“I have gloves on. You can’t see my fingers. You couldn’t see a ring. Did you just guess?”
She lowered her shoulders. “I called your house yesterday. I didn’t realize it was your house number, but I think your office sent me that instead of your work number. Your wife answered. I only just put two and two together now.”
“Did you tell her your name?”
“I think I did. Then we got cut off.”
Pain shot through his stomach. “I have to go.”
“Charles?”
“I have to go.”
He fumbled blindly up the hill, running so hard for his car that he couldn’t quite stop himself when he reached it, crashing into the back bumper hard with his hip. He wrenched the door open, smacking it against a tree trunk, not even bothering to check if he’d done any damage.
When he turned the engine on, the radio blared loud through the speakers. He threw the car into reverse and peeled away from the cabin. It felt good to be moving. When he looked in the rearview mirror, he saw that Bronwyn had climbed the hill and was now standing on the edge of the gulley, watching him. By the time he got to the stop sign, three-tenths of a mile away in a perfectly straight, as-the-crow-flies line, he could still see her shape, but she looked featureless and anonymous. He could pretend she was merely some strange, pregnant, country woman. Someone he knew nothing about.
Chapter Sixteen
Catherine’s biopsy had been scheduled for 8 a.m., but because of a few emergencies, they hadn’t gotten to her until almost noon. Joanna and Scott sat in an open waiting room, surrounded by other people, and Scott passed the time by quietly making fun of them all. There was Hard Boiled, the man with the bad comb-over, strands of hair growing just above his ear swept across his entire bald, egg-shaped head. There was Aggressive Word Finder, attacking the puzzle with her pen, making little tears in the oatmeal-colored page. There was an obese woman in an American flag sweatshirt; her ankles were so swollen that Scott burst out laughing every time he looked at her. He made up names for the doctors and nurses based on characters from old cartoons: the hunchbacked, sour-faced nurse was Ram Man; the butch, broad-shouldered woman doctor was She-Ra; and the emaciated surgeon was, of course, Skeletor.
Joanna didn’t want to laugh. She still felt prickly about their talk last night, all she felt she’d revealed to Scott. Part of her wanted him to go home. Another part wanted him here, sitting next to her, doing exactly what he was doing. She hated that she felt so torn. She hated that she wasn’t taking Charles’s calls. It felt like things were slipping through her fingers and she was just letting them.
Catherine’s surgeon, Dr. Nestor, visited Joanna and Scott at 12:30, informing them that Catherine was resting while they waited for the test results. After Catherine had time to nap but before the results came back, they went in to see her. She was in the bed nearest the door, her ash-blonde hair fanned out on the pillow, the white sheets pulled up to her mid-chest. Something about her appeared undone, like an unfinished painting. There were machines next to her, something monitoring blood pressure and pulse, an IV bag hovering over her shoulder. “The operation went well,” Joanna told her. “They were able to remove the cyst. You’re going to be fine.”
Catherine, still slightly woozy from whatever it was that had knocked her out for the biopsy, scowled. “It’s not a cyst. It’s something else. I can feel it in my blood. I feel diseased.”
“Mom, you’re okay,” Joanna reassured her.
“I’m not. I can feel something growing.”
Joanna bit down hard on her lip and turned, staring at a poster on how to self-administer a breast exam. When she faced her mother again, Catherine was patting Scott’s hand. “Honey,” she croaked in a faraway voice, “you’re such a sweetheart. Thank you for being here.”
Scott ducked his head. “It’s no trouble.”
She looked at Joanna. “You know, if things get messed up with Charles, just marry this one instead.”
“Mom.” Joanna felt her face flush in horror. If things get messed up with Charles. And Joanna, presumably, was the one doing the messing. She shot Scott an apologetic glance. “Sorry, she’s looped from the drugs.”
Catherine shook her head. “No I’m not. It’s obvious Scott’s in love with you. And, honey, you’d still get what you wanted. He’s still a Bates-McAllister.”
Joanna bristled. He’s still a Bates-McAllister. The tips of her fingers throbbed. “What are you talking about?” she said quietly.
Catherine’s face grew more lucid. She gave Joanna a clever look, then turned to Scott. “She wanted the Bates-McAllisters from the very start, and she got one. I was floored when she told me she and Charles were dating. But she got what she wanted.”