Back in Kansas Page 16

  She sighed and squinted, trying to make him out. He’d escorted his mother downstairs from the eleventh floor where his father remained in intensive care. Although Ruth had protested that she was perfectly capable of obtaining a taxi without his help, Bo had insisted. Claudie had tagged along without being asked.

  Talk about a fifth wheel. She rubbed a spot on her forehead trying to alleviate the ache. Hanging around a hospital would have been difficult enough even if Bo was acting normal, but Claudie barely recognized the man she’d joked with on the airplane just days earlier. Ever since he’d learned that his father’s medical emergency wasn’t a heart attack at all but a concussion from a fall he’d taken while in-line skating, Bo had turned inward—as rigid and unapproachable as the urban towers that surrounded her.

  Claudie opened her purse and took out a bottle of water. She wanted to help, but Bo wouldn’t let her in. If he’d just talk to me—tell me what he’s feeling… she thought, jumping aside as two men in blue jumpsuits hurried past. She took a gulp of water and replaced the bottle in her bag.

  A moment later, Bo appeared—his shaggy, uncombed mop wet with snowflakes. His haggard appearance made her ache to comfort him, but his somber demeanor didn’t invite closeness.

  Claudie scooted sideways. The bleak but determined look in his eyes made her uneasy.

  “I need a magazine before we head upstairs.” She pivoted and walked to the gift shop counter.

  Bo followed. He stood close enough for her pick up his scent—coffee, a hint of fresh air and that familiar, comforting essence that was pure Bo. “Claudie, we need to talk,” he said, his tone serious.

  She blindly grabbed a People magazine and dug in her purse for money. Bo slapped down a five-dollar bill and took her elbow. “Now.”

  If anyone else had acted that bossy she’d have leveled the guy, but Claudie sensed the depths of Bo’s frustration. She shoved the magazine in her purse. “Do you want to sit in the lobby or go outside?”

  “Not down here. It’s a madhouse,” he said, his tone flat. His fingers tensed on her elbow. The contact felt good even though she wasn’t certain what he wanted from her.

  “Upstairs, then,” she suggested. This giant city within a city fascinated her as much as it repelled her. Certain gross smells could ambush without warning. Loud noises were prone to explode in any direction. Pathos seemed to outweigh hope.

  Bo ushered her toward the bank of elevators. Moments later they stepped into the medicinal-smelling chrome box. Side by side they squeezed into the closest corner. Bo pushed the appropriate button.

  The elevator shimmied and Bo’s shoulder brushed hers. Claudie tensed.

  “Most muggers stay out on the street,” he said—a faint touch of the old Bo in his voice.

  Confused, Claudie glanced at him. His eyebrows wiggled and he nodded toward her hands. White knuckles gripped her pocketbook. She loosened her grip but kept her chin down to keep Bo from seeing her embarrassment. Never had she felt more like a hick from Kansas.

  “This can’t be much fun for you,” Bo said. His voice was low to avoid being overheard by the other occupants.

  “I didn’t come here for fun.”

  “Why did you come, Claudie?”

  Claudie’s distress level rose. She wasn’t sure she could answer that in the time it took to ascend eleven floors. “Payback,” she mumbled, refusing to meet his gaze.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She inched closer to the wall, taking care not to bump the bandaged foot of the man in the wheelchair behind her. Bo moved, too. His arm brushed against hers, and Claudie had to fight not to react. She no longer loathed touching—especially Bo’s touch—but she didn’t trust herself not to wrap her arms around him and try to pretend this medicinal-smelling world didn’t exist.

  “You were there for me in Kansas. This is my chance to pay you back,” she said softly.

  His harsh curse was uttered under his breath. “You don’t owe me anything, Claudie.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. She had too much to say—and too little—to get into it here. She changed the subject. “Matt told me Ashley’s overbite is going to cost three thousand dollars. Apparently, that’s cheap. His ex-wife’s husband’s cousin is an orthodontist, so they get a family discount.”

  Bo stuffed his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled Dockers and eyed her as if she’d just changed colors. Her cheeks warmed under his scrutiny, but she continued, “And he’s spoken to Mrs. Kriegen several times. You’ll be glad to know she’s decided he’s not the anti-Christ out to usurp your business.”

  A flicker of emotion touched his lips. Encouraged, Claudie said, “It sounds like the business is running pretty smoothly without you, but Matt said things could get hairy if you don’t get back to work soon.”

  Bo shrugged with a carelessness she knew he didn’t feel.

  Claudie also knew she was to blame for Bo losing a week away from his business. “It’s my fault, Bo. That time you spent chasing after me—”

  He didn’t let her finish. “Don’t.” His voice was unusually stiff and stern. Businesslike. “Matt just got a call from an old friend in the D.A.’s office. They’re throwing some work our way. A couple of the cases include some decent rewards. I’ll send a couple of my guys out here after the first of the year to work with Matt. That should keep us solvent.”

  The acrid twist he put on the last word made her flinch. “Bo, what’s going on?”

  He glanced at the display panel—two more floors. When the doors opened, Claudie started toward the waiting room, but Bo took her elbow and led her to one of the long narrow windows away from the nurses’ station.

  Feeling overcome with dread, Claudie pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Below her a panorama of white sparkled as fresh and pristine as a child’s snow globe. “Wow, that’s kinda pretty.”

  Behind her, she heard Bo’s droll, “Tourist.”

  It was the first glimpse in days of the Bo she knew—and possibly loved. She didn’t peek for fear he’d be gone—his bleak alter ego returned—so she stared outside. I wonder if it’s snowing in Niagara Falls?

  BO WATCHED the wind drive waves of fat white flakes against the window beyond Claudie. Gusts curled upward shaping a miniature drift along the building’s ledge. If he focused on the weather, he could almost block out the image of his father lying helpless and diminished in the room down the hall. Almost.

  “Has there been any change?” Claudie asked, not turning around.

  Her breath steamed up the window like a ghost track. Bo felt surrounded by ghosts. The only way to keep them at bay was to stoke the fire of his anger.

  “Nope. Whacking your head on a curb will do it every time. I know. Tangled with a few curbs myself. Although that was from drinking. Even I wasn’t dumb enough to go in-line skating without a helmet.” He snorted. “Wait. I forgot. This was a heart attack.”

  Bo flinched inwardly at his snide tone but found himself powerless to summon one iota of the compassion he’d initially felt when learning of his father’s hospitalization. He’d completely lost it when he arrived at the hospital and Trisha—his father’s girlfriend—told him the truth. Bogus headlines were one thing, lying to your son was another.

  “Trisha told me she lied to the media to protect your father’s image,” Claudie said softly.

  Bo pictured the five-eleven, model-thin blonde. At least she was thirty, not nineteen as he’d first pictured, and she worked for a public relations firm, but that did little to ease Bo’s prejudice. Tricia was the first lover his father had publicly acknowledged by moving into her condo. Did she mean more to him than the others before her? Bo didn’t want to know. He didn’t care.

  “What kind of woman takes a sixty-eight-year-old man in-line skating?” he muttered. “I can’t believe I fell for it. I should have known better—after all, you need a heart to have a heart attack.”

  Claudie turned sharply. Her brow was wrinkled with concern. “I don’t think he did it
on purpose, Bo.”

  Her mild censure annoyed him. She was supposed to be on his side. “Yes, he did. He waited until I fell in love to take up in-line skating and screw up—”

  She interrupted. “What do you mean? What’s screwed up? Isn’t that why you followed me to Kansas? Isn’t that why I’m here? Because we—we’re there for each other.”

  Her reluctance to name her feelings infuriated him. Bo knew he was being childish and irrational, but he couldn’t help it. And anger helped justify his decision. “Speaking of being here…I think you should go home. The doctors won’t say when—or if—Dad will come out of this coma. I can’t leave Mom to deal with this alone, but it’s ridiculous for you to hang around.”

  Her sweet lips pursed in a frown. “I don’t mind, Bo. I mean, it would be a little easier if I had a feeling you wanted me here, but—”

  “That’s just it, Claudie. I don’t want you here. I have too much on my mind to deal with your needs, too.”

  Her eyes grew wide—a flash of hurt evident before she righted her shoulders regally. “I’ll get my things and leave. My coat’s in the waiting room.” She turned away before Bo could move.

  He closed his eyes and leaned into the window. The glass sent a shiver through his body as if part of his soul had been ripped away. His stomach clenched at the shot of acid that hit full force. Frustration, anger and fear duked it out as he followed her down the hall.

  “I’ll take a taxi to your mother’s then call the airport to see about a flight,” Claudie said, not looking at him. She was seated, gathering her stuff—a paper cup, a crossword puzzle book, playing cards and several candy bar wrappers. “I hope this storm doesn’t get worse. They had to close the airport last week, remember?”

  Was that only a week ago? Bo thought, sinking into the chair beside her. How could he possibly have gone from the person tracking down the woman he loved to this empty, disconnected shell in so short a time?

  She reached for her parka—the one his mother had lent her to replace Claudie’s woefully inadequate West Coast jacket.

  “Wait.”

  Her hand hovered—trembling—above the jacket.

  Bo closed his eyes, suddenly drained. How had his life gotten so screwed up? “I’m sorry, Claudie. I know I’ve been a jerk.”

  He felt her hand on his forearm. His skin was clammy with sweat. Despite the chilly weather outside, the hospital kept the rooms just above boiling. “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” she said. “I know how to roll with the punches. I thought I could help, but it’s obvious I’m just in the way. No biggie.”

  He recognized that voice. It belonged to the woman he’d met six months ago—cool, contained, streetwise and world-weary, not the woman who had joked with him about going to Niagara Falls. He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Claudie, I don’t want you to leave.” The instant spark of hope in her eyes made his stomach turn over. “But it’s crazy for you to stay.”

  She shrank back as if struck.

  Turning in the chair to face her, he said, “I should never have let you come. This place is like the twilight zone of my life. I walk into my father’s room and leave me behind—the Sacramento me, the person I am when I’m with you. Gone. History.”

  Her obvious concern twisted his gut in a knot. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I take what she’s offering?

  She put her palm to his cheek. Her scent brought comfort at a primal level, but his brain rejected the succor. “Tell me what to do, Bo. Go or stay. It’s up to you.”

  A disturbance in the hall made him look away. Matt leaned in the doorway and motioned him to come. Bo shot to his feet. “Go.” Her shattered look made him hesitate. “No, stay.” As he hurried to the door, he called over his shoulder. “I don’t know. We’ll talk about it tonight.”

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Claudie stomped her boots on the inch-thick mat inside the door then unlaced them and set them to one side to dry. Her stockings were soaked from the ankle-deep slush she’d encountered on her walk from the subway. Dashing on damp tiptoes she sprinted across the glossy marble floor of the apartment’s foyer to the carpeted hallway then hurried to the guest bedroom where she’d spent two sleepless nights. Maybe a bath and a glass of wine would help, she thought. With any luck, she might even sleep.

  She grabbed her sweatpants and flannel nightshirt from her suitcase and walked to the bathroom across the hall from her room. A palace of topaz-veined marble—its pristine beauty was softened by two dozen wax pillars in various shades of lavender—all with blackened wicks. That lived-in look took the edge off the distress she’d felt when she saw for the first time the great disparity between her childhood and Bo’s.

  She turned the two golden handles of the jetted tub and went in search of a glass of wine. Two open reds waited at the discreet bar just inside the book-cluttered living room. Bo’s mother obviously indulged in her literary passion. Claudie checked the label on each bottle, selecting the one that looked the cheapest.

  Carrying her glass in one hand and a book on painted-lady architecture in the other, she returned to the bath. As she stripped, she studied the instrument panel on the side of the tub.

  With a sigh, she added a measure of luxuriant lavender-scented bath crystals to the water. After lighting six candles, she turned off the overhead light and slipped into the fragrant water. She took a sip of wine—rich and smooth—and closed her eyes. Slowly, the tension that had been building all day melted away.

  Fortunately, Bo’s father had pulled through his most recent medical crisis. Mr. Lester’s heart had stopped for several minutes before a team of doctors and nurses was able to revive him.

  Her confrontation with Bo that afternoon lingered. Suddenly Claudie knew what she was going to do. If the weather cooperated, she’d grab the first plane for home in the morning.

  Home. “Where is home?” Claudie muttered, polishing off her wine. Not Kansas—even though both Sherry and Garret made it clear she was always welcome there. Not Minnesota or Wyoming.

  She sighed, her breath sending a ripple across the water. Even though she’d reconnected the pieces of her past, Claudie felt more alone than ever. Home was with Bo, but he didn’t want her.

  BO FOLLOWED his nose. He wasn’t surprised to find Claudie in the kitchen—his mother had ordered him to go home and “have a nice bite to eat with Claudie,” but he hadn’t expected her to look quite so domestic.

  “Hi, there,” he said softly. She wheeled about, nearly spilling her wine. “Whatever you’re cooking smells good. Did you make enough for two?”

  She nodded, her eyes big. He didn’t blame her for being cautious after the way he treated her that afternoon.

  “Is your dad better?” Claudie asked, her tone somber.

  “Stable, but Irene said this afternoon’s crisis might be a precursor to other little episodes before his body eventually shuts down.”

  Her face showed profound sadness, and he knew it wasn’t for a man she’d never met. She’s here for me, Bo thought, and all I do is push her away. Am I as stupid and callous as my father? Am I?

  He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a can of soda. He’d face those questions when he got back to Sac—one identity crisis at a time.

  “What’s cookin’?”

  Stirring the pot on the gas range with the intensity of a witch from MacBeth, Claudie said, “Clam chowder. From a can, but I doctored it up.”

  Bo walked to the counter and pulled out a stool.

  Claudie filled a bowl at the stove and carried it to him. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth in concentration. The childlike mannerism hit him below the belt. Why was he acting like such an idiot? This was Claudie—the woman he loved.

  Once the bowl was safely in place, she looked at him and smiled. “Matt told me Thanksgiving is the busiest air travel holiday of all, so I’m thinking of leaving tomorrow if possible.”

  “When’s Thanksgiving?”

  “Thursday.”

  “No way.”

&nb
sp; She nodded toward the calendar.

  He ran a hand through his hair; it felt dry and coarse like a clown’s wig. The soup smelled inviting, but his mouth tasted as though he’d been on a three-day binge. He wanted a drink.

  Claudie filled her bowl and joined him at the counter. “Sara wants me there for Thanksgiving and we’ve got the dim sum fund-raiser the following week,” she said, taking the stool next to him.

  Sacramento seemed a million miles away. Another dimension.

  “What exactly is dim sum?” Bo asked, idly stirring his soup.

  Claudie made a face. “I’m not sure. Maya said the name means ‘little treasures.’ I guess it’s like won tons and egg rolls but more involved.”

  He swallowed a spoonful of soup. The heat loosened the knot in his chest. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “It’s keeping them out of trouble. And Babe’s soliciting—Rochell’s term—things for a charity auction. The girls got a big hoot out of that.”

  They ate in silence until Claudie asked, “Are you going back to the hospital tonight?”

  Bo shook his head. “Nope. Trisha’s going to be there.”

  He didn’t want to think about the woman or her place in his father’s life. Bo didn’t understand how his mother could tolerate the woman’s presence. Bo sure as hell couldn’t swallow it.

  He looked at Claudie. “How come your hair’s wet?”

  “I soaked in the tub.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “A luxury I won’t have once I get home.”

  She whispered the word. Love and home—stumbling stones in the road of life, he thought sourly.

  “This tastes great,” he said striving for sincerity.

  Her weak smile seemed as disingenuous as he felt.

  He pushed back his stool and stood up. “I think I’ll take a shower and go to bed,” he told her. “The storm’s getting worse, but Mom said she’d call if anything changes.”