Temptation Ridge (Virgin River #6)(38)

“Wake me up when you’re naked,” she said, yawning again.



Mel received a very important phone call at the clinic. She hung up, took a deep breath, looked at her watch: 10:00 a.m. She picked up the phone and called Shelby, but there was no answer at the ranch—they could be out riding. She called Brie. “Hi. I need a sitter. I can try to find Jack if you’re—”

“I just saw him leave the bar in his truck,” Brie said. “I’ll come and get the kids, how’s that?”

“Thanks. I have an errand and could be a few hours.”

After hanging up, she went into Doc Mullins’s office. “I did it,” she said. “I got a county rehab placement for Cheryl Chreighton.”

“How’d you manage that?” he asked, impressed in spite of himself.

“It wasn’t easy. I had to make a hundred phone calls. It would have been infinitely easier if she had committed a crime and could blame it on booze. She could have gotten treatment in sentencing. This was way harder.”

“She have any idea you did this?”

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn’t want to give her time to think about it. She’d just get drunk and change her mind. But if I blindside her, get her over there and they dry her out and get her in the program, she has a chance.”

“Exactly one,” he stressed.

“Yeah, I’ll never be able to pull that off again if she relapses. So—I’m going over there. I’ll take your truck and leave you the Hummer for patients.”

“Jack’s truck would be a better ride,” he said.

“Can’t do that,” she insisted. Jack and Cheryl had history. There was a time, long before Mel, that Cheryl had a fierce and embarrassing crush on Jack, and Jack had to put her down rather harshly. “I can’t get Jack or even his truck involved. It might send the wrong message. Besides, I keep reliving that nightmare of riding to the hospital in the back of your pickup with a patient, holding a bag of Ringer’s over my head. I’ll take your truck and leave you the Hummer,” she said, holding out her hand for the keys.

“Good luck,” he said, handing them over.

After Brie had taken the kids back to her RV, Mel drove a few short blocks to the house she now knew to be the Chreightons’. It was in disrepair, which several of the houses on this block seemed to be. People tended to get used to things like peeling paint, sagging roofs. Plus, this was not a family with money. No one worked but Dad, and he only worked when there was work, piecemeal, probably with no benefits.

She knocked on the door and it was a long time before a morbidly obese woman answered. She had never seen Cheryl Chreighton’s mother before, which in a town this size was incredibly strange, but it was apparent why—the woman had probably not been out of the house for many months, perhaps years. She had a cigarette in her yellowed fingers and a frown on her face. She answered the door with a barking hack. Mel gave her time to catch her wheezing breath.

“Is Cheryl at home?” she asked.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Mel Sheridan,” she said. “I’m the nurse-practitioner and midwife. I work with Doc Mullins.”

“You’re the one,” she said, looking Mel up and down. “Jack’s woman.”

“Yeah, that’s me. So. She here?”

“Sleeping it off,” the woman said, turning to waddle back into the house, leaving Mel to follow.

“Can you get her up for me?” Mel asked, letting herself in despite the lack of invitation.

“I can try,” she said. Mel followed the woman into the little kitchen, which was obviously where she had set up camp. There was a collection of newspapers and magazines, stained coffee cups and empty Coke cans, an overflowing ashtray, an opened box of doughnuts, a small TV sitting on the counter. Mrs. Chreighton went into a room off the kitchen, a crude add-on in the back of the house. The door didn’t close, didn’t seem to have a mechanism for closing—there was a hole where the doorknob should be.

Mel heard her in there, yelling, “Cheryl! Cheryl! Cheryl! There’s some woman here to see you! Cheryl!” After a bit of that, there was some muffled protest. Mrs. Chreighton came back into the kitchen, went back to her chair, which sagged under her weight.

It was a household of addiction, Mel thought. Mom is hooked on food and cigarettes, Cheryl’s hooked on alcohol, and Dad’s drug of choice was anyone’s guess. He was probably hooked on these two women and their problems.

Cheryl appeared in the doorway of her bedroom, wearing yesterday’s clothes, straggly hair hanging in her face, her eyes swollen and barely open. Mel took a breath. “Got a minute?” she asked.

“What for?” Cheryl asked.

“Let’s step outside and talk,” Mel said. She walked out the front door, leaving Cheryl to follow. Mel stood on the sidewalk in front of the house until Cheryl came out and stood on the front step. “How drunk are you right now?” Mel asked her.

“I’m okay,” she answered, rubbing her fingers across her scalp, threading fingers through her limp and greasy hair.

“You have any interest in getting sober? Staying sober?”

“I do sometimes. I don’t drink a lot of the time…”

“I can get you in treatment, Cheryl. Get you detoxed and cleaned up and in a program. You’d get twenty-eight days of sobriety therapy and a real good chance of going straight, off the booze. But you have to decide right now.”