Love Remains (3 page)

Bobby wanted to go to Zarah, to explain to her, to support her and comfort her. But his honor—or was that his pride?—wouldn’t allow him. He drew his focus back to the women in front of him. “No. It’s just my grandmother’s way of hinting that she thinks it’s high time for me to get married.”

He couldn’t be certain Zarah heard him. And he berated himself both for making the joke and for caring whether or not she heard his explanation. She was the one who had run away the day before he planned to propose to her. Her father’s explanation afterward—that Zarah had confessed to secretly dating Bobby and that she no longer
wanted to see him—had not rung true, but that never factored into the indignation, wounded pride, and anger he felt every time he thought of her. Which had been often, considering he carried her picture with him throughout his entire military service—including tucking it in the inside of his helmet to have it near him at all times throughout his tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Bobby put all his acting skills to work in continuing to play the game and pretend he was having fun doing it. Shortly after his boneheaded remark, he looked around the room again and was not surprised to find no Zarah.

True to their word, just when Bobby was starting to feel overwhelmed by the laser-focused feminine attention, the guys infiltrated and created a bulwark around him. Some even started flirting with the girls. He’d be interested to see how the dynamic changed in the Sunday school setting. If that and the Bible study class were as much of a meat market as this pre–Labor Day cookout, he might exercise his options and enlist elsewhere.

He spent so much time answering everyone else’s questions that he only had a few squares filled out when a woman hollered “Bingo!” and brought the game to a merciful close.

With Patrick’s attention tied up in verifying the woman’s answers, Bobby slipped out of the room. He shouldn’t allow himself to worry about Zarah, but he couldn’t help it. She hadn’t looked good before she’d slipped out of the room. He needed to make sure she was okay. He tried to blame it on the six months of intensive training as a medic between his two tours of duty, telling himself it was only her health he was concerned about. But he’d never been a good liar, not even to himself.

The hallway blocked much of the noise coming from the den, allowing him to discern the sound of running water and dishes and utensils clanking together. Of course. When everyone else was gathered together having fun, Zarah would be in the kitchen cleaning up behind them. It was what had been expected of her growing up, so
it shouldn’t surprise him to discover she was still at it all this time later. It was what she’d been doing the first time he met her.

He leaned against the doorjamb and watched her for a moment. She’d twisted her shoulder-length curly brown hair into a knot at the back of her head, which she had secured in place with the red pencil bearing Patrick’s company’s logo that they’d all used playing the game. Though it looked like she had put on twenty to thirty pounds since the last time he’d seen her, he couldn’t say it did anything to affect her attractiveness—in fact he found her very feminine curves more attractive than ever. He was not surprised by the fact she wore cropped jeans that covered her legs down to midcalf, revealing only a few inches of ankle, when practically every other woman at the party wore shorts—even the few women who were larger than Zarah. She’d always been overly modest.

After a few swipes at an encrusted glass casserole dish with a scrubber, she paused, braced her hands against the edge of the counter, and leaned heavily against it. Bobby straightened, about to make his presence known, when Zarah’s knees gave out. He crossed the kitchen in three strides and caught her around the waist before she crumpled to the floor. All it took was one touch to determine she burned with fever. Half under her own power, he got her to one of the kitchen chairs.

“I’m fine,” she rasped.

“I can see that.”

She’d always hated it when people humored her. She hated it even more when anyone tried to take care of her. Ducking his head to hide his smile over those remembered facts, he reached for her arm, pressed the tips of his first two fingers to the inside of her wrist, and looked at his watch.

“Your heart rate is elevated; your pulse is thready; and though I’m no human thermometer, I’d venture a guess that your fever is hovering somewhere between 102 and 103.”

“I’ll be okay.” Her breath rattled in her chest with each aspiration. It sounded painful.

“Patrick told me you’ve been sick recently. He probably told you you’re not going to get any better unless you stay home and rest, just like your doctors should have told you.” He tried to keep his tone detached, professional, so she wouldn’t feel like he was hovering. The one way to ensure she would do exactly what she was not supposed to do was to hover. Reverse psychology used to work pretty well with her; but in this situation, if he told her she should do more work in hopes she would do the opposite and go home, it would backfire—she would do the work.

“Why are you here?” she whispered. “I thought you were living in California and that you were happy there.”

He shrugged. “I decided to move back to Nashville.” No way was he going to tell her the full reason why he decided to move back.

Her eyes drifted closed for a long moment, and her breathing became more ragged. He gently shook her shoulder. With what appeared to be great effort, she opened her eyes, and it seemed to take even more effort for her to focus on him.

“You just sit here for a second. I’ll be right back.” He was rather surprised no one had yet come into the kitchen. In his experience with parties like these, half the party took place in the kitchen. He supposed these people were so accustomed to Zarah doing everything for them that they felt no need to come in and offer to help.

He assigned his indignation to his innate sense of justice and fairness. Surely there could be no other cause for it.

He didn’t hear Patrick’s voice over the din of the crowd, so finding him took a little longer than he expected. He finally located him out on the deck. Bobby inserted himself into the group beside Patrick and waited for the first pause into which he could interject himself. “Mack, can I get your help with something in the kitchen?”

Patrick’s thick, blond eyebrows practically met over his nose when he frowned. Thankfully, he didn’t ask for details but excused himself immediately from the group and followed Bobby back into the house. When they rounded the corner into the hallway, Bobby was appalled
to hear the water running and dishes clanking together again. Had the woman absolutely no sense whatsoever?

Apparently not. She once again stood at the sink washing dishes. The shimmying motion of the fluid material of her blouse exhibited her tremors—whether from the fatigue and exhaustion, the fever, or a combination of factors, he couldn’t tell.

As soon as Patrick saw her, he let out a grunt and crossed the small space to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and steered her away from the sink. “I thought I told you to take it easy tonight. This doesn’t look like taking it easy to me.” Patrick’s frown grew fiercer. His left hand moved from her shoulder to the side of her neck to her forehead. “Okay. That’s it. You’re going home.”

“But I feel fine—”

“I never thought I would accuse you of being a liar.” Patrick straightened and looked around the kitchen. Bobby looked around, too, wondering what his friend sought. Patrick answered the unasked question when he stepped around behind Zarah and picked up a purse from the floor under the table. He reached into the small black bag and withdrew a key ring containing a car key, a house key, and a couple of plastic tags with bar codes on them. “Where did you park?”

“Up near the stop sign.” Zarah propped her elbow on the table and leaned her head heavily against her fist. She reached her other hand out toward Patrick. “I’ll take it easy. I promise.”

“You need to go home because I don’t want you making anybody here sick with whatever it is you have.” Patrick dropped the small black purse into her outstretched hand and crossed the kitchen to the pegboard beside the door that looked like it probably led to the garage. He pulled his keys off a small hook. “And you may not feel bad now, but how are you going to feel when everybody at this party comes down with whatever you have?”

Bobby stared at his friend for a moment. While on the surface the words sounded harsh, humor glinted in Patrick’s eyes. Bobby wondered how long Patrick and Zarah had known each other for Patrick to be
able to push her buttons like this.

Worry filled Zarah’s pale face. “I don’t want anyone else getting sick.” She stood up—too fast. She staggered, trying to catch herself on the table, but missed.

Standing beside her, Bobby did the only thing he could: He wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her into his side to keep her from falling over. It was the second time tonight he’d held her in such close proximity, and it was the second time tonight he felt like his skin had been branded by the touch. But it was only because of her high fever. Yes, that was it.

“You’re not staying, and you’re not driving yourself home. Diesel—”

Bobby looked up just in time to catch the keys that came sailing toward him.

“You drive her in her car, and I’ll follow you to bring you back. I’d offer to drive, but that little tin can she drives just don’t fit me.” Patrick grinned at him. “And since you’re such a puny guy, should be okay for you.”

At six-foot-three, 210 pounds, no one would dare call Bobby
puny
—except Patrick, who had three inches and at least thirty pounds on him. But if Zarah’s car was that tiny… “Maybe someone else ought to drive her. Someone she knows better than me.”

Patrick shook his head. “Naw, man. Once she gets to feeling better, she’ll be embarrassed enough that you witnessed this. If we bring anyone else into it, she may never show her face again. Either that, or she’ll kill me.”

“I can hear you.” Zarah’s voice sounded muffled, and Bobby realized he still held her up against his side. She pushed herself away from him, and as soon as she was balanced with one hand holding the edge of the table, Bobby released her. “I’ll drive myself home.”

Patrick laughed and crossed his arms across his massive chest. “Oh, yeah? Prove it. Stand here in the middle of the kitchen floor for two minutes without falling over, and I’ll let you drive yourself home.”

Letting go of the edge of the table was probably not the best idea in the world. But Zarah was already embarrassed enough at showing any signs of weakness in front of Bobby. She was thirty-two years old; she could take care of herself. She was no longer the weak, emotionally abused teenager whose emotions he’d toyed with so long ago.

She released the table, ignoring the way her head spun. She’d been living with this for four months, off and on. She could get through tonight. Although, she now wished she had taken her boss up on his offer to cut short her workday today. He had come into her office this morning, told her she looked pale, and reminded her she was still supposed to be on short-term disability and not back at work.

She could do this. She ignored the ripple-and-wave effects of the floor and stepped out to the middle of the room. Turning her back to Bobby, her eyes found the photo she’d taken of Patrick with the small group he’d taken on the advanced-trail hike at Fall Creek Falls last October. Though Patrick had pleaded and cajoled, and even offered to wash and detail her car, nothing would have convinced her to step out onto the suspension bridge—even though she now felt like she was standing in the middle of one. She struggled to keep her eyes open, fought the chills, and kept her breathing shallow to stave off another coughing spell.

Sleep would be so nice—curled up in her bed, warmed by the thick featherbed topper on her mattress below and the winter-weight comforter wrapped around her. She could almost feel the covers wrapping around her and pulling her down into their soft, warm depths.

Lights flickered past her eyes. How had she gotten in the car? To her left, a large silhouette filled the driver’s seat. She almost laughed. At five-foot-eight, she had to sit with the driver’s seat all the way back just so her knees didn’t hit the steering wheel when she moved her foot from the accelerator to the brake pedal or worked the clutch.
Patrick couldn’t even sit upright in the late-nineties model Honda Civic—Bobby’s head pressed against the fabric roof liner.

When she opened her eyes again, she stared at the front of her own house. The 1911 brick cottage was cute, even in the dark and illuminated only by the headlights of her car and Patrick’s. Either she’d forgotten to turn the porch light on or the bulb had burned out.

She rested her heavy head on the headrest, then lolled it over her left shoulder to look at the man in the driver’s seat. Her driver’s seat. With Bobby sitting in it. Something that had been building inside her was very near to exploding.

“I have to get out of the car.” She fumbled for the door handle and practically spilled out onto the driveway when the door gave way more easily than she expected. She made a mad dash for the front door—though it felt like wading through three feet of mashed potatoes—and fumbled in her purse for her keys.