Christmas on 4th Street (Fool's Gold #12.5)

“Yes.”


“My place after closing. You need to be there. I have something to show you.”

With that she opened the door to the store and walked away.

Gabriel watched her go, not sure what had happened, but if there had just been a battle between them, he’d lost on all fronts.

* * *

As instructed, Gabriel arrived at Noelle’s small house after closing. She met him at the door, a kitten in each arm, and laughed when she handed him one.

“This is a crazy number of cats,” she said, stepping over the two mother cats, as she backed up to let him in. “One litter would have been bad enough, but two?”

He saw the younger litter was still confined to a large box, but they were more active. Their eyes were open and they climbed over each other in an effort to join the rest of their friends.

The mother cats had gotten over their skittishness and wove their way about his ankles.

“They’ve just eaten,” Noelle told him. “They’re always very friendly after a meal.” She set down the kitten she held.

He did the same and followed her into her tiny spare bedroom.

She’d turned the space into a home office. There was a desk with a laptop and a couple of chairs. Next to the laptop was a clear plastic bin filled with files and paperwork.

“Have a seat,” she said and opened the bin.

He did as she requested, not sure where this was going. While Noelle seemed friendly enough, there was a wariness to her posture, as if she was ready to defend herself. He couldn’t begin to guess what was in the bin. A criminal record? Tax fraud? Adoption records for six kids?

She handed him a file. He saw the name of the hospital printed on the front of the folder and her name on the tab.

“Medical records?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Noelle, you don’t have to—”

“Just look at it, okay?”

He opened the file and read the first page. The diagnosis jumped out at him. Acute myeloid leukemia—AML. Not always a death sentence, but rare—especially for someone her age. The treatment was chemotherapy, often aggressive. If that didn’t work, the next step was usually a bone marrow transplant. He didn’t know much more—this wasn’t his area of expertise.

The dates went back three years. Her initial diagnosis, the prognosis, depending on how she responded to treatment. His chest tightened and there was a knot in his gut. She’d had bad reactions to the chemo. She’d nearly died.

He glanced at her, at her glowing skin and shiny hair. “You’ve come a long way,” he said quietly.

“You have no idea.”

She passed him a picture of her in a hospital gown. She was thin and pale and bald, with an IV hooked up to her arm.

“I’d been sick for a while,” she said, reaching down for one of the kittens, who had followed them into the study. “Just not feeling well. My doctor did a blood panel and saw some abnormalities. I figured I was stressed from having lost my mom and my grandmother in a car accident.”

She cuddled the cat, who started to purr.

“But it was more than that. I went to a specialist who came up with an aggressive plan. It would be hell, but he was pretty confident we would get it all.”

She gave him a faint smile. “You have no idea how many times you get stuck with a needle going through something like that. Which made my fainting when I saw blood pretty funny.”

He put the file on the desk and tried to absorb what she was saying. Disbelief mingled with horror at what she’d been through. He’d been wrong about her. She knew plenty about suffering.

“You could have died,” he said before he could stop himself.

“I nearly did, more than once. But I decided to fight. I believed there was going to be more to my life than my disease.” She drew in a breath and looked at him. “I was engaged before. We had a wedding date and everything. It all got put on hold.”

Not her idea, he realized, even as he knew what came next.

“He walked out on you,” he said flatly.

She shrugged. “It was more than he could handle. I’m technically in remission. I could be here my whole life or be sick again tomorrow. No one knows. Statistically, I’m going to live until I’m eighty, but he wanted to know for sure. So yes, he left. When I went back to work at my law firm, they wouldn’t give me any of the real work. They made it clear I wasn’t welcome. I’d shown weakness and they had no place for that.”

He wanted to touch her, to comfort her, but she didn’t need that. She was stronger than he’d ever realized.