Code Triage (17 page)

“They’re going to love it!” Caro gushed, popping back into the kitchen as Sinatra began belting, “Love and marriage go together like a horse and carriage.” She wrinkled her nose. “Including that corny music. I’ve got the table all set. But I still need to get those flowers that you wanted from Antoinette’s window box. So I think I’ll run over there and check on them while you two are . . .” Her eyes swept between them, the look on her face the same as the one Leigh had seen earlier. Right here in this kitchen, when Caro talked about happy endings and then sobbed in her big sister’s arms. “It’s so good to see you together—doing this for the McNealys, I mean. It was a good idea, Nick.”

“
We’re
doing it. Meaning you, too, Hula Woman.” Nick smiled at her. “Couldn’t make this happen without you on the team.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m about to slide this dish in the oven; the rice is coming right along. I’ll put your sister to work on the salad.” He frowned, looking down at his clothes. “And see if I can find something clean to wear in those boxes in my car.”

Leigh stared at the chicken, aware of the sudden silence in the room.

“So all right,” Caro said, raising her voice over Sinatra’s refrain. “Let’s get the Tonga Room open.”

In less than hour, the house smelled of Polynesian chicken—sweet, gingery, and complete with hoisin sauce. They’d gathered around the McNealys’ mahogany table, lei-festooned chandelier on a dimmer, tiki candles lit, Sinatra down low, and everyone in a vintage party hat. The McNealys’ home movies, jumpy and discolored but full of obviously happy moments, flickered on the bedsheet Caro had thumbtacked to the wall behind them. Somehow, they’d done it. They’d turned their dining room into a restaurant. And a celebration.

Leigh’s eyes traveled the table as Caro passed the jasmine rice. Antoinette wore a blue gown, accented by a purple eye, still visible after applications of two frozen vegetables and a thick layer of Merle Norman. The radiance of her smile, however, made it hardly noticeable. Caro had donned a sheer tunic and leggings and, in addition to the grass skirt and party hat, tucked a bright bougainvillea blossom behind her ear. She’d have no trouble walking from this room onto any fashion runway in New York City. Leigh, between salad duties, slipped away and exchanged her riding sweats for a simple black dress and her grandmother’s pearls. And Nick . . . Her pulse quickened as she stole a glance at him seated next to her. White oxford shirt and Jerry Garcia tie over fresh blue jeans, all rumpled from the boxes. But in the candlelight, still so . . .

“You look handsome, Harry,” Caro said, glancing down the table.

Their neighbor smiled, stifling a yawn. “Thank you, young lady.” He touched his bow tie and raised an arm to show her a cuff link. “My bride gave me these for a wedding present.” His eyes moved over Antoinette’s face. “I’m a blessed man.” He glanced toward Leigh, sitting beside him, then at Nick. “You are too, son. Don’t ever forget that.”

“No, sir. I won’t.”

Leigh released the breath she’d been holding.

“And the food looks wonderful.” Antoinette smiled across the table at Nick. “This beautiful chicken, and the way it’s presented with that pretty little spray of nasturtium flowers.”

“Exactly why we come to the Fairmont!” Harry boomed. “Every year. Every single . . .” His eyes glittered with sudden tears. “Forever . . . and ever.” He cleared his throat. “I’m saying grace now.”

He reached for Leigh’s hand, then his wife’s. She grasped Caro’s. Caro reached across the table as Nick extended his hand. He took hold of Leigh’s with his other.

“Dear Lord,” Harry began, “we . . . uh . . .” Confusion flickered across his face. He looked at Nick helplessly. “I seem to have . . . forgotten. Son, would you . . . ?”

“Yes.” Nick cleared his throat, and his fingers tightened around Leigh’s. She could feel his wedding ring. He raised his voice just enough to be heard over the strains of Sinatra and the clicking whir of the old movie projector. “Lord, we thank you for this food and for bringing us together here, around this table. And for the many years of love that Harry and Antoinette . . .”

Leigh bowed her head, closing her eyes in the candlelight and thinking how strange it was that they were doing something Nick had always wanted. And how bittersweet that they’d finally gathered around a table in this dining room to thank God and celebrate someone else’s marriage, just as they were preparing to say good-bye to their own.

+++

Sam picked up the phone for the third time, then set it down again and reached for her wineglass instead. She took a long swallow of the cabernet she could barely afford—from a Napa Valley winery where Nick said he’d once cooked for a charity event. Toby had been there too, and they’d taken a ride in a hot air balloon. Nick had teased her burly brother mercilessly for keeping a death grip on the basket, refusing to look down. Nick laughed when he’d told the story and looked genuinely happy. She’d hoped that the label, her sentimental gesture in buying the wine, would intrigue Nick enough that he wouldn’t decline the offer of a glass. Or two. She’d never seen him drink. Except during those days after Toby’s death, after Leigh turned him away.

You didn’t want him then, and you can’t have him now.
Sam rested the glass against her cheek and closed her eyes, feeling the wine soften her like the frayed satin binding on Elisa’s baby blanket. She told herself she couldn’t know for sure that Nick was with his wife. He’d simply said, “Something’s come up” and that he had to go. It could have been one of his buddies on the force or Buzz or one of the kids he mentored. But she’d seen the look on his face—in his eyes.

The truth escaped despite her efforts to swallow it down. Whenever Nick said Leigh’s name, when he saw her, even thought of her, Sam always saw that look in his eyes. Something changed, something came into them. The same thing she’d wanted all her life to see in a man’s eyes when he looked at her. Like she was his world. Like she held his beating heart in her hands and he wanted it that way. Like he was hers . . . forever. Leigh Stathos didn’t deserve that anymore. Maybe she never did. Regardless, she’d forfeited it all by turning Nick away. She’d been selfish and cold and stupid. And Sam had been giving and warm, and very, very smart. She’d seen his need and filled it, held Nick in his sorrow, watched him rail and curse and slam his fist against a wall. Then heard his tearful prayer when he thought she was sleeping. She took him in, lay in his arms, and now . . .
he’s back with her.

“No!” She slammed the wineglass down on the counter, heard it shatter, and scrambled backward, but not before the dark liquid sluiced from the tile’s edge and onto her skirt. Deep stains on delicate flowers—dark as blood. The skirt she’d chosen along with the wine to impress Nick. Part of a plan she’d put in place. Dessert, the macaroni butterfly, Elisa’s bedtime story—it had been working. He’d held her, might have kissed her if he hadn’t gotten that call.

Sam marched to the sink, dampened a dish towel, and rubbed at her skirt, anger sharpening edges softened by the glasses of cabernet. Nick was at Leigh’s. She knew it. He wasn’t answering his phone. What else could she—?

She stopped rubbing the skirt at the memory of Dr. Stathos’s expression this afternoon, when she’d cut through the ER. As if she’d caught Sam trespassing on her property. Angry, threatened, bothered. Even the smallest bit fearful? Yes. So . . .

+++

“I think we can stop,” Nick said, breathing into a humid layer of plastic leis. He made a grab for his grass skirt before it slid low enough to trip over, then raised his voice above the crescendo of taped drumbeats to be sure Caroline understood. “Harry’s nodding off in his chair. I don’t think we have to do this anymore.”

“Don’t be a quitter.” Caroline gyrated beside him. “You’ve only been at it five minutes. If I’m willing to make a fool of myself, you can too. He wants Polynesian dancers. They always have them at their anniversary parties. You saw the movies. You’re doing fine; just keep flailing those brawny arms and walk in place. When Antoinette comes back from the kitchen with the dessert, I want you moving. You’re lucky I’m letting you keep your shirt and that we’re not dancing around a fire, or—”

They both turned as Leigh’s laugh snorted through her nose.

“Ummph.” She crumpled in her chair beside the dozing Harry, holding her stomach. “Excuse me,” she squeaked, before choking with laughter again. “It’s just so . . .”

“Hey, watch it.” Nick swayed in place, his fists on his skirt. “You could get recruited pretty fast.” He tried to glare, but it was impossible because all he could think about was how happy she looked. It had been so long since he’d seen her laugh. Even at his expense.

“No,” she said, brushing at her eyes. “I’ve already been recruited, remember?” Leigh glanced to where Harry dozed, chin sagging onto his tuxedo tie. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Bad cop? Only the
good
cops dance.” She pressed her hand to her lips, a giggle rising. “Oh, man . . .”

Antoinette walked in with a plate, then stopped and grinned. “Harry, look—our dancers!”

“Tonga time.” Caroline nudged Nick and began treading her feet in earnest, swirling her arms in small circles. Harry woke up and started to applaud. Leigh crossed to the CD player and turned up the volume. So Nick danced. Sort of a half zombie walk, part Chicken Dance, and more than a little Greek syrto—he knew that one. He didn’t have a clue; he felt like an idiot in the skirt, and he was completely out of sync with Caroline, but the look on Harry’s face, the delight in Antoinette’s eyes, and the incredible sound of Leigh’s laughter made it all worth it. He’d be a fool any day for that. He whooped, raised his arms in the air, grabbed one of Caroline’s hands and twirled her, joining in as she began laughing. He clapped along with the others, his gaze traveling from the jungle dining room to the home movies flickering on the wall, to the sight of Harry sliding his arm around his wife’s shoulders. And then to Leigh, smiling at him. Really smiling. He watched her eyes, lost.

“You can stop now.”

Nick turned to Caroline. “What?”

“The drums are over. There’s new music. I think that’s . . .”

“Tony Bennett.” Antoinette sighed. “He’s playing our song.”

Nick recognized the strains of the singer’s trademark song beginning to fill the room: “I left my heart in San Francisco. . . .” He watched as Harry set his oxygen tubing aside, slowly rose, and took his wife’s hand. He led her to the center of the floor.

Nick and Leigh slid the chairs back to make more room, and Caroline dimmed the lights until the glow of the full moon through the window provided the perfect illumination for their improvised dance floor. Nick pulled off the skirt and leis and tossed them on the couch. He stepped closer to Leigh. “Is he okay to do that?”

“He looks pretty okay to me. Don’t you think?”

“I mean medically, without his oxygen.”

“I think there isn’t any better medicine for Harry right now,” Leigh said, her eyes on the elderly couple moving slowly in each other’s arms. She cleared her throat. “It could be their last time to dance.”

“Yes,” he said, watching the old man in a vintage tuxedo holding his wife of sixty years, lit by moonlight and silhouetted against a backdrop of movie scenes, their life together. “You’re right. They need this dance. I’m glad we—” He stopped, seeing that Harry was beckoning to him. “Need something, sir?”

“I sure do.” Harry beckoned again, waving his hand so vigorously this time that he teetered. Antoinette steadied him. “What I need . . . ,” he said, pausing to take a breath, “is not to be out here on an empty dance floor. What are you waiting for, son? a personal invitation from the band leader? Bring your beautiful bride out here!”

Leigh stiffened. “I . . . we . . .” She stared at Antoinette, clearly begging the woman to bail her out. Then frowned when she didn’t.

So Nick did. “Maybe next time.”
Next anniversary. Which won’t come for either of us, Harry.
“The song’s almost over.”

“No, it’s not,” Caroline blurted, jabbing at the buttons on the CD player. “And as your bandleader, I
am
inviting you to dance with the anniversary couple. Tonga Room rules require it.” She pushed the button, released a few bars of drumbeats, hit it again, and Tony Bennett began leaving his heart in San Francisco all over again. “There. All brides on deck.”

Antoinette murmured with delight, Harry grinned, and Nick glanced at Leigh. “May I have this dance?”

She stared at him, her expression unreadable. “For Harry,” she said finally.

“Right.” Nick released the breath he’d been holding. “For them.”

He took hold of her hand and led her onto the moonlit Fairmont dance floor that had once been their living room.

+++

Leigh moved into Nick’s arms, noting that her sister had adjusted the dimmer on the lighting downward again. The tiki candles and moonlight, spilling through their bay window, became the only illumination in the room. The perfect romantic ambience.
For the McNealys,
she reminded herself as her husband’s palm warmed the small of her back. Her fingers, curled inside his, trembled a little as he drew her closer. He smelled of ginger and cilantro and felt . . . oh so familiar.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you.” His whisper warmed her cheek. “This evening means a lot to Harry and Antoinette. And to me.”

Oh, don’t. Don’t, Nick.

“I know you didn’t want to do this.” His fingers brushed lightly over the back of her hand. “But I’m glad.”

“It’s only a dance, Nick.” Her heart thudded in her ears. “One dance. Don’t make more of it, because . . .”
It won’t last.
“Just don’t, please.”

He didn’t answer, and they kept dancing. While Tony Bennett sang on. “. . . My love waits there in San Francisco, above the blue and windy sea. . . .”

She followed her husband’s lead, aware of his breathing and that he’d leaned down a little, moved closer—enough that she felt the brush of his cheek against hers. She thought of pulling back, considered slipping her hand from his and ending the moment. But instead, she closed her eyes in the semidarkness, relaxed in Nick’s arms, and tried to imagine that they were really in that historic hotel on Nob Hill. That he’d never gone to bed with Sam Gordon. And that she hadn’t lost the baby. That they’d been married for decades, and—no matter what she knew was true—forever was possible.