“But Dimity,” I said faintly, “I have so much to tell you.”
You can tell me later. I’m not going anywhere. But you are. Ring Bill now.
? ? ?
Bill found me at the kitchen table, crying into my chicken broth. He didn’t reproach me for not calling him sooner or scold me for ogling my neighbors when I should have been taking care of myself. He simply wrapped me in a blanket and drove me straight to the hospital.
After a few X-rays, blood tests, and antibiotic injections, the attending physician informed Bill that my thumb was badly contused rather than broken and that I’d probably lose the nail, which struck me as a better deal than losing a whole hand. The doctor agreed with Aunt Dimity’s diagnosis of dehydration and put me on an IV drip before sending me home with three kinds of prescription medications and a thumb that resembled an itty-bitty mummy.
One of the drugs was a sedative, but Bill didn’t need to administer it because I was fast asleep before we reached the cottage. He carried me upstairs and put me to bed and I awoke briefly as he was tucking me in.
“The boys,” I murmured drowsily.
“They’re spending the night at Father’s,” he said. “Deirdre will take them to school tomorrow morning.”
“Good old Deirdre,” I said, closing my eyes. “Are you Sally Pyne’s solicitor?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” said Bill.
He smoothed my hair back from my forehead, kissed me tenderly on the lips, and sat with me until I dropped off to sleep again.
? ? ?
I awoke at half past nine on Friday morning, feeling ravenous. Bill was seated in the armchair near the sliding glass door to the deck, tapping away at his laptop’s keyboard, and Stanley was asleep in the pool of sunlight next to Bill’s chair. When I raised my head from the pillows, Bill closed the laptop and came to sit beside me on the bed.
“Are you Sally Pyne’s solicitor?” I asked.
“Excellent,” said Bill. “The medication hasn’t affected the gossip quadrant of your brain.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “No, I’m not Sally’s solicitor. She came to me for advice on managing Henry’s career and I referred her to a colleague in London.”
“Thank heavens,” I said.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Not bad,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “The painkiller the doctor gave you must still be working.”
“It hasn’t killed my appetite,” I said. “I could chase a horse and eat the jockey.”
“Would a bowl of porridge do?” Bill asked.
“I’d prefer a full fry-up with a large glass of orange juice and a pot of tea,” I said. “I haven’t had anything to eat since the IV drip.”
“A full fry-up it is, then,” said Bill. “I’ll prop you up on your pillows and you can have breakfast in bed.”
“I’ll sit at the kitchen table, thank you,” I said. “I didn’t break a leg, Bill. I can manage the stairs.”
“Okay,” he said brightly. “Let’s see you sit up.”
I used my right arm to push myself into an upright position, watched the room tilt alarmingly, and slumped back onto my pillows.
“Breakfast in bed might not be a bad idea,” I conceded.
I felt steady enough after breakfast to take a shower, get dressed, and descend to the living room under Bill’s close supervision. I stretched out on the couch, but Bill wouldn’t sit still until he’d arranged my medications on the coffee table, placed two pillows at my back, thrown a quilt across my legs, and put a cushion in my lap to elevate my left hand, as per doctor’s orders. He adjusted pillows, quilt, and cushion repeatedly, until they met his specifications for my comfort, then sat in his armchair and stroked Stanley, who’d hopped into his lap.
“Thanks, dear,” I said. “You can go to the office now.”
“No, I can’t,” he said, frowning.
“Yes, you can,” I said. “I promise to take it easy for the rest of the day. I have everything I need down here, so I won’t have to tackle the stairs, and I won’t leave the cottage unless it catches fire. You can bring Will and Rob home from school and I’ll even let you make dinner.”
“Dinner shouldn’t be too difficult,” he said. “The casserole parade should begin around noon.”
My neighbors brought casseroles to invalids as well as to those grieving for a lost loved one. They believed—quite soundly, in my opinion—that grief, illness, and injury were equally incapacitating and did what they could to make life easier for the stricken.
“There you are,” I said. “I won’t have to lift a finger, much less a thumb, for the rest of the day.”
“Lori,” Bill began, but I cut him off.
“I’ll go crazy if you sit there and stare at me,” I said. “And I’ll feel terrible if my inability to swing a hammer screws up your work schedule. You have the conference call with your new Polish client this afternoon, don’t you? The call you’ve had to reschedule three times already because of the dotty uncle?”