The Doctor's Do-Over Page 8

  “Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Heck, yeah, it’s working. Wanting to patch things up with you and wanting to get to know Quinn are two separate issues, even if they’re intertwined—”

  “And what if I don’t want to ‘patch things up’? Because that’s all it would be, some...some jury-rigged approximation of something that died a natural death more than ten years ago. And would have in any case,” she said before he could protest.

  “You don’t know that,” he said, and her brows flew up.

  “Oh, really? What? You would have waited for me to grow up? I mean, come on, Ryder—do you honestly expect me to believe you were saving yourself for me after you went off to school?” When he flushed, she let out a harsh laugh. “No, I didn’t think so. And even after that night, even considering you didn’t know what happened...you could have found me if you’d wanted to, it wouldn’t have been that hard. But you didn’t because, hello? That chapter in our lives...it was over. You’d moved on. And don’t even think about apologizing for doing what you were supposed to do. Or for simply being a guy. Although that does beg the question—so why are you still single?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You’re over thirty and straight and a doctor, for the love of Pete. No way have you made it this far unscathed. So, c’mon. Spill.”

  No, he sure hadn’t. And everything she’d said...she was right, of course. As much as he’d valued their friendship, they had been kids, Ryder hadn’t planned at the time on returning to St. Mary’s and Mel sure as hell hadn’t planned on sticking around. Part of the reason, he supposed, he’d let go—because, as she’d said, there would have been no point.

  And there were no words for how little he wanted to talk about this. Because, God, it hurt. Like a sonuvabitch.

  But without being totally open, what hope did he have of regaining her trust?

  The dishes temporarily forgotten, he clamped his hands on the counter edge and blew out a long breath. “You’re absolutely right, there were...others.”

  “Thank God, you had me worried there for a minute—”

  “In fact, I was engaged,” he said, taking an almost perverse pleasure in her flinch of surprise, even as the admission ripped open the barely healed wound all over again.

  * * *

  Well, you asked, dumbbutt, Mel thought, only to swallow hard when she saw the pain briefly flash across his face. A pain she suspected he didn’t let a lot of people see.

  “Was?”

  “She died,” he said softly, not looking at her, and Mel lost her breath.

  “Holy hell, Ry—when?”

  “Last year. A month before our wedding. Car accident,” he said with a slight roll of his shoulders, a guy-trying-to-be-brave shrug she’d witnessed before, when some chickie or other in high school had done him wrong and he’d tried so hard to pretend it didn’t matter.

  This, though...crap. Because for all she’d meant every word about how tough things had been, that she was bitter and cynical and knew that rainbows were an illusion, that didn’t mean she didn’t care. Or couldn’t feel anybody else’s misery.

  Especially Ryder’s.

  As a kid she’d watched him limp in from a soccer game, filthy and bleeding and grinning, heard him stand up to his mother without so much as a quaver in his voice, but when it came to romance damned if he didn’t have the most tender, vulnerable heart of any male she’d ever known. That he’d suffered deeply—was still suffering—was more than evident in his wracked expression, and it made her feel like she’d swallowed lye.

  Except then he gave her one of those pierce-her-soul looks and said, “No pity. Got it?”

  Never mind that all she wanted was to take him in her arms and hug him for, oh, the next ten years. Instead she climbed off the chair, dragging over a box to pack the “better” stuff in until they decided what to do with it. “So riddle me this, Batman,” she said, her gaze carefully averted, “since it’s obvious you’re still hurting, why are you looking at me like I’m, um, a girl?”

  Loooong pause. Then, behind her: “Not a girl, honey. Not by a long shot. A woman.”

  Her eyes cut to his, saw something she couldn’t/wouldn’t/so did not want to handle and skittered away again. “Not answering the quest—”

  “Because you’re gorgeous and I’m not dead. Although I sure as hell felt like it until I saw you again.”

  Mel dumped two glasses into the box a little hard, breaking one of them. Not that this was a loss. “I see.”

  “I doubt it—”

  “I know how hurting men act,” she said, wheeling on him. “How they seek...solace—”

  “And not to be crude, but if that’s what I was looking for I certainly wouldn’t seek it from you.” When she barked out a laugh, he let his head drop back, then sighed. “That didn’t come out right. I meant, if that’s all I was looking for, I could find it easily enough from other sources. As it is I’ve had absolutely no interest in even casual dating since...then.”

  Mel raised her brows, waiting. Ryder sighed.

  “Do I find you appealing?” His eyes darkened. “Oh, yeah. Am I going to act on that?” He shook his head. “Because it would be—”

  “Wrong,” Mel finished, then marched the broken glass pieces across the kitchen to dump them in the garbage.

  “I’m not making any sense, am I?”

  “Not a whole lot, no.”

  He picked up the top to a cow-shaped butter dish and skimmed his fingers along its back. “When I heard you were back, I didn’t know what to expect. How I’d react, seeing you again. And to be honest I still haven’t sorted it all out. But when I talk about wanting a do-over...”

  He set down the top, his forehead crunched. “I don’t mean literally. Obviously. God, I wouldn’t want to be that kid again for anything. Let alone that frustrated, horny kid who didn’t dare follow through on what he was thinking. But being around you again...it makes me remember a time when things were good. For me, anyway. I know—now—they probably weren’t so good for you.”

  She could lie. Heaven knew she’d had enough practice at it. Except she was tired of lying. Damned tired. “When we hung out together, things were good for me, too. Good enough, anyway.”

  His smile was sad. “I thought I’d stopped missing you. Apparently I was wrong.”

  Oh, hell. She was going to cry. And that would never do. “Well,” she said, after way too long a pause and in a voice she knew wasn’t kidding anybody, “isn’t that corny as hell?” and Ryder held out his arm and whispered, “C’mere, you.”

  And instead of running shrieking from the room like, you know, a sane person, she went, and he slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, and it didn’t feel nearly as bizarre as she might have assumed it would. In fact, it felt pret-ty good. Which of course wasn’t good at all.

  Especially when Ryder said, “Still friends?” and Mel sighed, knowing that despite all her protests, all her determination to pretend what they’d had as kids was dead and buried...it wasn’t. Worse, though—much, much worse—was the what-could-be threatening to eclipse the what-had-been.

  Because nothing ranked higher on the old follymeter than two people with broken hearts.

  So she pulled away, or would have if Ryder hadn’t caught her hand, forcing her gaze to his, and oh, dear merciful heavens, was the dude conflicted, or what? Maybe even more than she was, and that was going some.

  “Ryder—”

  “Because I’ve got a lot of making up to do.”

  Her brows slammed together. “I didn’t ask—”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  She removed her hand and crossed her arms, his touch still making her palm tingle. Among other things. Because, fine, she’d mi
ssed him, too, whether she’d let herself think about that or not, and now that she was a grownup and knew how everything worked—and how much fun it was when they did—simply looking at the man made her entire body hum quite the merry little tune.

  “I already told you,” she said over the humming, “I’m totally over what happened between us. So no making up to do—”

  “But you’re definitely not over what my family did to you.”

  She almost laughed. “You can’t make up for that.”

  “I sure as hell can try,” he said, then stooped to snag her gaze in his. “You need a friend, Mel,” he said, adding, when her mouth opened, “for Quinn’s sake, if nothing else. Because it’s not good, keeping all of this jammed up inside you. And I know the last thing you’d want to do is take out your frustration on your child.”

  “I would never do that!”

  “You really want to take that chance?”

  No, she didn’t. Because—damn his hide—he was right. Already there’d been times when she’d been short with Quinn for no reason other than not having an outlet for all the junk bubbling inside her head. Even before her mother’s death, she’d been loath to vent to the woman whose life had been turned upside down because of Mel’s sketchy judgment. And if nothing else, Ryder had always understood her. Or at least, did a good job of pretending he did.

  Which, perhaps, was what she’d missed most.

  What scared her the most, too.

  “And you know what?” Ryder said. “I could use a friend, too.”

  She hazarded a glance in his direction. “Even a temporary one?”

  His grin shattered her heart. “I’m very good at working with what I’m given. Now. You got a box for these plates, or should we toss them?”

  * * *

  Quinn had just come down the back staircase and into the pantry when she saw Ryder take Mom’s hand. She’d been so startled she’d frozen, not sure what to do. Although tiptoeing away had been pretty high on the list.

  But then she’d caught bits and pieces of their conversation and she couldn’t leave. Because nobody ever told kids anything. Or at least, not as much as there was to tell. Especially Mom, who considering the eleventy billion times she’d told Quinn she could tell her anything, sure as heck didn’t seem interested in returning the favor.

  So she’d ducked behind the wall outside the doorway, straining to hear what they were saying, her heart thumping like crazy that she’d get caught. Only the longer she listened, the more confused she got. What did Ryder mean, what his family had done to Mom? Keeping all of what jammed up inside her? And what did any of it have to do with Quinn?

  Unfortunately, one problem with hearing a conversation you weren’t supposed to was that you couldn’t exactly ask for an explanation afterwards. Poop. But eventually Ryder and Mom went back to talking about dumb stuff, so Quinn scooted back upstairs, where she ran into April at the end of the hallway, her arms full of sheets.

  “Hey there, baby girl.” April dumped the sheets into a big box by the linen closet, waving her hand at the cloud of dust before giving Quinn a big smile. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Nothing, I...” She glanced back toward the stairs, her face getting all hot.

  “Hey...everything okay?”

  No, it sure as heck wasn’t, and that was a fact. Quinn frowned at her cousin. “If I ask you something, you promise not to say anything to my mom?”

  After like half a second, April took Quinn by the elbow and marched her into the nearest bedroom, nodding toward a stuffed chair in the corner with ugly blue flowers all over it. She partially shut the door with her hip, then sat on the edge of the bed, although you couldn’t pay Quinn to get anywhere near that yucky old bedspread. “I can’t promise that whatever you tell me I won’t discuss with your mama, that would depend on what it is. So you might want to think about that before we go any further. But if you need to run whatever it is by me first—like a rehearsal—I’m here for you. Okay?”

  Quinn nodded, then decided if she didn’t let it all out she’d pop. Looping a curl around her index finger, she shrank into the chair, not sure if she felt worse for what she’d done, what she’d heard, or that she was dragging April—whom she hardly knew—into it. But finally she whispered, “I kinda overhead my mom and Ryder in the kitchen, talking. I didn’t mean to, I swear, I just went to get a glass of milk and...”

  Shaking her head, she let go of the curl to fold her hands in her lap and look down at them. “Ryder’s family...I know my grandparents worked for them and stuff, but Ryder said something about...wanting to make up for what they did to Mom. Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  April’s eyebrows about lifted right off her head. “No, baby, I sure don’t. I swear. He say anything else?”

  “Not really, no. Not about that, anyway. But...I also saw them holding hands.”

  “Who? Your mama and Ryder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” April touched the little gold necklace she always wore. “Um...you know they were real good friends when they were kids, right?”

  “Yeah. Mama told me. But if you ask me he was not looking at her like a friend. I mean, they were talking about being friends, but...” Quinn pushed out a breath. “Something’s going on, April, I know it. Something nobody wants me to know. Things just don’t feel right.” She smushed her lips together. “And they haven’t for a long time.”

  “Don’t feel right, how?”

  “I don’t know. But ever since I was little it’s been like...” She let her eyes fall to her lap again, almost ashamed to say what she was thinking. “Like Mom’s not telling me the truth.”

  After a couple of seconds, April said, real quietly, “Honey, look at me.” When Quinn finally did, a tear dribbling down her cheek, April leaned over to take Quinn’s hand. “Your mama and I haven’t been close in a long time, so I’m as clueless as you are, what any of that meant. I’ll tell you one thing, though—she loves you with all her heart, and she would die before hurting you. Or letting you get hurt. So my advice to you, sweet thing, is to come right out and tell her what you told me. You don’t have to mention what you heard, or how you heard it, only that things are feeling a little strange and you’d like to know what’s going on.”

  “So you think something is going on?”

  “I didn’t say that. But I do know...” She paused. “People—and everybody does this at some time or another, so don’t feel bad—we hear part of a conversation and get to wondering about it, and before you know it we’re making ourselves nuts, filling in the blanks with all sorts of things that only exist in our heads. And I know your mama would feel awful if she knew how confused you were right now. I bet she has no idea.”

  “So you think I should be honest with her?”

  “Don’t see any other way of getting answers, do you?”

  Quinn nodded, feeling both better and more jumbled up at the same time. Figure that one out, she thought with a sigh.

  * * *

  By Sunday evening Mel had to admit that although they weren’t done yet—not by a long shot, they’d barely sorted out the dining and gathering rooms—they’d made a lot more progress than she would’ve thought possible in only two days with three women whose takes varied greatly on what was worth keeping and what wasn’t.

  However, they not only muddled through without bloodshed, but there was a big old Dumpster in the driveway chock-full of crap not even worth donating. So go, them. Whatever April wanted to keep—the good china and crystal, a few pieces of furniture Blythe said would look terrific once reupholstered or refinished—would eventually get shoved into one of the downstairs bedrooms, the rest carted off to various charity thrift stores.

  Which meant April would be more or less starting from scratch, a prospect that clearly excited her no end. In fact, after Blythe declared
herself too exhausted to haul her butt back to D.C. that night, and that she’d get an early start in the morning, April had spent the better part of the evening blissfully poring over—and over—their cousin’s first sketchy draft of the proposed kitchen remodel, currently laid out on the to-be-refinished dining table. Which is where Mel found her after tucking in Quinn for the night.

  “She go down okay?” April asked, taking a sip of her tea from the mug hugged close to her chest and looking about ten years old with her hair pulled into twin ponytails, her size 5 Mary Janes peeking out from her flared leg jeans. She, too, was headed back to Richmond in the morning, but only long enough to pack up her clothes and put Clayton’s house on the market. While Mel didn’t relish the idea of it just being her and Quinn in the great big house, she’d promised to stay and continue chipping away at the upstairs bedrooms. And then there was the attic, which they’d glanced at, groaned, and quietly closed the door to again. Mel wouldn’t be surprised to find the remains of Union soldiers up there.

  Now she released a tired laugh. Every muscle in her body ached, although she was grateful she’d been too busy to mull over that “let’s be friends” convo with Ryder, too tired at night to do anything but zonk out within seconds of hitting her bed. “She’s ten. Not ten months. She likes to read herself to sleep.”

  “Not that this will come as a shock, I’m sure,” her cousin said with a grin, “but I’m crazy about that kid.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  Smiling, Mel dragged herself into the kitchen for a cookie—or three—to find Blythe standing at the counter, slumming it in a ratty T-shirt and ripped jeans as she polished off the leftover casserole, warmed up to go with the slow-cooker pork roast Mel decided to make after Blythe unearthed a still-in-its-box Crock-Pot at the bottom of the hall closet, of all places. Blythe’s gaze swung from Mel to April, who’d trailed in behind Mel, shutting the swinging door behind her. When she crossed the room to push closed the door to the back stairs as well, Mel felt the back of her neck prickle.

  “What’s going on?”