By Appointment Only (28 page)

He laughed hoarsely. “I thought you would change your mind eventually. I was sure I could make you see things my way. But you were a hell of a lot smarter than me. I can be a stubborn ass. Sometimes it takes me way too long to see the truth.”

He wanted to kiss her one last time, to remember the feel of her soft body and lush breasts nestled against his chest, but he didn’t have the guts. He was barely holding it together.

She took a step toward him, her hands outstretched. She smiled cajolingly. “You’re exhausted, my love. And this thing with your mom and dad must have hit you blindside. Sit down and relax. It will be okay. You’ll see. Let’s have dinner. We’ll talk about it.”

He backed away from her, his movements uncoordinated, his Norman Rockwell world in ashes. “I’m sorry, Hannah.” And then he fled.

Hannah was too stunned to follow him. What had just happened? For a brief moment she wondered if this was one of those odd dreams that seem very real until the alarm clock goes off. But she looked at her bare left hand and she looked at the dish on the table, empty except for her watch, and she knew. This was no dream. It wasn’t even a nightmare. You could wake up from those.

But given the look on Morgan’s face, she was not going to open her eyes tomorrow morning and discover that everything was back to normal. He wasn’t a man to fool around. He was serious.

Nothing hurt yet. She was still numb from the sheer absurdity of it all. She’d been planning to set a wedding date tonight. To tell Morgan she would be his wife and love him forever. They were going to have wonderfully spontaneous, hot, messy sex. They were going to make plans. They were going to snuggle in the dark and paint visual dreams of their future life together.

Suddenly, she started to shake, and hot tears leaked down her cheeks. She dashed them away angrily. She wouldn’t accept this. She couldn’t. A sharp pain in her side made her gasp. She stumbled to the bathroom and threw up, feeling wretched and more alone than she ever had before, even after her grandparents died.

She made herself return to the kitchen and put the food away. She turned off the stove and emptied the wineglasses into the sink. She worked mechanically, afraid if she sat down she would crumble into nothingness.

In fifteen minutes the room was spotless. But she kept stopping to wipe her face. She hurt all over. As if she’d stood outside in the midst of the hurricane and been pummeled with flying debris.

Weaving on her feet, she stumbled to the bedroom and crawled beneath the sheets, completely dressed, with all the lights still on. She was scared of the dark, afraid if she closed her eyes, she would disappear into the well of despair that was sucking at her feet.

She lay there for hours. At first, she thought her phone would ring. Morgan would laugh and apologize and tell her he’d overreacted. He’d tell her that his parents’ fight had blown over and that they weren’t really getting a divorce at all. He’d come over and hold her and make love to her and give back the ring.

She kept her left hand curled beneath the pillow. She couldn’t bear to look at it.

But the phone never rang, and sometime before dawn, exhaustion claimed her.

Morgan had to get through Saturday night and all day Sunday. After that, he would be back on the job. Busy. Busy enough to wear himself out so that he didn’t have to think or feel. He could just work and work and work and fall into a coma at night.

In the meantime, he needed some help with his plan to court shit-faced, total oblivion. He pulled into a liquor store, went inside, and bought enough Jack Daniel’s to make a grown man pass out.

When he got home, he set the bottles on the counter and stared at temptation. He wanted to drink them, but his damn sense of responsibility kept him from opening even the first one. What if Hannah needed him for something? What if his parents called back? What if the big boss decided to come check out the disaster firsthand?

Morgan turned his back on the prospect of unconsciousness and flopped, dry-eyed, facedown on the sofa. Anyone as sheer bloody stupid as he was deserved to suffer.

When morning came, it had the audacity to be clothed in blue skies and sunshine. Hannah much preferred the sullen hurricane. She wasn’t prepared to face a perky, bright, cloudless day.

She dragged herself out of bed and stared in the mirror. She’d looked better after having the flu. Her hair was matted and tangled and the dark circles under her eyes made her haggard.

She stripped off her dress, the dress she had imagined her lover’s hands removing, and tossed it in the bottom of her closet. After a quick shower, she put on shorts and a T-shirt. She had work to do.

She hadn’t paid too much attention to directions the night Morgan took her to dinner at his parents’ house, but she was able to retrace the simple route. She parked in the driveway, not caring one whit if it was impolite to show up without calling.

She got out of the car, walked up the flower-trimmed walkway, and pounded on the door, giving free rein to her frustration and her anger. Morgan’s father opened the door. He had a roll of packing tape in his hands, and behind him she could see a stack of empty boxes.

She didn’t wait for an invitation. She shoved past him and stopped in the foyer. “Where’s your wife?”

He gaped at her. Hannah put her hands on her hips. “Get her down here. We have to talk. Now.” She stalked into the beautifully appointed living room and picked a chair at random. Then she waited.

It didn’t take long. Morgan’s parents walked into the room with identical looks of confusion and defiance on their faces. She pointed to the sofa. “Sit there. Both of you.” When they complied with her blunt command, she stared them down. “Have you lost your minds? Do you have any idea what you’ve done to your son? Do you know how stupid it is to throw away almost forty years of marriage?”

They sat, mouths agape, and stared at her.

She waved her hands, agitation and heartbreak making her sick. “He’s built his entire world view around your loving marriage. He believes in permanence and trust and the faith you have in each other. You
can’t
do this to him!” she wailed, feeling tears trickle down her cheeks again. “It’s cruel and unnecessary and I won’t let you.”

Morgan’s father found his voice at last. “I don’t understand, Hannah,” he said slowly. “Our problems are between the two of us. Why are you here?”

She rubbed her hands over her face. “That’s just it,” she said, forcing her words past a tight throat. “Those problems are between all
four
of us. Your son dumped me last night. Because of you.”

Mrs. Webber gasped, her hand at her throat. “Oh, no, he couldn’t,” she cried.

Hannah stared at her grimly, feeling no sympathy for the older woman’s distress. “Oh, yes, he did.”

Mr. Webber cursed and got to his feet. “This is all your fault,” he shouted, glaring at his wife.

She faced him angrily. “Don’t you dare yell at me. You’ve been a complete jackass.”

Hannah hissed. “Listen, you two. I work with ninety-year-olds every day who are cranky and eccentric and stubborn as hell. But they’ve earned that right. They’re at the end of their road and if the only pleasure they have left is acting like horses’ asses, they’re entitled. But you two have every blessing imaginable, and whatever this stupid argument is about can’t possibly be all that important. You’re not sick, are you? Nobody’s dying? Neither one of you has had an affair?”

They both shook their heads, looking for all the world like guilty children.

She flung herself out of the chair and paced. “So you’re healthy; you’re monogamous; you have a wonderful, loving, successful son, a fabulous home, and enough money to indulge your interests. So tell me, please. What in the hell do either of you have to be unhappy about? Because I really want to know.”

Morgan’s father winced. “It’s complicated.”

Hannah put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Then
uncomplicate
it. Because up until dinnertime last night, I was the woman who was going to give you sweet, beautiful grandchildren, for godsakes. And believe me, if you pass up this chance, it will probably be a long, cold day in hell before Morgan decides to risk his heart again. I guarantee you.”

Mrs. Webber was sobbing now, and in an interesting development, her husband put his arm around her automatically, like he had been comforting her for years. No doubt he had. He frowned at Hannah. “Can’t you see that you’re upsetting my wife?”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Well, join the club. Because I’m pretty damn upset myself.” She shook a finger at them. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think about what you’ve done, and then I’m coming back. And I’ll keep coming back until you fix this. And if that doesn’t work, I know a couple of doctors named Hurst who can knock some sense into both of you, so don’t make me get tough.”

She strode to the door, her blood pressure through the roof. “I mean it,” she said, her words steady even though her knees were shaking. “Get past this. Do what you have to do. But come hell or high water, you’re going to get your act together or else face the wrath of Hannah Quarles.”

She drove around the block a couple of times, because she was afraid to get out on the interstate in the shape she was in. She had never been so terribly scared and confused and angry and determined, all at the same time. It was a toxic combination.

When her breathing returned to normal, or close enough, she circled the perimeter road in the Webbers’ subdivision. Despite the storm’s fury, dozens of die-hard golfers were already out on the course. The litter Constance had scattered on the fairways had disappeared as if by magic, and the pristine greens baked in the midday sun.

It must be nice to have an unseen army of workers who would take care of any unsightly problems. Too bad real life wasn’t as easily restored to normal.

She glanced at her watch. It was lunchtime . . . and she had skipped breakfast. But her appetite continued to be nonexistent. Her stomach still hurt, and she’d left her shirt untucked to cover the fact that the snap on the waistband of her shorts was undone.

She drove toward home slowly, just above the minimum speed limit. She felt odd, and the discomfort in her belly had moved down into her right side. She thought about pulling over to take some aspirin, but she’d forgotten to bring a water bottle with her.

She was just about on the outskirts of Ocala when she realized she couldn’t make it. The pain in her side was worse, and she was shaking, maybe even feverish, and all she wanted to do was lie down.

She couldn’t call Morgan. She wouldn’t call his parents. Grimacing in discomfort, she dialed 911 and asked for directions to the nearest hospital. The woman on the phone offered to send an ambulance right away, but Hannah figured it would be quicker to grit her teeth and make it under her own steam.

By the time she pulled up in front of the emergency room, she was barely able to stumble inside. A nurse took one look at her and ran for a wheelchair.

From that moment on, things were a blur. They took her back to an exam cubicle and made her strip down. The room was cold, and putting on the hospital gown made her feel worse. They poked and prodded and asked a million questions.

“When did you last eat?”

“Sometime yesterday afternoon,” she mumbled. That made her think of the beautiful celebratory dinner that had gone to waste, and she had to blink back tears.

The nurse was kind. “I know it hurts, but we can’t give you anything for pain until we’re sure what’s wrong.”

Soon they wheeled her down at least four long hallways to the ultrasound room. That part wasn’t so bad. At least the light was dim and the technician wasn’t inclined to talk. Even though it didn’t feel great when the woman pressed on Hannah’s stomach and abdomen.

Once they took her back to her cubbyhole in emergency, she must have dozed for a little while, because when she glanced at her watch as the doctor came in, she saw that forty-five minutes had passed. He was in his late thirties, harried, but kind. He held her newly constructed medical chart.

He smiled professionally. “Well, Ms. Quarles. You have an appendix that’s nasty and swollen. We’re going to have to jerk it out before it bursts.”

“Jerk?” Hannah made a face.

The doctor grinned. “Sorry. Bad choice of words. Someone will be here in a moment to take you upstairs and admit you. Dr. Kent is the surgeon on call. She’s excellent, so you’ll be in good hands. If you have family you need to contact, I’d suggest calling them now, because a nurse will be starting IVs and whatnot when they get you into a room.” He reached for her purse on the chair beside the exam table. “Here you go.”

Hannah pulled out her cell phone and stared at it with indecision. She knew in her gut that Morgan would want to know. But part of her was so hurt and so sad, she couldn’t bring herself to call him. After all, it was just appendicitis. It would be done laparoscopically, unless—as the doctor had pointed out—they ran into problems. If it weren’t so late in the day, they probably would have let her go home this afternoon. And even if she had to stay overnight, she was a big girl. She’d survive.

Instead of dialing the number that begged to be punched in, she called Elda. Hannah downplayed her situation and assured her worried older friend that she would call her as soon as the anesthesia wore off.

Hannah wasn’t entirely sure how she would get home from the hospital or who would collect her car, but she was in too much discomfort to worry about it.

Being admitted to the hospital, even in an emergency situation, was not quick and easy. There were forms to fill out, information to give, and the requisite plastic bracelets to put on. After that they wheeled her down yet another hall for a chest X-ray. By the time she was finally installed in a standard bland beige room, almost two hours had passed since she had talked to Elda, and Hannah was near to tears. And she was second-guessing her decision not to call Morgan. She wanted him by her side holding her hand.