What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(75)

The closer they got to Portland, the more he suggested they stop in to see the specialist Dr. Frownfelter had recommended. He revealed that Dr. Frownfelter had called in favors and got her an appointment late that afternoon. She would have every kind of exam, every test, and before the morning, they’d know what her chances were to survive an operation to remove that bullet from her brain. To survive, and more important, to recover.

She didn’t want to go. She wanted more time to think, to make a decision about whether to welcome the gray unconsciousness into her life.

Max put his hand on her thigh and shot her a quick smile.

He was so patient, so generous. Smart, kind...and he loved her. Through all the years and the trials, he loved her.

And she loved him. She was going to marry him. They were going to live together until the end of their days...

Kellen opened her eyes and stared into Max’s frantic face. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“You were gone. Just—” he snapped his fingers “—gone.”

She looked around. He’d pulled the truck off the pavement and he had her stretched out in the sun on the rough grass beside the road. Just over the horizon, the Pacific Ocean roared and crashed, sending its salty scent high into the air.

It was the Pacific that had pulled her back through the membrane between the endless gray and consciousness; that blustering wind, that writhing beast, that womb that constantly produced life, took life and re-created it again.

Sitting up, she smoothed her hair back from her face. Slowly, she nodded at Max. “Okay. Let’s go see the doctor. And when the time comes, I’ll have the surgery.”



43


Two days later, Max and Kellen drove into the Di Luca Winery in the old truck, right into the middle of what appeared to be a private party. A blue-and-white canopy lifted its twin peaks on the lawn between the tasting room door and the picnic tables. Beneath the canopy sat a grand piano and a bar selling glasses of wine, crusty bread and charcuterie and cheese plates.

The pianist, an older man with a sharply pointed beard, waxed mustache and upward-pointed eyebrows, was playing “The Music of the Night” from Phantom of the Opera. A handsome woman about his age was dropping a twenty into his tip jar. Under the broad white oak trees, smiling people sat around new, brightly painted picnic tables. Customers wandered out of the tasting room carrying wrapped wine bottles and gift shop bags.

The scene was so counter to the winery’s usual quiet dignity Max came to a stop in the middle of the driveway and stared.

“Who are these people?” Kellen asked.

“I haven’t got a—”

Behind them, a horn blared.

Max let up on the brake, drove into the lot and parked next to a silver Lexus NX Hybrid. “Right before I left for the mountains, I did hire a new winery manager and gave him free rein to do what he wished and hire, at least temporarily, who he wanted.”

Kellen looked at Max across the seat. “I believe he may have taken you at your word.”

“I believe you’re right.” He opened the door and hurried around to help her out.

She eased out of the seat and onto the running board, and stood looking down at him. “I’m perfectly capable.”

“I know.” He helped her step onto the ground, taking special care of the still-healing wound on her arm, hidden under a light long-sleeved T-shirt. “That makes me like to help you even more.”

How could she argue with that? Especially when he held her hand and smiled into her eyes, and she felt the not-quite-familiar rise of warm passion. She leaned into him and kissed him. She loved his scent, his heat, his taste, the scrape of his dark beard across her chin.

A cry from the house interrupted them. “Max!”

Max waved one arm at his mother. “We’re back safe and sound!”

Verona ran down the porch steps and across the gravel lot.

Kellen pulled back so Verona could hug Max.

Verona did, and hugged Kellen, too, although without the fervent joy of the first hug. Still, her voice was vehement when she said, “Thank heavens you two are back and all right! You gave us quite a scare.”

“I promise that wasn’t our intention. Where’s Rae?” Max kept his voice casual, but Kellen heard the intense undercurrent of concern. The events of the last week had scarred him.

“I insisted she go to camp. We paid the money. She is underfoot all day when she’s here. She has done nothing but talk about ThunderFlame and LightningBug and draw pictures and tell me about the bicycle ride and the giant cobweb and the...the shootings.” Verona had been complaining about her granddaughter, until she mentioned the shootings. Then the color washed out of her face.

Kellen eased a hand under her arm. “LightningBug is home safe where she belongs.”

“ThunderFlame had better stay here, too,” Verona said severely. “We expected you yesterday.”

“ThunderFlash. She’s ThunderFlash. We took a detour to Yearning Sands to get a shower and then to the hospital to get Kellen’s stitches removed.” Max lifted Kellen’s arm and showed his mother the slash the bullet had left behind. He mentioned nothing of the MRI and the specialists whom Dr. Frownfelter had called in.

Verona looked them up and down. “Where did you get those clothes? Don’t tell me—at the resort. Dressed like that, you’ll fit in with the tourists. I’ll fix a special meal to welcome you home.” Verona’s expression grew deeply thoughtful. “Yes, I think a celebration dinner is called for!”