Chasing Sunsets Part 21

"No, Chase. Don't do this to me. Don't do it to yourself."

"Just that even adults with nearly grown kids have a right to try to find love." He sighed. "I think she just doesn't want us to think bad of Dad."

I shook my head. This conversation was getting more difficult. I wanted my son to think this through without my saying anything negative about his father. "But, do you think that's what Dad is doing? Finding love?"

"With Dad it's kinda hard to tell. I mean, how do you know if it's love anyway?"

I blinked before answering. His question was genuine. "Well," I began, settling back into the cushy softness of the sofa. "It starts with a nice, warm feeling when you're with someone. It's . . . it's like when you are with that person, you feel you've known that person forever. Like there never was a time when you weren't together. And when you aren't together, you count the minutes until you're with him again."

Chase chuckled on the other end of the line. "I don't think I'm going to want to be with a 'him,' Mom."

"Cute."

He didn't answer right away. "Is that what you and Dad had?"

I felt the knot form in my throat. "Chase . . ."

"Did you?"

"Of course." I closed my eyes and smiled. I had such memories . . . "We were just crazy mad in love with each other, Chase. And you and Cody came out of that love."

"So . . . then . . . what happened?"

I tried to swallow as I blinked. "Wow." Of all days for these questions to come. "I don't know, Chase. You'd have to ask your father that question. I didn't ask for the divorce." I took a deep breath, determined not to sound condemning. "I honestly don't know."

"He'd get mad if I asked."

I nodded. "He may. But you won't know unless you ask." I tried swallowing again. "And I think you have a right to know."

"He'll say it's adult stuff and kids don't need to be bothered with adult stuff."

I pictured my son standing among multi-colored rows of azaleas, none reaching higher than his knees. I imagined him wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt with the nursery's logo displayed across the front and a pair of long khaki shorts. I saw his dark hair streaked with gold by the sunlight, windswept by the summer breeze. "If you were five, I'd agree with him," I said.

"But I'm not." A moment of silence before he said, "Mom?"

"Yes, Chase."

"Do you think you'll ever fall in love again? I mean, could you?"

I felt my heart take flight. "Yes. I could."

"I think I'd like that for you," he answered. "But can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"I don't think Dad would. I kinda think Dad wants to get on with his life but he doesn't want the same for you."

I called Heather. It sounded to me as though she'd been crying. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine."

"What's going on with you?"

Her voice rose. "Nothing. Seriously, nothing. Tell me about you."

I shared with her about my date. I told her about being in the boat with Steven for the first time in years. I told her about going to Sh.e.l.l Mound, about the camera, and what just may have been my last first kiss. I refrained from telling her about how I'd cried and how Steven held me. I told her nothing about his admission of past sins.

When I was done, she said, "Well, isn't that all so very lovely for you."

The sarcasm hurt. "Heather, don't. Please. I'm happy for the first time in a long time. Can't you be happy with me?"

I heard it then. Ice clinking. I looked down at my watch. It was just a few minutes before noon. "Sure," she said, followed by a long swallow. "Sure."

"Heather," I said, keeping my voice even. "I need to ask you something."

"Advice for the lovelorn?"

I took a deep breath. I let my chest fall with an even exhale. "Heather, why are you drinking so early in the day?"

"Oh. My. Gosh. Ohmygosh. You think I'm drinking? You are so self-righteous, Kimberly. I cannot believe you're asking me that."

"I'm sorry, Heather. I'm sorry . . . it's just . . . I can hear the ice in the-"

"And you a.s.sume I'm drinking?"

"Heather . . ."

"No, Kimberly. You've gone too far. Who do you think you are, calling me with all your love talk and then accusing me of drinking? Who do you think I am, for that matter?"

"I-"

"You think that just because you've suddenly found your great love, you can call me-who is losing hers-and just grill me like a raw steak?"

"What?"

"Obviously I cannot talk with you anymore," she said.

The line went dead.

I stared at my cell phone with an open mouth. I started to call my father, then changed my mind. Instead, I called Anise's floral shop, hoping she would answer.

She did.

"Oh, Kimberly," she said, almost breathless.

"Is this a bad time?"

"A little. We have-and don't laugh when I say this-three weddings and a funeral."

"Do you mean four? Four weddings and a funeral?"

"Oh heavens, no. I don't think I could survive if I had four."

"I can call you back . . ."

"Is it something important? Hold on . . . Melodie, I need more white roses . . . White . . . No, sweetie, not pink. White." She laughed lightly. "Those are pink, Melodie . . . well, sweetheart, turn on a light." She exhaled a slow sigh. "Okay, Kim."

"You asked if it was important. And it is . . . but you are clearly busy."

"What's it about?"

"I'm worried about Heather."

"Your father is nearly beside himself. He thinks Andre is having an affair; I guess he told you that."

"No. He won't tell me anything."

"But I think he's way off base. I think . . . hold on. Melodie, if that's all the baby's breath you can find, then we're in so much trouble. Please tell me otherwise . . . Oh, good. Fantastic, dear."

"Anise, I'll call you later. You're busy and I hear Max's nails on the floor near the door."

"I'm sorry, Kim."

"It's okay. Let's talk later."

When I opened the door to let Max out, he shot down the stairs as though he hadn't been outside all day. I stepped out on the landing and watched him dart next door. Apparently he hadn't needed a patch of gra.s.s; he wanted to play with his new best friend.

Which reminded me . . . Patsy.

I headed down the steps and crossed the lawns between our houses. I knocked on Patsy's door and ran my hands down my arms. In the short period of time I'd been outside, my skin had become clammy. I looked up at the sky; the sun was directly overhead and blazing hot.

The door cracked open. I peered between the frame and the door to see Patsy, clearly just out of bed.

"I'm not feeling so well this morning, honey."

"You don't look so well, either." I put my hand on the doork.n.o.b. "May I come in?"

She stepped back. "Oh, I hate for you to see me looking like this." She ran a gnarled yet delicate hand over the crown of her head. "I clearly do."

She wore a pair of checked cotton poplin pajamas that made her look all of eighty-five pounds. Her white hair was braided down both sides of her head, which made her look like an elderly Laura Ingalls Wilder. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes swollen. She hacked as soon as I shut the door. My mothering instincts took over. "Oh, Patsy," I said. "You need a doctor."

Patsy turned and walked toward the back of the house. "Oh, pshaw. All I need is to rest, honey. It's not like this is my first summer cold. Good Lord willing, it won't be my last."

I followed Patsy into her bedroom-a room I'd never seen before, a room unlike the others in the house. The others were an eclectic blend of beachfront decor meets English countryside estate. This room was only the latter. The walls had been painted brick red. Cotton floral drapes of white, rose, and green matched the four-poster bed's comforter. The bed sat on the far side of the room. Overhead hung a large, matted black and white photograph of Patsy and her husband on their wedding day. Next to the bed, a matching nightstand was laden by an oversized lamp and a short stack of books.

My eyes took in the t.i.tles. My Utmost for His Highest, the current year's Daily Guideposts Devotional, and a thick, white-leather Bible with a tattered cover and pages dislodged from the spine. I couldn't help but think that G.o.d must find this the most beautiful book of all-his Word read so many times, it looked abused.

I had my own Bible, of course. Slim-lined. Pink. I read from it when I was studying the week's Sunday school lesson, when I needed guidance, and during church services. I rarely picked it up just to read. Something told me Patsy did. Something told me that, for her, this was more than just "another book." For a fleeting second the thought that I wanted to know more about her-that I wanted to emulate her even-swept over me.

The stooped-over woman inched her way toward the bed with its tousled bedcovers. I held them back, then straightened them over and around her after she'd gotten into the bed. Heat radiated from her tiny frame. "Oh, Patsy," I said, pressing my palm against her wrinkled forehead. "You are burning up with a fever."

"I'll be fine."

"Have you taken anything?"

"During the night. I took some of that Nyquil I have in the bathroom over there." She pointed toward the master bath. "Helps me to sleep."

I looked toward the bathroom and then back to Patsy. Her eyes were closed, the lids nearly transparent. Lying on her back had caused some of the wrinkles on her face to fall away, and I could see the young beauty she had once been. I glanced up at the photograph again and wondered briefly what I would look like when the totality of my youth had given way to the final years of my life.

Right now, I thought, I was vainly seeking the sunrise-those earlier years spent in Cedar Key when summers were carefree and filled with flirtatious love-while this woman was gazing toward sunset. I patted her hand.

"Just rest," I whispered.

I went into the living room, pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my Capri shorts, and called my father.

"Did you take her temp?" he asked me. "Any vitals?"

"No. But she's pretty hot, Dad. She says it's just a summer cold, but she's been coughing a lot and with her age . . ."

"The nearest doctor is going to be in Chiefland. Let me see if I can make some calls."

"I can get her there if necessary. I can have her there in no time."

"You're a good neighbor," he said. "And a good daughter."

My shoulders squared. I said good-bye, hung up the phone, set the ringtone to vibrate, and returned to Patsy, who slept. I noticed a small cus.h.i.+oned chair near a window and sat on the edge of it. Within seconds my cell vibrated in my hand. Without looking at the caller ID, I bound from the chair and exited the room.

"Dad?"

"No. Steven."

"Steven." I filled him in on Patsy's condition and told him Dad was making some calls to physicians in Chiefland.

"Hmm," he said. "It's Sat.u.r.day, so medical offices won't be open. We could get her to one of the walk-in clinics there. They're open seven days a week."

"Just tell me where," I said.

"No, no. I'll drive you."

"Don't you have to work?"

"I'll figure it out."

I returned to the bedroom to observe Patsy, to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Every so often she coughed as though her chest had been tickled, but she never stirred enough to wake. I noticed a few discarded tissues on the floor, picked them up, and dropped them into the wastebasket in the bathroom. While there, I picked up the Nyquil bottle on the vanity and studied the label.

The expiration date glared at me. It was over a year out of date.

I looked back at the tiny sleeping form on the bed before returning to the living room to call Dad again. Just as I pressed the speed dial number for him, I heard a light knock at the door. I placed the phone on an end table before answering the door.