Let Him Live (13 page)

M
OONLIGHT CUT A
wide swath across the peaceful, dark waters of the Potomac River. Standing on the deck of the huge riverboat, listening to the chug of the engine and watching moonbeams glitter on the water, Meg felt as if she’d been transported to another world. Behind her, from the ballroom, the music of an orchestra floated through the porthole.

“Having fun?” Donovan asked.

“The most. How about you?”

“I feel better tonight than I have in days. It’s like I’ve been given a reprieve—you know, a delay in my sentence of sickness.”

Alone with him in the moonlight, she felt as if his illness didn’t exist. For just a little while, she could forget the real reason they were together on
the boat. “I wish your mother had come,” Meg said.

“I did everything to try and persuade her, but she didn’t feel she belonged with these people. We’re way out of this league financially. We’re happy to get by, even though now the Wish money will help us. I’ve seen some people I recognize from newspapers and TV. I feel out of place myself.”

“They’re just people. And they all want to help build the Wayfarer Inn. We need them.”

“I wonder if JWC is on this cruise. What do you think?”

Meg looked thoughtful. “I’ve seen the guest list, but no one with those initials stands out in my memory. Why does it matter?”

“Are you kidding? My mom will own a home because of JWC. I still can’t get over being chosen to get all that money, so I’m really curious.”

Meg straightened, feeling a slight prick of jealously because JWC had given Donovan something she could not. “No one I asked at the hospital ever heard of the One Last Wish Foundation,” she said.

“I don’t even know if JWC is a man or a woman.”

“For that matter, you don’t even know if that’s the person’s real initials. Maybe they’re made up.”

“But why?”

“Who knows?”

“Intimate strangers?” he offered.

She recalled their conversation—Donovan’s explanation
about how strangers could become linked by the intensity of a shared problem. She had no illness to share with him, as JWC had. “Maybe JWC only wants privacy. Rich people are like that sometimes.”

“But I keep asking myself, ‘Why me?’ I’m so ordinary.”

He wasn’t ordinary to Meg, but she didn’t tell him that. “If you ask me, I don’t think JWC is playing fair.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remaining anonymous is a cop-out. I think it’s sort of cowardly to pass out money and then hide in the shadows. What’s it prove? I mean, look at you. You’d like to say thank you, but how can you? And if JWC has so much money, then why not step forward and support our cause?”

Donovan shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. In a way, what you’re saying makes sense. I would like to meet the person who’s been so good to me, but JWC must have big reasons for staying out of the spotlight. I’m not sure that if it were me, I wouldn’t choose to do the same thing.”

“How so?”

Donovan thrust his hands into the pockets of his tux and leaned against the ship’s rail. “All those people inside are rich, and everybody knows it.”

“That’s one of the reasons they were invited.”

“I know. They expect to be asked for charitable donations. Maybe some of them get jollies out of it because it makes them feel important. But
when you do something for someone and expect nothing in return, it makes you feel good inside. It makes you feel …” he searched for a word, “fulfilled. Doing something nice for someone in secret has its own reward. Maybe JWC knows that too.”

Meg remembered how nice Donovan was to everyone on the pediatric floor. Why, the first time she’d met him, he’d been racing a kid in a wheelchair in spite of being so sick himself. And she thought of how different she herself was. Hadn’t she become a candy striper because her father had coerced her into it? Helping others hadn’t been something she’d longed to do, as it was for Donovan, or Alana.

Hadn’t she spent over six months in mourning for her loss of Cindy without much concern for Cindy’s parents? Had she called them, written them recently? No, she had not. And how about her own parents? How worried they must have been about her when depression had all but taken over her life.

Losing Cindy hurt so much
, she told herself. But at what point had Cindy’s death become a crutch that she used for an excuse to insulate herself from friendships and relationships that might cause her hurt?
Intimate strangers
. Did she want to go through the rest of her life never making lasting friendships again because she was terrified of being hurt? Had Alana been right when she’d challenged her the night before?

She felt Donovan’s nearness, like a comforting
embrace. She cared for him so much. How could she have not understood all of this before? How could a sick, possibly dying boy, and a stranger who donated money anonymously, have given her so much? Why had she become interested in the Wayfarer Inn in the first place? Of course, there was a need for one, but as long as she was being brutally honest with herself, she had to admit that it was also because she felt competitive with JWC and wanted Donovan to feel indebted to her the way he did to JWC.

“You sure got quiet all of a sudden, Meg. Did I say something to upset you?”

Donovan’s question snapped Meg out of her soul-searching. Quickly, she looked up at him. His face was softened by moonlight, and she felt something stir deep inside. A sleeping part of her was awakening as if from a long drugged sleep. “No, Donovan. You said some things that made me think.”

“I did? Like what?”

“Like friends. We are friends, aren’t we?”

He straightened and took her by the shoulders. “Since you’ve asked, Megan Charnell, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

A warm melting sensation went through her.

“Look at them, will you, Clark? The two of them stand under a perfectly gorgeous moon
talking
! I swear, I’ve never known two people who spend so much time flapping their lips.”

Meg and Donovan turned in unison toward Alana and Clark, who had come up beside them.
Alana stood with her hands on her hips, a look of pure frustration on her face.

Donovan suppressed a smile. “And what have you two been doing?”

“Not talking, that’s for sure,” Alana said with a saucy flip of her head.

Donovan glanced at Clark. Clark shrugged, spun Alana around, and kissed her firmly. When he pulled away, he said, “It’s the only way I can shut her up.”

“Shut me up!” Alana squealed.

“See you guys,” Clark called over his shoulder, and darted across the moonlit deck. Alana followed, promising dire repercussions.

Watching them flee, Meg felt a wave of sadness come over her. She didn’t want to feel sad. No matter what happened tomorrow, what became of her and Donovan, now it was safe and lovely. She turned back toward Donovan. “Do you suppose it’s okay for best friends to give each other a kiss?”

He put his arms around her and drew her close. “I think it’s required,” he said. “Only for the sake of making the friendship stronger.”

She slid her arms around him. “And only because we’re best friends,” she whispered, lifting her mouth to his. “And only to get Alana off our case.”

He ducked his head downward. “Absolutely. That Alana can be so testy.” His lips brushed hers, soft as a summer breeze.

“T
HE FINAL TALLY
is in, and we raised a bundle on the cruise last Saturday night,” Meg’s mother said as she hung up the phone in the kitchen. “That was the treasurer of our board, and she’s very pleased. This, coupled with the letter you helped write, is really going to get us off to a fantastic start.”

On her way out, Meg paused to hear her mother’s enthusiastic report. “I’m glad. I know I had a wonderful time on the cruise.”

“We’ll have other fund-raisers. Right now, we’re discussing a possible charity softball game. Initial inquiries to several big-name stars have been encouraging.” She eyed Meg, who stood jangling her car keys. “I thought you had the morning off.”

“I do. I’m taking Donovan and his mother someplace.”

“Oh.” Meg’s mother started clearing off the kitchen counter. “I was hoping we could do something together. Shopping, lunch—we haven’t done that once this summer.”

Momentarily surprised by the wistful tone in her mother’s voice, Meg stepped closer to the counter. “I already promised them,” she said. This was the day that Donovan had chosen to take his mom to the house and tell her about the Wish money and how he’d spent it. Meg felt an edge of excitement. People had worked hard to get it ready. She wanted to tell her mom what was going on, but thought it best to keep Donovan’s secret for a little while longer. Besides, the news would bring a barrage of questions from her mother, and she didn’t have time to answer them. “Maybe we can go shopping tomorrow after I get off work,” Meg suggested.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Meg came around the counter and kissed her mother’s cheek, causing her mother to glance at her with surprise.

“I just felt like it.” Ever since the night of the cruise, she’d felt an affection for her parents she’d not experienced in a long time, and she was determined to make up to them for the strain her personal problems had caused her family. Now more than ever, Meg appreciated how they’d stood by her over the past months since Cindy’s death and her difficult adjustment to it.

“Well, thank you. Anytime you feel like it is fine with me.” She reached out and touched Meg. “You’re doing better, aren’t you?”

“You mean about Cindy? Yes, I think the worst is over.”

“I’m glad. I’ve missed having my daughter around.”

Meg gave her a quick hug and hurried out the door.

By the time Meg stopped her car in front of the old Victorian house, her palms were damp with nervous perspiration. From the backseat, she heard Mrs. Jacoby ask, “Donovan, what
is
going on? The two of you have been acting strange all morning.”

Meg and Donovan exchanged glances in the front seat. “Just a little surprise Meg and I cooked up for you.” Meg couldn’t help noticing how tired and thin Donovan looked. A slight yellow cast tinged his skin. This was a moment he had been looking forward to for weeks, and she didn’t want anything to ruin it for him.

“Where are we anyway?” Mrs. Jacoby asked, peering out the window. “My, what a lovely old house.”

Donovan went around to his mother’s door and offered his hand. “Come on. I want to show you the inside.”

“Do you have permission? Is the owner home?”

Meg walked with them up onto the porch, trying to see the house through Mrs. Jacoby’s eyes.
The front door with its leaded-glass panels sparkled in the morning sunlight. She remembered polishing each pane.

Donovan put the key into the lock, turned it, and swung open the door. “Come on, Mom. Look around and tell me if you like it.”

“Donovan, are you sure—”

He pulled her in. “I’m sure.”

The smell of fresh paint and lemon oil hung in the air, and sunlight streamed through the freshly washed front windows. Echoes sounded when they walked across the floor to the fireplace, now clean and empty of old ashes. Donovan ran his hand over the ornately carved mantel. “What do you think?” he asked.

His mother’s gaze darted everywhere. “I think it’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. Who owns it?”

Meg stepped back, lingering near the entrance. She wanted them to have this special moment, yet felt that she would burst if Donovan didn’t tell his mom the truth right away.

He crossed to his mom and took both her hands in his. “I want you to know how much what you did means to me.”

“What did I do?”

“You sold our house and moved us here just so I could be near Memorial and have the chance for a transplant.”

She shook her head. “It was your best chance, and I never thought twice about it. You’re my son,
and I love you. It was much harder on Brett than on me, although I think even he’s adjusted.”

“Still, I know what our home meant to you.”

“It was old and needed repairs.” She was obviously flustered by his words.

“It was our home,” Donovan insisted.

“Well, if you brought me here to show me how beautiful a house can be, you’ve succeeded. I think this one is exquisite.”

“You haven’t even seen the upstairs yet,” Meg blurted out.

Mrs. Donovan turned to her and smiled. Her eyes narrowed. “What have you two cooked up?”

Meg gave Donovan a helpless shrug, and he held up the house keys, opened his mother’s hand and settled them in her palm. “It’s yours, Mom. This house is yours—ours really. It’s a present.”

Her bewildered expression turned skeptical. “Now, Donovan, you can’t expect me to believe that someone
gave
us this house.”

“Believe it. It’s a long story, and I’m going to sit right here in the middle of the floor and tell you all about it, but first, look at this.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded manila envelope. Meg knew that inside was the deed to the house.

As Mrs. Jacoby read the legal document, the expression on her face turned from doubt to shock to stunned disbelief. “But how—?” Her voice cracked.