his relationship with Becca seemed strained, he still had what was most important—his health and family. But his bleak expression made her wonder.
Perhaps he didn’t have everything after all.
* * *
ELI FORCED HIS eyes away from Ms. Christie Bates as everyone in the group took turns recounting their week. He knew his staring bordered on rude, but something about her fascinated the photographer in him.
She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. Her nose had a slight upward tilt that spoiled its classic lines. Her green eyes, his favorite color, were set too deep, the dark circles under them belying her carefree attitude. Her forehead was a finger’s breadth too high and her delicate, pointed chin reminded him of old-time movie stars, not modern-day bombshells. Her hair, a shimmering auburn waterfall, would meet the fashion industry’s standards, though.
Despite the imperfections, or perhaps because of them, her face captivated him. Even the splatter of freckles across her nose made him long for his Nikon, something he hadn’t picked up since— He forced his mind away from that memory. It was one he wanted buried, cremated, even.
He peeked at Christie once more and met her jewel-toned eyes. Busted. But the quick glance confirmed his instincts. All her flaws added up to an arresting face. It was a shame her personality was so over the top. All that phony stuff about cancer making you stronger, giving people false hope. It bordered on criminal. He hated to call her out on it, but these people needed to know the truth, to be prepared.
“Elizabeth, that is a lovely scarf. Is it new?” he heard her ask the woman beside her. Her soft voice had a unique, musical lilt. Where had he heard that accent before?
The woman lowered the silk paisley covering her tracheotomy and reminded Christie she had bought the scarf for her last Christmas. Christie laughed, her bowed lips curling. He dragged his gaze away and bolted down a cup of lukewarm juice. Why was this woman getting under his skin?
“Well, then, that was grand of me, wasn’t it?” Christie asked.
His mind clicked. Irish. The accent was subtle, as though she’d grown up around people from the old country. No wonder she bought into all that hope and faith stuff. Maybe she believed in rainbows with pots of gold, as well.
Her white teeth flashed at a man with an oxygen tube. “That’s wonderful,” she responded to something he’d said. “You’ve nearly doubled your white-blood-cell count.”
Eli glanced at the clock, glad to see that there were only twenty minutes left. With any luck, they’d get a cab and be home in plenty of time to relieve Mary. She’d been a loyal friend and employee through these difficult three years.
No matter how much John nagged him to go to the White Horse Tavern, he’d be home by eight. Mary had been telling him for the past two weeks that she and her husband had reservations at one of Manhattan’s best restaurants to celebrate their anniversary.
“And, John, I’ve noticed you’ve got some new equipment. How is that going?” asked Christie. Eli glanced down at his buddy. John’s head rested sideways and back against the chair, his eyes closed. That figured. John dragged him to this meeting, made him promise not to leave—as if he would—and then fell asleep.
Christie rushed toward them, her face creased in concern. She grabbed John’s wrist and held up her watch, checking his pulse with a medical professional’s efficiency.
“Someone get Anne,” she called, all business. “Everyone else, stay seated.”
Eli dashed out into the hall, his heart thudding. Why had he assumed John was sleeping?
He skidded to a stop before a woman whose desk nameplate read Anne Cartwright.
“Come quick,” he urged. “Christie needs you.”
Despite his long strides, the diminutive woman kept up with him.
“John. Blink if you can hear me,” Christie was saying when they returned. “Good. Now, can you squeeze my hand? No. Okay. Don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed up, good as new.” She looked relieved at Anne’s appearance.
“Anne, call 911. Tell them we have an ependymoma patient who’s had an arrhythmia-induced stroke that’s affected the left half of his body and speech. He’s conscious but in atrial fibrillation.”
Anne rushed off, phone already in hand. She stopped at Christie’s next words.
“Where is the center’s AED Unit?”
After spending hours in medical clinics, Eli knew these were machines that used electricity to jump-start failing hearts.
Anne whirled, her face ashen.
“It’s down the hall near the gym.” Her voice was a notch above a whisper. She turned back to her call for the EMTs and hurried out of the room.
“Mr. Roberts,” she began, but he cut her off.
“Got it.” Eli bolted for the door. After scouting the hall, he spotted a couple of guys leaving what looked like the gym and raced that way. In a locked cabinet marked AED he saw a gray plastic box. But where was the key?
“Hey,” Anne called from down the hall, the phone pressed to her ear. She threw a set of keys to him. His hands shook as he tried three before finding the right one.
Back in the meeting room, he passed the AED to Christie. She thanked him with a faint smile before turning her attention back to his friend. Who was this capable, take-charge woman?
“Would you lift him to the floor?”
Eli scooped John from the chair and laid him down, sliding his jacket beneath his friend’s head. Christie pulled up John’s shirt and pressed two adhesive pads to his chest while the rest of the support group sat in a worried huddle. An automatic voice rang out that it was assessing the patient. Eli’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.
After a moment, the voice warned all to stand clear; a shock was advised. Christie pressed an orange button and stepped back, her eyes meeting Eli’s. Her calm expression slowed his racing pulse. Clearly, she knew what she was doing.
A jolt shuddered through John and his lids fluttered open. “Wharrrr—” he slurred.
She smoothed John’s glistening forehead then pressed her fingers to the base of his throat. Behind them, seats shifted and creaked as the group strained to see what was happening.
“Is he going to be okay?” someone whispered.
“John, stay with me. The ambulance will be here any minute,” she said, but John’s eyes closed once more.
“No!” Eli burst out. This was not happening.
She took her fingers off John’s neck. “No pulse. Starting chest compressions,” she announced to no one in particular. “The AED needs two minutes to recharge.”
He scrambled over to John’s other side and grabbed his friend’s limp hand. Hang on, buddy, he pleaded silently. You can do this.
Christie began rhythmically pressing John’s chest. “Is he breathing?”
Eli
