Raquel Byrnes (4 page)

Simon pushed through the double doors to the master suite, with Mrs. Tuttle and me just behind him.

“Father,” Simon shouted.

Davenport Hale flailed on his four-poster bed, his face red and tense as he jerked his arms wildly. He looked as if he was trying to bat something away.

“What’s the matter?” Simon shouted. He ran to his father, and I followed.

Davenport’s red face, distended neck muscles, and wheezing made my heart race.

“He’s having an asthma attack,” I said and scanned the medicine bottles and boxes on the nightstand. “Where’s his inhaler?”

“I don’t know.” Simon tried to catch his father’s arms, worry wrinkling his brow. “He’s never done this before. Father!”

Mrs. Tuttle wrung her hands, her face knotted with stress. “It’s…It’s supposed to be there.”

Shaking my head, I pawed through the collection of meds but didn’t find a rescue inhaler. I pulled open the drawers of the nightstand, ran to the other side of the bed, and checked the other one. Nothing. Davenport’s eyes bulged, his breathing labored. I turned to Mrs. Tuttle.

“Where’s my wooden box?”

“What?” She licked her lips, eyes never leaving Davenport. “What box?”

I rounded the foot of the bed, got in front of her, breaking her gaze from Davenport. “My wooden box,” I shouted. “Where?”

“It’s on the table at the foot of the stairs.” She looked at me like I was crazy.

I ran past her, down the stairs, and spotted my box. Flipping the lid up, I ran my finger along the labels on the small glass bottles nestled together. Finding what I needed, I grabbed it, unscrewing the top as I took the stairs two at a time. Back in the room, Davenport’s flailing was more frantic, and his wheezing ragged. I pushed past Mrs. Tuttle and shoved the bottle into Simon’s hand.

“Hold this.” I climbed next to Davenport on the bed and rubbed the drops between my palms. “You should call 9-1-1.”

Simon looked at the bottle and then back at me with a furrowed brow. “The phones are down. The storm...”

“Mr. Davenport,” I said in a voice I hoped was soothing and not laced with panic. “I have something that might help, but I need you to stop flailing.”

Davenport’s wide eyes found mine. He blinked and tried to say something.

“Shhh,” I held my hands up in front of him. “I need you to calm down, OK?”

I held his face, my palms on either of his jowly cheeks. Whispering softly, I tried to hold his gaze with mine. “Stop gasping, Mr. Hale.” I patted his cheeks, put some solution on his chest. “This is eucalyptus oil in tincture. It’s what is in that salve you rub on when you have a cold. It’s what’s in cough drops. You know what I’m talking about?”

He nodded slightly, his hands going to my arms, wrapping around my wrists.

“He wants you to stop,” Mrs. Tuttle blurted.

Simon put his hand up. “Don’t, Tuttle.”

Davenport’s grip loosened. I held my hands up and passed them across his nose, letting the tincture’s scent waft over him.

“This is ancient medicine,” I intoned, watching his face, seeing his panic abate. “But it’s medicine, nonetheless. The more you calm down, the deeper you’ll breathe. Take a breath slowly with me, Mr. Hale. In through your nose.” I pulled my lips in, letting my nostrils flare as I took in a slow deliberate breath.

Davenport’s eyes never left mine. His hands tightened, but he inhaled slowly, the tension releasing the lines under his eyes as the oxygen filled his lungs.

“That’s good.” I nodded and smiled. “Let’s do another one, OK?”

He nodded, and we breathed in together.

Davenport’s face lost its strained pull, his body relaxed, and his gaze went to Simon, relief pulling a slight smile across his lips. “I…” He gasped, like he’d just run a marathon. “I think it’s…”

“Don’t talk too much.”

His arms fell. He looked exhausted. “Where is your inhaler, Mr. Hale?”

He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around. “I think…I dropped it behind the bed.”

Simon bent down, searched the rug under the headboard, and came up with the yellow plastic inhaler. Handing it to me, he gave me a nervous smile. “That was close.”

I nodded, handed the inhaler to Davenport, and helped him take a couple of puffs from it before setting it on his nightstand.

“That little tincture trick only works so much,” I said to Davenport. “Just helps to stave off panic during an attack. What you really need is more than one of these around. Do you have others?”

The reaction to the inhaler medicine was almost immediate. Davenport took in a deeper breath, and his color faded from frantic red to pink.

“No. Just the one,” he managed.

“Well, you should have…whoever…order more.” I moved to get off the bed, but he reached out for me, his hand rough on my skin.

“Who are you?” Davenport breathed. He ran his gaze over my face. “What…”

“Rosetta Ryan,” I said and smiled. I patted his hand. “I nearly killed your son last night with my car. Ran over some bushes—”

“Oh, yes,” Davenport said and looked at Mrs. Tuttle. “The one who isn’t Carl.”

“I’ve called the agency, Mr. Hale,” Mrs. Tuttle said tersely. “Carl isn’t available any longer, but we’ll find someone”—she looked at me and then back at Hale—“someone suitable soon.”

My face flared hot. “I seem to have thrown a monkey wrench into things around here. I’m so sorry.” I bit my lip. “You need to rest, though, Mr. Hale.”

“My dear, you very clearly belong here,” Davenport said releasing my hand. He motioned to Mrs. Tuttle. “Call the agency.”

I looked at Simon. He regarded his father with worry. Glancing at me, he mouthed, “Thank you.”

“But, Mr. Hale,” Mrs. Tuttle whined. “She wasn’t qualified to—”

“Don’t speak to me about qualified,” Davenport shouted and collapsed with a wracking cough. “You just stood there while I nearly suffocated in front of you.”

She took a step back, hands balling at her sides, and glared at me. “Yes, Mr. Hale.”

Turning to Simon, Davenport reached out and put a hand on his son’s forearm. “I want her to stay.”

Simon nodded, his gaze going to me. “Then we’ll ask her to stay, Father.”

Mrs. Tuttle cleared her throat. She wouldn’t look at me. “Her things are already on the third floor. I’ll have—”

“Too far,” Davenport broke in. “I want her close. How will she hear me from way up there?”

“I put her in the blue and cream room last night after she—”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Davenport’s brusque voice held fatigue. He looked at Mrs. Tuttle. “Call the agency and tell them we’re hiring Ms. Ryan.”

Mrs. Tuttle nodded, sent a searing glare my way, then turned and left without another word.

“Are you sure?” I looked at him and then Simon. “Thank you, really, thank you.”

“Well, you’re no Carl…” Simon teased, his eyes dancing. “But what Davenport Hale wants, he gets.”

I followed Simon into the hall outside Davenport’s room. He turned to me, leaning against the wall with his arms in his pockets. A wave of pale hair fell into his eyes as he spoke.

“I’ll get Dr. Fliven up here as soon as I can. Thanks for what you did in there, Rosetta.”

I nodded and wiped sweaty palms down my pants. A fresh wave of menthol vapor released from the oil and floated up. “I’m glad I could help.”

“You did more than help. You saved his life. I was so afraid he’d have a heart attack with all that struggling. The corners of his mouth were blue.” Simon ran a hand over his mouth as if rubbing away the terrible words. “I thought…”

“Panic can do harsh things to your body,” I said. “He really needs more than one inhaler. They should be around the house in case he needs one.”

“My father has never had an attack like this. We should be prepared in case it happens again. You’re right. I’ll call Dr. Fliven to order more and see what we should do next.”

“Well, good.” I didn’t want him to walk away, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

Simon regarded me in silence. I felt pinned in place by his gaze.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” His voice was almost a whisper. “I thought when I saw you—”

“What, beach bunny?” I stepped back and leaned on the wall opposite him. “Having a tan doesn’t lower your IQ.”

“First impressions are seldom the whole story.” He stepped forward, the heat rolling off him in waves. He reached up as if to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, but stopped. “I apologize for jumping to conclusions about you. I truly am grateful, Rosetta.”

“OK.” I swallowed hard. “I mean, you’re welcome.”

“I’m glad you’re staying after all.” Simon’s voice, low and deep, sent my pulse racing.

“Me, too.” Why did he stand so close, and why did my entire being react despite trying to appear calm? A splinter of worry needled my gut. So soon after having my heart broken, it was unwise to even allow an interest in Simon. He was my employer.

A shadow crossed his face, and he leaned against the wall again, his gaze going to my lips.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked, worried I had dirt on my face.

“No, nothing,” Simon said as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I better get going.”

“OK…”

He headed down the hall. The tension in his broad shoulders and back was evident. He glanced back once, his expression unreadable, and then he was gone.

I felt a tug in my chest at this sudden turn of events. I had a job after all. A place to stay. Glancing back at the heavy door to Davenport’s room, I swallowed hard.

Why then, did I feel so unsettled?

4

Simon

The small generator that powered his office hummed to life and Simon’s gaze went to the flickering lamp on his desk. Noble Island’s electrical grid struggled to keep up with the demands of the growing population and needed an upgrade. Simon rubbed his face, tired. He needed to meet with the island’s mayor to discuss plans soon. As one of the island’s founding families, the Hales held a permanent chair on the governing board.

A series of bleeps signaled an incoming fax, and Simon turned in his office chair to face it. The information he’d requested took longer than anticipated. When Tuttle hired the nurse, Carl, Simon had done an extensive background check. Bringing someone to live in the home brought risks, and he was determined to keep those he loved safe.

The file the employment agency sent over on Rosetta an hour ago held nothing more than her name and work history, which he was surprised to see, was almost non-existent save for some internships at the University of California in San Diego. Just out of college, she would count her job at Shadow Bay Hall as her first. He gathered the papers from the tray and flipped through the wider search he’d asked his lawyer to conduct this morning. Simon leaned back in his chair, feet on his desk, and read with growing interest.

Rosetta Ryan did not have a work history because she’d not needed one. The only child of Wall Street mogul, Stratham Ryan, Rosetta’s major life events routinely made the society page of West Coast publications. Her engagement to an oil heir, Michael Whitman, even made the New York papers due to her fiancé’s ties to East Coast society. Rosetta had lived the privileged and pampered life others only dreamt of.

But Simon discovered the reason for such an incredible change in her circumstances. When the FCC investigated her father and his company for false reports and manipulation of their hedge-fund stockholders, it seemed like the powerhouse Stratham would avoid prosecution.

With the brunt of the fraud charges landing on a young accountant who worked with her father, federal prosecutors were dealt a devastating blow to their case against the business tycoon until his daughter, Rosetta, came forward to testify on behalf of the employee. She’d been her father’s personal assistant and her position made her the star witness for the prosecution. She exonerated the accountant and paved the way for her father’s indictment. Her testimony resulted in millions of dollars in losses for many important families.

Her very public shunning and disownment by her family was followed by an even messier jilting. Rosetta was left at the altar in front of over four hundred guests of Michael’s family just weeks after her father was sentenced to prison. Her mother was not in attendance.

Simon read the last line of the photocopied news article. The only quote Rosetta ever gave was to a reporter who’d caught up with her a few days after the jilting while she was walking on the beach outside her home. A photo of her showed a ‘For Sale’ sign in front of an impressive beach house. When asked how she would manage now that she had been so publicly disinherited and black-listed among the elite on both coasts, Rosetta’s reply stunned Simon.

“
And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.
And if you’re wondering, that’s from the Bible: Matthew 7:25.”

Sitting back on his chair, Simon wondered how the woman he’d just met, the one who’d panicked and crashed her car, could be the same person who took on all those who wanted to silence her and won.

He glanced out his office window. She stood hugging herself on the porch of his home staring off into the woods. The wind whirled her golden tresses about her delicate frame, and she appeared to Simon as if she might crumble with the slightest touch. When tested, his own faith had failed him in the face of all he’d lost. His soul crushed beyond what he could endure, Simon’s walk with God had ended two years ago. And yet this pale beauty…

I’ve found that beautiful and delicate don’t always mean weak.

His words came back to him. Nearly kissing her in the hall outside his father’s bedroom, the attraction Simon felt towards Rosetta took him by surprise. What was he thinking? Foolish thoughts about love had no place in his life anymore; especially now, with all that was happening. Turning from his window, he pulled the shutters closed, his jaw working.

“I hope you didn’t bring trouble to my shores, Rosetta.”

5