Read Online Code Triage by Candace Calvert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Candace Calvert
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forever!” She’d glanced over her bare shoulder toward the sound of the running shower, then calmly instructed Leigh about etiquette, as if they were pulling on tidy white gloves to attend their church’s annual mother-daughter tea.
“Mr. Evers and his wife will be joining us for dinner. He’s an important man, so everything must go well. We’ll eat in the dining room, the way we do on holidays. You’ll sit at the table and smile pretty; you’ll pass the gravy and you’ll cope. You’ll keep on as if none of this happened. Do you understand?”
She didn’t understand but helped her father put the leaf in their big mahogany dining table, laid out the linen napkins and silverware—forks to the left, spoons and knives to the right. And she coped, though her hands were trembling so badly she scratched the surface of the table, leaving a mark that forever reminded her of that awful day. Then, not quite five years later, she watched her mother leave her baby half sister’s father for the next man. And the next. Each time she remembered her mother’s words: “Nothing lasts forever.” Leigh supposed it was part of the reason she’d stalled when Nick proposed marriage and why she hadn’t been completely surprised about Sam Gordon. On some level, Leigh had been expecting it all along.
She hugged her arms around herself. Then why, oh why , was she having such a hard time with this now? Why did seeing that woman standing there today make her feel so . . . Oh, please no. Leigh clapped her hand over her mouth and raced toward the restroom as her stomach, empty since Mrs. Thomas’s home-baked cookies, finally refused to cope.
Afterward, she washed her face, rinsed her mouth, and walked back to the ER to finish her shift.
+++
Nick set the packing box down and knelt beside the lemon tree, gingerly touching a fingertip to one of the yellowed leaves. It separated from the stem and dropped onto the pile of others, withered and dying, on the hardwood floor. He thought of seeing Leigh at the hospital, how he’d briefly taken hold of her arm—seen her, touched her, after so long—and how it had ended with her running away when he warned her about Sam. Had he really expected anything else? Had he been foolish to ever believe that she wanted their marriage—wanted him? He glanced toward the adjacent dining room, his throat constricting. No table. Never had been. Never would be, now.
In the two years since they bought the home, he’d taken Leigh shopping at least a dozen times. Everywhere. From the 45,000-square-foot Limn showroom in Mission Bay, to that Moroccan place Tazi Designs, to dusty, dark antique stores, then IKEA, and finally, in desperation, driving to addresses he’d found on craigslist. To see tables outgrown and replaced. Some with scratches, layers of wax, teething marks—the rich patina of families. Each time they came home empty-handed, having discussions that sounded like a ridiculous porridge scene from “The Three Bears.” With Leigh, like Goldilocks, shaking her head: “Too dark, too heavy, too much glass, not comfortable, just . . . not . . . right.” It became an issue somehow. Another issue. He hadn’t wanted that to happen; he’d simply wanted a table. Her horse had two stalls, for pete’s sake. Couldn’t he have a dining room table?
Nick lifted the fallen leaf and ran his thumb over the surface. The truth was he’d wanted far more than a table and chairs. He wanted what he’d always believed came with that table, what he’d missed in his patchwork life of foster care: family, permanence, a home with a solid center. A place to join hands for a blessing at dinner, a spot to linger over afterward with coffee. A place where, someday, he’d help his children with their homework. He glanced at the empty room: bay window, waxed hardwood floor, a framed watercolor they’d bought in Capri, the vintage crystal chandelier with its chain tied up like a hanging victim so it wouldn’t
“Mr. Evers and his wife will be joining us for dinner. He’s an important man, so everything must go well. We’ll eat in the dining room, the way we do on holidays. You’ll sit at the table and smile pretty; you’ll pass the gravy and you’ll cope. You’ll keep on as if none of this happened. Do you understand?”
She didn’t understand but helped her father put the leaf in their big mahogany dining table, laid out the linen napkins and silverware—forks to the left, spoons and knives to the right. And she coped, though her hands were trembling so badly she scratched the surface of the table, leaving a mark that forever reminded her of that awful day. Then, not quite five years later, she watched her mother leave her baby half sister’s father for the next man. And the next. Each time she remembered her mother’s words: “Nothing lasts forever.” Leigh supposed it was part of the reason she’d stalled when Nick proposed marriage and why she hadn’t been completely surprised about Sam Gordon. On some level, Leigh had been expecting it all along.
She hugged her arms around herself. Then why, oh why , was she having such a hard time with this now? Why did seeing that woman standing there today make her feel so . . . Oh, please no. Leigh clapped her hand over her mouth and raced toward the restroom as her stomach, empty since Mrs. Thomas’s home-baked cookies, finally refused to cope.
Afterward, she washed her face, rinsed her mouth, and walked back to the ER to finish her shift.
+++
Nick set the packing box down and knelt beside the lemon tree, gingerly touching a fingertip to one of the yellowed leaves. It separated from the stem and dropped onto the pile of others, withered and dying, on the hardwood floor. He thought of seeing Leigh at the hospital, how he’d briefly taken hold of her arm—seen her, touched her, after so long—and how it had ended with her running away when he warned her about Sam. Had he really expected anything else? Had he been foolish to ever believe that she wanted their marriage—wanted him? He glanced toward the adjacent dining room, his throat constricting. No table. Never had been. Never would be, now.
In the two years since they bought the home, he’d taken Leigh shopping at least a dozen times. Everywhere. From the 45,000-square-foot Limn showroom in Mission Bay, to that Moroccan place Tazi Designs, to dusty, dark antique stores, then IKEA, and finally, in desperation, driving to addresses he’d found on craigslist. To see tables outgrown and replaced. Some with scratches, layers of wax, teething marks—the rich patina of families. Each time they came home empty-handed, having discussions that sounded like a ridiculous porridge scene from “The Three Bears.” With Leigh, like Goldilocks, shaking her head: “Too dark, too heavy, too much glass, not comfortable, just . . . not . . . right.” It became an issue somehow. Another issue. He hadn’t wanted that to happen; he’d simply wanted a table. Her horse had two stalls, for pete’s sake. Couldn’t he have a dining room table?
Nick lifted the fallen leaf and ran his thumb over the surface. The truth was he’d wanted far more than a table and chairs. He wanted what he’d always believed came with that table, what he’d missed in his patchwork life of foster care: family, permanence, a home with a solid center. A place to join hands for a blessing at dinner, a spot to linger over afterward with coffee. A place where, someday, he’d help his children with their homework. He glanced at the empty room: bay window, waxed hardwood floor, a framed watercolor they’d bought in Capri, the vintage crystal chandelier with its chain tied up like a hanging victim so it wouldn’t
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