Cara turned to her side and tucked her hands under her pillow. “Mama,” she whispered fervently, clutching the pillow as hot tears streamed down her cheeks. “Why are you ignoring me when I need you, too?”
A foghorn sounded again, and soon after a low echo of thunder rumbled, closer this time. It sounded like a wail. Cara pushed herself up on her elbows and scanned the shadowed room.
“Mama,” she said louder, hoping she was being heard. “Are you here?” She waited, ear cocked and listening to the night for some sign that her mother was here with her. The rain pattered, the wind gusted, but that was all. She knew that if anyone heard her talking to a possible ghost they’d howl with laughter. Strong, pragmatic Cara Rutledge had gone off her rocker. But she didn’t care. She had to try. The heart could be demanding—especially when desperate.
CARA FELT FINGERTIPS at her forehead. Then a soothing coolness that eased her throbbing head. The touch was gentle. Caring. A feeling of comfort flooded her. Thunder rolled and the white noise of a steady downpour filled her ears. Opening her eyes a crack, she saw that the room had the dull coloring of a rainy morning. A short while later a slim figure entered the room carrying a tray. Her blond hair wreathed her head like a halo.
“Mama?” she said in a croaky voice.
“You’re awake.”
Cara reached up and found a cool washcloth on her forehead. It was Heather, she realized, waking further. Tugging it off, she asked Heather, “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven.”
“So late.”
“Who cares? It’s a sleepy, rainy day. And you need your rest. Especially with your headache. How is it?”
“Better.”
“But still there?”
Cara’s answer was a muffled groan.
“I brought you something that might help.” Heather balanced the tray on her hip while she moved the water glass, then set the tray on the bedside table. “Some fresh water to take your medicine, and a few pieces of dry rye toast, which should be okay for your tum. And my special morning drink. It’s got some caffeine from maté, some maca powder, protein powder . . .” She trailed off. “Well, all sorts of good things. You need some bolstering.” She picked up a blue ceramic mug with a turtle on it. “For you.”
Cara looked at the steaming mug in Heather’s hands suspiciously. Her furrowed brow must have given her away, because Heather laughed. “It’s good, really. Creamy. Trust me, you’ll love it.”
Cara didn’t know if she could take the heady brew. “My stomach . . .”
“Cara,” Heather said, “I know where you are. I’ve been there. You’ve been through trauma. You’re fragile. Let me help you through this. Believe me, when I was eighteen, I was a mess. As thin as you are now, and as emotionally depleted. The heart will take time to heal. But let’s at least start with your body. Okay?” She held out the mug. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
“Oh, Lord,” Cara said with another groan. She didn’t think she could face Heather’s determined cheerfulness. “If I drink it, will you stop with the platitudes?”
Heather laughed again. “I promise.”
Cara hoisted herself to her elbows, grimacing when her head began throbbing anew. Any quick movements could be punishing. She licked her dry lips, then pushed herself up to a full sitting position. Her body ached and she felt weak. “I’ve turned into an old woman,” she lamented.
Heather hurried to add a few pillows behind her back for support. “You’re not old. You’re sick.”
Tru dat, she thought. The nausea had subsided. She was surprised to find she was actually hungry. She could eat something. With a weak smile of gratitude she reached up and took the warm mug from Heather’s hands. Peering inside, she saw it looked creamy, like a latte. Sniffing it, she caught the faint scent of chocolate. “Chocolate can be bad for my migraines.”
“It’s just a bit of raw cocoa. No sugar.”
Bottoms up, she thought wryly, and brought the mug to her lips, taking a small sip.
“Oh. That’s good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Heather said, clearly pleased with her response. “I drink it every morning. I call it my morning potion. I’ll make it for you every day, too. Too much coffee isn’t good for you, though I do love my coffee. And this is chock-full of superfoods. Now, just sit back and enjoy the quiet. You don’t have to do anything today. Not a thing. I’ll be working in my office. I mean, the sunroom,” she quickly amended. “Just call me if you need anything.”
Cara slanted her gaze. “Were you always such a mother hen?”
“Actually, yes,” Heather replied. “After my mother died, I took care of my father. We had a lot of help, but I was the one who made sure his dinner was ready when he got home, that his shirts were cleaned.” She laughed nervously. “Basically, a mother hen.”
“Well, nurse, thank you for this,” Cara said, raising the mug in salute. Heather held back her smile. She picked up the empty water glass and turned to leave, but stopped at the foot of the bed. Cara looked up from her mug to see the shyness return to Heather’s expression.
“You’re my first roommate,” she said, looking at her hands. “I hope”—a blush stained her cheek as she looked up again—“I hope we’ll be friends as well.” She smiled tentatively and walked out.
Cara watched her leave, her muddled brain trying to make out who this young woman was. There was a kindness at her core. It revealed itself in everything she did. But Heather was nobody’s fool, either. That was the part Cara hadn’t expected. Heather had done a respectable job of turning the tables on Cara regarding the lease. And now she’d maneuvered her into committing to getting herself together a little bit, something even Emmi and Flo hadn’t been able to accomplish. “Watch out for the quiet ones,” Cara herself always used to say. Good Lord, she thought with chagrin. Next she’d be doing yoga.
Then she thought again.
When Heather had walked in, Cara had momentarily mistaken her for her mother. Heather was slight and blond, yes. But it was everything else, too. The cool cloth on Cara’s head, the lowered shades, the special drink and dry toast. The offer to share the house. All these were gestures Lovie would have made.
Heather was a lot like Lovie. The notion gave Cara pause. Was that why Cara found her so intriguing? Beguiling, even?
She picked up the mug and smelled its strange but appetizing aroma. When Cara thought of herself, she thought of a woman who was smart, capable, practical. She’d always prized her toughness under pressure, her ability to confront, to go toe-to-toe with an adversary. To her mind, that defined power and strength for a woman in a man’s world. Her specific battle arena was one of words, thus her display of wit and intelligence won points even if—especially if—it wounded another.
She snorted and shook her head with self-contempt. Look how well that’s been working out for you, she told herself.