guy who asked you out?” Valerie asked.

“Oh, yes, he called . . . yesterday was it? No, Monday. Monday evening.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mom paused a moment. “I guess I thought I had.”

“So are you going out with him?”

“Yes. We’re going out to dinner Friday night. Or is it Saturday?”

Uh-oh. “I hope you wrote it down.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve got it on my calendar.” The kitchen calendar, where Mom recorded every event, from the momentous to the minute. For September 11th, she had written Terrorist Attack in black and drawn a frowny face next to it. “Say, you know that hunk who took me shopping the other day?” The word
hunk
stood out in her sentence like a horn toot.

“Yes?”

“Can he help me with a little housecleaning?”

“Well, of course, Mom, that’s precisely what those aides are supposed to do. But— Wait a minute. What happened to your housekeeper?”

“Oh, I fired her.”

Oh, God
. Valerie strained to keep her cool. “Why?”

“She really was a waste of money, dear. I’ll admit the upstairs needed a thorough cleaning, but once she did that, there just wasn’t enough work to justify having her come back.”

Mom’s answer sounded rehearsed. Valerie forced herself to breathe. She knew this was a battle that needed to be fought, but at that moment? No. She would let the aide handle it for the time being. “All right, but I want you to
promise
me you’ll let the aide do anything that involves climbing or lifting.”

“Oh, I promise.”

Valerie sighed. She knew darn well that once she was off crutches, Mom would fire the aide, too. Valerie saw the pattern beginning to gel. “You know, Mom, I’m not trying to steal your independence. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

A cold front whooshed into Mom’s voice. “I know you think I’m a helpless old lady, but I’m actually not as decrepit as you like to make me out to be.”

Valerie pinched the bridge of her nose. They’d been getting along so well since Valerie’s accident. Why did the truce have to end? “I’m sorry, Mom. You know I mean well.”

Valerie heard her mom take a deep breath—a hopeful sign?

“Well . . . I suppose you do. At least I know you’re not out for my money, since you have more of that than I do. Thank heavens. Poor Carol Monkowski, not a day goes by that one of her kids doesn’t call and ask for a ‘loan,’ which of course they never pay back.”

“No, I’m not out for your money. It’s your lingerie I’m after.” Mom had worked in a lingerie department for eighteen years and had assembled quite a unique collection.

“You just want the Doris Day pink negligée.” The garment supposedly was an exact replica of what Day had worn in one of her films, and Mom had preserved it better than the Metropolitan Museum of Art would.

“You’re darn right.”

“Well, you can just forget it. I’m going to be buried in that negligée.”

“What are you trying to do, give Fred Gimble a hard-on?” Fred Gimble ran the local mortuary.

“Now don’t you use that kind of language with your mother. Besides, Thelma Gimble told me Fred hasn’t had an erection in years. Too much . . . formaldehyde or something.”

Valerie groaned. “That’s more information than I needed, Mom.”

“You’re the one who started it.”

Who’s the child here?
“Then I’ll end it. I should probably get back to work anyway.”

“All right. Although in my day, bed rest meant actual
rest
.”

“Yes, well, we’re in the twenty-first century now, and that means work or lose your business.”

Valerie could almost hear Mom pursing her lips. “You’re worse than your father, you know that?”

Valerie took that as a compliment. She’d always admired her father’s devotion to his chain of grocery stores. If it hadn’t been for the business sense and confidence he’d instilled in her, she didn’t think she would’ve had the guts to take over Mother Hubbard, let alone be an entrepreneur. “Bye, Mom. I love you.”

“Love you too, sweetie.”

Valerie turned off the phone and held it against her chin. For months she’d been meaning to call the local senior center to get some advice on how to deal with her mom. She grabbed her laptop, looked up the number and called.

“Eisner Senior Center.”

“Hi, uh, I’m having some difficulty getting my elderly mother to accept any kind of assistance, and I wondered if there’s someone there I could talk to.”

“Let me connect you with our senior advocate, Erin Okita. Hang on a sec.”

“Thanks.”

After several rings, Erin answered. Valerie gave her a rundown of the situation, and Erin, whose voice made her sound like she was about sixteen, clearly had dealt with many seniors who were as stubborn as Helen Palka.

“She sounds like the kind of person who’s not going to come right out and tell you she needs help with something,” Erin said. “But if you ask her directly about it, she may admit she could use some assistance.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you need to become a sort of detective. Read between the lines. Has she stopped talking about things she used to do? Like, maybe she’s stopped going to plays. You might ask her if she’s having trouble hearing the actors.”

How ironic. Mom used to love plays, and she hadn’t been to one in ages, as far as Valerie knew. “Okay.”

“And talk to her friends. I don’t mean blatantly spying on her. Just think of a legitimate reason to call them—like, you’re selling raffle tickets for a fundraiser. Then ask them how they’re doing, and believe me, most seniors will have some kind of ailment or problem they want to talk about. Then you can mention something about your mom, and you might be surprised what they’ll tell you.”

Hmm.
Mom’s church friends would probably be the best ones to call. “All right.”

“There might also be other people she talks to on a regular basis, like her hairdresser, pharmacist, people like that.”

“Yeah. Those are great suggestions.”

Erin offered to send Valerie a packet of information on local social services for the elderly. “It always helps to know what’s available when the need arises.”

“Right. Thank you so much.” Valerie had learned some of these things when researching the business plan for Triple-H, but Erin’s real-world experience provided valuable insights.

“Also, are . . . finances an issue for your mother?”

“Well, she is on a fixed income, but money’s not an issue for me, so I’m willing to pay whatever it takes.”

Erin paused. “That’s wonderful. But you might want to see how she feels about spending your money. A lot of seniors are very stubborn about not wanting their kids to spend too much on them.”

Oh, God.
That never occurred to me!
Maybe that was why Mom kept firing everyone Valerie hired to help her. “Yeah. That’s a good point.”

“And one thing you have to bear in mind is that if she’s mentally competent, she still has the right to make the decisions about her welfare, even if they’re not good decisions.”

Valerie bit a fingernail, something she hadn’t done in ages. “So even if I’m convinced she’s not safe living alone there, if that’s what she wants to do, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Unless you can convince a judge she’s either incompetent or a clear and present danger to herself, no.”

Valerie sighed.
So we just sit back and wait for the next crisis.

The ‘beware of cat’ warning Valerie had planned to issue melted away as she watched Keith standing at the foot of her bed nuzzling Sylvester. “He loves you! I can’t believe it! That cat usually avoids strangers like the plague.”

He grinned as he scratched under the furry white chin of the feline, who was purring as loud as a scooter. “Male cats love me for some reason. Females not so much, but with males, it’s like I’m their instant buddy.”

“Do you have a cat?”

“Nah.” He put Sylvester down on the bedspread and continued to pet the high-tailed cat with firm strokes. “I like to be able to pick up and go at a moment’s notice.”

“Go where?” It occurred to her that maybe she shouldn’t be nosing into his private life. But she didn’t see any real harm. He was just a colleague.

He began removing his supplies from his canvas briefcase, but Sylvester wasn’t ready to relinquish his new pal and rubbed his head insistently against Keith’s hands. “Maybe a marathon. Sometimes kayaking. Or skiing.”

“Wow. You’re quite the outdoorsman.”

He chuckled. “Some of my buddies would disagree with you on that. They think I’m a wimp because I won’t backpack into the wilderness and camp in the freezing cold. I like to have a warm bed to sleep in.”

“Hmm, me, too.” She adjusted her pillows and sat up straighter. “But after this little episode, I’d be happy if I didn’t see a bed for a year.”

A sympathetic smile lifted his lips. “Then let’s get to work and get you strong again.”

They began her physical therapy exercises, and she noticed he wasn’t wearing that heavy cologne. “I have to admit, I’m glad you didn’t wear that cologne today.”

His face turned scarlet. “I take it you don’t like it.”

Oh, crap.
“Well, it’s just not my cup of tea. What kind is it?”

“Uh, Primal something. It was a gift from one of my sisters.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t that crazy about it either. It made me want to scratch myself and eat raw meat.”

She laughed. “How many sisters do you have?”

“Two still living. Both older.” He took a deep breath. “They keep me on my toes.”

“In what way?” Valerie had completely lost count of how many repetitions she’d done, but she didn’t care.

He sneered. “Whenever my Neanderthal tendencies start to emerge, they send me back to sensitivity training school.”

“I like them already.” She paused her exercising. “Have I done enough of these yet?”

“Ten more. How about you? Any sisters?”

“No, just one brother. But he lives out in California, so I don’t see him very often. Do you have any brothers?”

“No, I’m the only male. Totally outnumbered. Okay, you can switch to the leg lifts now.”

She quickly repositioned herself for the next exercise. He adjusted her leg, and his gentle, but commanding, touch sent a shockwave of yearning through her.
Get a grip, Valerie. Think of something else
. “Do your sisters live around here?”

“Yeah. One’s in Oak Brook, and the other’s in Joliet.”

“Hmm. You’re lucky to have them close. I’m glad my brother has a good life, but I have to admit I wish he lived closer. Especially now that my mom needs more care. I know he’d help if he were here, but as it is, the whole responsibility falls on me.”

He tapped the top of her knee to remind her to keep the leg straight. “What kind of care does she need?”

Valerie struggled to keep her focus on her mom. “At this point, all she needs is help with household chores. But there have been times when she’s needed in-home nursing care, like after she sprained her ankle, and she’s bound to need more in the future. She’s actually the reason I started Triple-H.”

His face lit with surprise. “Oh, yeah? That’s cool.”

“It would be if she didn’t keep firing the people I hire to help her. She’s got a million reasons why they don’t work out, when the only
real
reason is that she won’t admit she needs help. Unless
I’m
available to help her. Then she suddenly needs all kinds of things.”

He rubbed his chin the same way she’d seen Russell do a thousand times. “I wonder if she thinks it’s a sign of weakness to accept help from anyone who’s not family. A lot of people from that generation do.”

“I think that’s part of it. But she’s also excessively frugal.”

His smile had a melancholic edge. “Oh, sure. The old Depression thing. My mom wasn’t even born until after the Depression, but she still uses that as her excuse for hanging on to everything.”

“Oh!” She slapped a hand down on the bed. “Man, can I relate to that. You should see my mom’s basement. She’s got clothes down there dating back to her
high
school years. And you know who’s going to get stuck clearing all that stuff out someday?” She pointed to herself. “
Moi
.”

He nodded sympathetically as he gestured toward her leg. “Five more reps and you can wrap that one up.”

“That stuff isn’t what really bothers me, though. It’s her health and safety I’m concerned about. I just don’t think it’s safe for her to live alone anymore. I even offered to let her move in with me, but no way. She’s not leaving that house as long as there’s a breath in her body.”

“That’s pretty typical. They want to stay in their own homes and remain independent as long as possible.”

She stopped exercising and propped herself up on her elbows. “And I’m okay with that as long as she’ll let people come in and help her. But there’s a limit to how much I can do, especially when I’m trying to run two businesses.”

He scrunched his lips to the side in a thoughtful expression. “What about me?”

“What do you mean?”