Ten Years Later... Read online

  “Any time would be all right,” he told her with sincerity. “I’ll work my schedule around yours.”

  Well, that was certainly accommodating, she thought. Brianna flashed a neutral smile at him. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow at two. At your mother’s house. Same address?” she asked at the last moment, realizing that she was taking things for granted. After all, even though she hadn’t moved, it didn’t mean that other people hadn’t.

  Sebastian nodded. “Like you said, some things don’t change. My mother’s still living in the same house,” he said. “She loves it far too much to ever consider moving. Believe me, I offered to help her downsize a few years ago by finding a condo for her, but she just wouldn’t hear of it.”

  Brianna hardly heard what he was saying, her attention caught by something he’d said just before he’d told her that folksy story about trying to get his mother to move.

  Was that what tonight was really all about? Had he set out to press a few of her buttons, make her recall all that they had once been to one another just so that she wouldn’t turn him down when he asked her to see his mother?

  Had he really turned that cool, that pragmatic? she silently questioned.

  She didn’t want the answer to be yes.

  Maybe it would behoove her to think of Sebastian in that light. Because it just might help turn her into a pragmatist as well.

  As she put her key into the lock and turned it, she knew that was not about to happen, not in this lifetime. She had no more of a chance of turning into a pragmatic, practical person than she did of becoming a firefly this fall.

  Glancing at Sebastian over her shoulder, Brianna lingered just long enough to say, “Thanks again for dinner.”

  “No, thank you for agreeing to see my mother.” He realized that as he said it, he was really already counting on her help, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Brianna had every right in the world to give him a few words of assurance and then either move on, or, at most, give him a referral to another nurse.

  Initially, after the all but paralyzing fear that his mother had suffered a debilitating stroke had faded, that was all that he’d wanted—to find a competent nurse to look after his mother until she was out of the danger zone.

  But the moment he’d realized that Brianna had gone on to become a nurse, he knew that he wouldn’t be satisfied with anyone else. Wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than having Brianna sign on as his mother’s private-duty nurse for the duration.

  He trusted her. Trusted her with his mother’s welfare.

  With his mother’s life.

  Because he knew Brianna’s ethics, knew how determined she could be. Knew that to place his mother’s fate in her hands was really the very best thing he could do for his mother.

  Don’t push too hard, he warned himself now. At least, not yet.

  He needed to completely win Brianna over first. Since she had always liked his mother, half the battle had already been fought and—as near as he could figure it—won.

  “Tomorrow, then,” he repeated, then quickly turned on his heel and walked back to his car. He was fearful that he might ruin everything, because just at the last moment, he’d had another quick, strong surge of desire to pull her into his arms and find out if her kiss still made him weak in the knees.

  Brianna quickly slipped into her house, incredibly relieved.

  And just as incredibly disappointed.

  Back in Bedford just a few days, and already he was making her crazy. Sincerely hoping to dodge her fate at the last moment, she was nonetheless doomed.

  Putting on her best face as she braced herself for the onslaught of questions, she went to find her father and get it over with.

  * * *

  “Oh, my sweet Lord, you haven’t changed one little bit!” Barbara Hunter cried the moment she saw the woman she’d once thought was going to be her daughter-in-law come walking into her living room.

  Entrenched in her role of recovering stroke victim, Barbara was sitting propped up on the sofa, a blanket tucked around her lower half at Sebastian’s insistence, and half a dozen small, colorful pillows tucked against her back, also at Sebastian’s insistence.

  He’d been so thoughtful and considerate from the second he’d rushed to her side that her conscience was making it difficult for her to all but breathe. She didn’t like lying to him this way. The whole thing bothered her a great deal.

  It would have been bothering her a great deal more if it wasn’t for the fact that she knew in her heart of hearts that she was doing this for Sebastian’s own good. That she was pulling out all the stops, using everything she had at her disposal, not just to bring together what she’d always considered the perfect couple, but to keep them together until they both realized how very right they were for each other.

  And when Sebastian would eventually forgive her—after the truth had, perforce, come to light—he would understand why she’d done what she had.

  But all that was still to come. Right now she had Brianna before her—and a part to play. She had to be on her toes, because Brianna was sharp.

  Brianna took the hands that were warmly extended to her, squeezing them affectionately, if ever so lightly. She looked at Sebastian’s mother in complete wonder.

  She had to admit that she was expecting to see a woman who looked a great deal more frail. For someone who had recently had a stroke, Barbara Hunter appeared amazingly well for her ordeal, almost like the picture of health.

  But then, Brianna knew, appearances could be exceptionally deceiving—especially with artfully applied makeup.

  Smiling at Barbara as she went to occupy a tiny corner of the sofa beside Sebastian’s mother, she said, “I could say the same thing about you, Mrs. Hunter. Your color is amazingly good,” she told the older woman in complete awe.

  Barbara leaned forward just a tad and confided, “Makeup does wonders,” as she dismissed the compliment.

  Although she didn’t make any sort of regular pilgrimages to the makeup counters in her local malls, Brianna could tell the difference between a face that was only made up to look good, or, as in this case, to look healthy, and a face that actually was healthy.

  Scrutinizing her, she decided that Barbara Hunter definitely belonged in the second category.

  Which, all things considered, seemed rather unusual to Brianna. Something was off.

  But she hadn’t come to argue—she had come to see if she could offer advice or even a little help. It completely delighted her that Sebastian’s mother was not nearly as unwell as Sebastian had first led her to believe.

  Was that because the woman had managed to bounce back, making an absolutely astounding recovery, or could he be using his mother to get her to come around, to forgive him and possibly even give them another chance...?

  No, she told herself in the next nanosecond. That would mean that Sebastian had turned into a manipulative person, and she didn’t want to believe that about him. Didn’t want to think of him in that light.

  Instead, Brianna preferred to think that his mother was one of the extremely lucky ones whose bodies had issued a warning to them and then just gone back to normal. Back to “business as usual.”

  “Sebastian told me you had a stroke last week,” she said gently.

  Was it her imagination, or did the woman’s smile suddenly look a little strained?

  And if so, why?

  Because she didn’t want to talk about her ordeal, or because there’d been no ordeal?

  Brianna’s intuition leaned a certain way. Because this was Sebastian’s mother, she decided to dismiss this thought.

  “I did,” Barbara answered, her voice rather low and somewhat shaky. Was that pain she detected in the older woman’s voice?

  Or uncertainty?

  “I know it’s an uncomfortable subject
to talk about,” Brianna said. “The very thought of it touches on our mortality, but anything you can tell me about the incident—” such a nice, clinical word, she thought, for something so ugly “—would be very helpful.”

  “Helpful?” the older woman questioned, her thin eyebrows drawing together like an animated line.

  “Bree is considering whether or not to take your case, Mom,” Sebastian said, interrupting.

  Brianna didn’t see the hopeful flash in his mother’s eyes, but he did.

  It made him wonder.

  Was the flash there because it made her feel better, having someone she knew looking to help her? Or was there some other reason behind that look?

  His life abroad had made him too suspicious, Sebastian thought self-critically. His mother wasn’t some conniving schemer—she was a down-to-earth, simple woman who lived alone and who had been understandably frightened by her ordeal. Of course the thought of having someone she knew around to look after her pleased her.

  He was searching for hidden meaning where there was none, he thought, chastising himself.

  Sebastian rose to his feet. “Why don’t I leave the two of you alone to talk?” he suggested, thinking that his presence might make it awkward for his mother to talk about what had happened to her.

  “That might not be a bad idea,” Brianna agreed.

  “Thank you,” his mother said to him, looking relieved.

  “I’ll be in the family room if you need me,” he said. And with that, he left the room.

  Chapter Nine

  “So tell me, what’s going on?” Brianna asked Barbara Hunter as soon as her son had left the room. She took a seat on the chair opposite the sofa and focused all her attention on the woman.

  Barbara looked at her, doing her best to hide her nervousness. She’d never been good at lying and she knew it. At times, when the truth sounded as if it was a tad suspicious, she’d be nervous that what was coming out of her mouth sounded as if she was lying.

  And now, given the fact that everything she’d told Sebastian in order to get him to come stateside in time for his high school reunion had been based on a ruse, Barbara felt as if she was knee-deep in falsehoods and bald-faced lies.

  Did Brianna suspect?

  Could the young nurse tell just by looking at her that she hadn’t had a stroke?

  By asking what was “going on,” was Brianna asking about her symptoms, or the reason behind the fabrications and lies?

  Barbara licked her lips to keep them from sticking together. They were bone dry. Even so, she stopped herself before she could moisten them, afraid that the simple act—and the reason for it—would give her away to someone as sharp-eyed as Brianna.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean,” Barbara managed to respond quietly, stopping just short of sucking in air as her lungs felt suddenly depleted of oxygen. Lying created the sensation of breathlessness within her.

  Maybe she hadn’t made herself clear, Brianna thought. His mother looked genuinely uncomfortable and confused. Was that because of the stroke? Or was there some other reason for the woman’s discomfort? She certainly hoped that she wasn’t the cause for the woman’s reaction.

  Sebastian’s mother had always been nothing but warm and friendly toward her, making her feel welcome any time she came over to the house with Sebastian. Making her feel, back then, as if she was already part of the family.

  Brianna remembered thinking when she first met his mother that she would have loved, if she were able to pick and choose, to have a mother just like Barbara Hunter.

  The very last thing in the world she wanted was to make that woman feel uncomfortable in her presence.

  “Are you feeling any physical discomfort right now?” Brianna rephrased. When the other woman shook her head in response, Brianna pressed on. She needed to get her own clear picture of events. “Just what exactly initially alerted you to the fact that you were having a stroke?”

  Barbara released the breath that had gotten trapped in her lungs. She felt a little more at ease now. She’d done her homework on this one, looking up on the internet the condition she was feigning. She was rather proud of herself for that, seeing as how navigating on the computer was completely foreign to her.

  Admittedly, it had been hard for her at first, but Maizie had shown her how to get around something she referred to as “a search engine,” which wasn’t an engine at all, just something that allowed her to type in a few key words, in exchange for which she was shown a plethora of things called “websites.” And those in turn gave her the information she was looking for—eventually.

  It had taken her a while, granted, but now she felt that she was adequately educated regarding the subject matter and ready for any questions that her son might have for her.

  Or, in this case, that the young woman she’d hoped her son would someday marry might have for her.

  Given the question, Barbara now recited the symptoms chapter and verse, which she’d previously memorized, citing things like “dizziness, nausea and a really rapid heartbeat.”

  “I thought my heart was going to fly right out of my chest,” Barbara told her with just the right touch of earnestness.

  “Did you lose consciousness?” Brianna asked.

  Barbara paused, trying to remember the right response to that question. She wanted Brianna to think she’d had a mild stroke, one that hadn’t resulted in any sort of permanent damage. Other than simplifying her story, it also made it easier for her to have fewer details to keep straight. She knew very well that she couldn’t sustain a multilayered performance for an indefinite length of time.

  “No,” she finally answered with a note of triumph in her voice. “I didn’t. I was conscious the entire time.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Brianna said with genuine satisfaction. “How did you get to the hospital?”

  For a second, the relatively simple question threw her. But after a moment, drawing on her past experiences, Barbara had her alibi in place.

  “My friend drove me to the hospital. I called Maizie and told her what I was feeling. She came over right away and whisked me off to the E.R.”

  Brianna nodded, pleased. She knew that the faster a patient with stroke symptoms received medical attention, the greater the possibility of reversing any damage. Those first crucial minutes made the difference between recovery and all sorts of debilitating effects, ending with paralysis.

  That being the case, she needed to get more of a handle on all this. “Would you happen to know how much time passed from the first onset of your symptoms to your arriving at the E.R. and receiving treatment?”

  She knew that one, Barbara thought with a tinge of frustration setting in. She really did. So why couldn’t she think of it now?

  Barbara hesitated for a moment, sifting through the various pieces of information she’d read and absorbed, trying to remember the right answer.

  “About an hour altogether. Maybe a few minutes more than that,” she added hesitantly. “Maizie’s office is close by,” she interjected, “and she came the second I called her.”

  “You’re lucky to have a friend like that,” she told the other woman.

  “In more ways than one,” Barbara murmured, then, realizing she’d said that out loud, she flashed a wide smile at the young woman.

  Brianna wondered what she meant by that, but there were more important questions to ask Mrs. Hunter at the moment.

  “And how are you feeling now?” Brianna asked.

  “A lot better—but still rather weak,” Barbara quickly added.

  Heaven forbid that Brianna thought she didn’t need any sort of home medical care. That was the whole point of this, to keep throwing Brianna and her son together until they came to their senses and the spark reignited between them.

  The you
ng woman, she recalled, was honest to a fault. That sort of person did not charge for services she felt weren’t necessary.

  Brianna leaned forward just a tad, her blue eyes peering into the other woman’s soft brown ones. “You’re not disoriented?” she asked.

  Barbara was watching the young woman’s face, trying to take her cue from her expression. She decided that she wouldn’t want to play poker against Brianna, especially since the younger woman’s expression was almost unreadable.

  Barbara was left to her own devices as to how to answer, so she replied cautiously. “Maybe a little fuzzy around the edges at times.”

  “That’s all perfectly natural,” Brianna told her. “Tell me, were you ever diagnosed as having angina or A-fib?”

  Barbara knew what the first condition was and shook her head. “No to angina,” she said with confidence. But her confidence tapered off as she asked, “But what’s A-fib?”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have just thrown letters at you. It stands for atrial fibrillation.” The look on the older woman’s face said she was no more enlightened, so she broke it down for Barbara into the simplest terms. “What it means is, have you experienced any rapid heartbeat or skipped beats?”

  Until this moment, Barbara had just assumed that everyone had that happen to them on one occasion or another. She still felt relatively safe in her assumption, so she thought it would be all right to answer in the affirmative. “Yes. Sometimes,” she qualified.

  Brianna went to the next logical question, which in this case involved prescriptions. “Which beta-blocker did the doctor prescribe for you to treat that?”

  Barbara’s mind went to a terrifying blank. “I’m not sure,” Barbara answered evasively.

  “That’s okay—lots of people forget the name of the pills they’re required to take.” She rose to her feet. “Where do you keep your medicine?” Brianna asked, perfectly content to do her own legwork. “I’ll just take a quick peek at what’s there and—”

  Barbara panicked. There was no heart medication of any kind, because she’d made up the whole thing. She desperately needed a way to distract Brianna.