Moonlight Over Manhattan(64)

He’d hear an mmm and a maybe and an occasional how are we twins when we’re so different?, but he hadn’t heard her mention him since that night he’d gone down with the flu and been too sick to question what he’d overheard.

And being ill had taught him another thing about her.

It had taught him that Harriet Knight was the kindest person he’d ever met.

He drifted off to sleep again and when he woke in the evening, two days after he’d all but dragged himself into his bed, delicious smells were wafting up the stairs. It was dark outside and the snow fell steadily outside his window. He felt a twinge of guilt, because he knew the emergency room would be busy, his colleagues having to pull together to find a way to fill the hole created by his absence.

“You’re awake.” Harriet appeared in the doorway, as she had done hundreds of times over the past few days. She’d taken a shower and changed into jeans and a soft sweater.

Ethan had to fight the urge to pull her into bed with him. “What’s that amazing smell?”

“It’s Madi’s dinner.” She topped up his water glass and must have seen the disappointment on his face because she gave a half smile. “I’m kidding. It’s chicken soup. My grandmother’s recipe. It’s perfect for tempting the appetite in people who aren’t well. I used to look forward to being sick so she would make this soup for me. And before you start reading too much into that, I should tell you it’s my favorite soup. I made it for myself.”

He knew that wasn’t true.

Food, he realized now, was her way of showing care and love. He also knew that if he didn’t play his cards right, he wouldn’t be eating the soup.

“So you’re not planning on sharing it?”

“Maybe.” She held the glass out. “Drink. You’re dehydrated.”

Everything she did was calm and quiet, from the way she moved around the room, to the way she did what she could to make things better for him.

Her generosity floored him. He knew he was miserly with his feelings. He kept them inside, safe from harm. It was part of the mechanism he’d developed to protect him from the job. He’d learned to keep his emotions locked away, but there were times when he wondered whether he’d maybe done too good a job. In order to stay focused and effective he didn’t let himself feel. When he was younger, before experience and older colleagues had given him more wisdom, he’d allowed his job to get to him. He’d reached a point where he was considering a change in career, but before he’d made the final decision he’d gone home for the weekend and talked with his parents and grandfather.

He’d come away from that weekend feeling supported and, more importantly, with some useful strategies for coping with the inevitable stress of his profession.

He remembered whole weekends growing up when his father would barely talk. His mother would never ask what was wrong. Instead she was a quiet, supportive presence, providing what comfort she could while his father worked through whatever trauma or issue was bothering him. She hadn’t demanded that he cheer up, or that he talk about whatever it was that was stressing him. But she’d made it clear that she was there if he needed her.

Harriet had the same soothing, undemanding quality.

It crossed his mind that her good nature and kindness would make her an easy person to take advantage of, and he felt a shaft of discomfort, wondering if that was what he’d been doing. First he’d pressured her to move in and look after Madi, and now she was looking after him.

And she was looking after him a bit too well.

She’d barely left his side for the past few days and now she’d cooked him a meal.

“Chicken soup? Homemade from an actual chicken?” He took the glass, noticing that her nails were short and neat.

“It’s hard to make chicken soup from any other animal.”

“When did you go shopping?”

“Earlier. You were asleep. I had to take Madi out anyway.” She dismissed it as nothing and knowing that he was the reason she felt the need to do that, he felt a stab of guilt.

“Is Madi all right?”

“Better than you. Do you still have a fever?”

He noticed that she asked him this time, instead of touching his forehead to find out for herself. She didn’t look at him much, either. Something had changed and he wasn’t sure what. “I’m feeling better. Thanks to you.”

“It had nothing to do with me. It was a combination of medication, sleep and time.”

It was partly true, but he knew that her working so hard to keep his fever down and make him comfortable had played a huge part in his recovery. She’d been patient and kind when he’d felt like death and he made a mental note to be more sympathetic next time a patient visited the emergency room with the flu.

He tried to stand up, frustrated that his legs still felt as if they’d been filled with concrete. Cursing, he sank back down onto the edge of the bed again. “Who invented flu?”

“Someone who decided that even a confident man needs to be laid low once in a while. It’s good for you to be reminded that you’re not all-powerful.”

Powerful?

If he’d had the energy, he would have laughed out loud.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then stepped toward him. “Do you need help?”