that.” She shook her head, rippling her blond locks and making her eyeballs roll with pain so that she clasped the bandage beneath her hair gingerly.
“Look,” he said, tiring of the game, the situation and the whole endless day. “I know about the brain tumor. We did a non-contrast CT while you were unconscious. It’s standard proce—”
She all but leaped out of the car. It was nearly dark and the middle of January, but the fool woman actually got out of the car and headed off as if she had someplace to go.
“Eva!”
“Thanks, Doc. I’ve had fun. So long, now.”
“Eva Belle Russell,” he hollered, at the end of his tether, “you get back in this car!”
She walked off toward the grocery store. Grinding his teeth, Brooks got out and went after her.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Where it’s warm.”
“You can’t sleep in the grocery store.”
She swirled in a circle, her scarves whirling around her, but she kept walking. “I’ll have you know that I once slept all night in a lawn chair. I’ll be fine.”
“The grocery store closes at ten.”
She lifted both hands. “You must have a homeless shelter around here somewhere.”
They did, but they wouldn’t take her with that bandage on the back of her head. She might sneak it past them, but he doubted it. Besides, she belonged in a hospital, at least until he knew exactly with what she was dealing.
“Have you ever spent the night in a homeless shelter?” he demanded, stopping in his tracks.
She stopped, too, and turned to face him. “I’m not going back to the hospital.”
“Do you even know what type of tumor it is?”
“Oligodendroglioma.”
Not good, but not necessarily fatal, and he noted that the medical term rolled off her tongue with the ease of familiarity.
“Temporal, obviously,” he noted to himself. “Grade?”
“Three.”
“For sure?”
“Sure enough.”
“Anaplastic?”
“I haven’t had a biopsy, but it’s assumed.”
“Other than the language issues, which are transient, and some impulse control, are you having any other symptoms? Seizures, perhaps?”
She shrugged.
Exasperated, he demanded, “How can you not know if you’re having seizures?”
She parked her hands at her waist. “Well, I haven’t exactly been eating regularly, as you’ve pointed out.”
The anger caught him entirely off guard. “In other words, you don’t know if you’ve been getting dizzy and passing out from hunger or from seizures?” She shrugged again, and it was all he could do not to shake her by her too slender shoulders. “You belong in a hospital.”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” she stated flatly. Then she added in a silly singsong, “and you can’t make me.” She actually stuck out her tongue.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or tear out his hair, so he did neither, instead saying with admirable coolness, “I won’t dignify that with a reply. Just tell me why you won’t go back to the hospital.”
She folded her arms. “I have my reasons. That’s all you need to know.”
He closed his eyes. God, why would You do this to me? But that didn’t really matter. He’d dealt with brain tumors before, quite a few of them. Besides, she was not his wife, and just because she was refusing treatment didn’t mean that her case was anything like Brigitte’s. He really had no choice about what to do with her, though.
“I’ll take you somewhere else.”
The thought had been hovering in the back of his mind since he’d realized her van was gone, but he knew that it would mean prolonged interaction with her, and he really didn’t want that. Yet, he was a doctor. He would do what he had to do to take care of her until she left his realm of influence.
“Where?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
He had to make himself say it. “I know some older ladies who routinely open their home to those in need of a place to stay. It’s a large, antebellum mansion called Chatam House, so there’s plenty of room.”
“Antebellum,” she echoed. “That means pre–Civil War.”
“Yes.”
Interest kindled in her mottled-green eyes. “Cool. But what makes you so sure I can crash there?”
“They’re very generous. I’ve never known them to turn away anyone. Besides, they’re family friends.”
She tilted her head. “You’d do that for me? Ask family friends to take me in?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve asked the Chatam sisters to take in a pa—er—person.”
“No? What other patients have you asked these sisters to take in?” she asked, grinning at him.
Brooks looked her straight in the eye. “You know I cannot tell you that.” Though the Chatam sisters probably would. One of the patients had married their niece Kaylie. Morgan’s wife, Lyla Simone—whom he should have been sitting with at the dinner table just then—had been another.
Eva grinned and swayed toward him, scarves wafting, long pale hair glimmering. Even knowing about her medical and financial troubles, he had to admit that he’d never seen a more exotic, graceful, breathtaking sight. He prayed that she would refuse so he could wash his hands of her.
She did not.
“Okay. I guess I can stand a little antebellum mansion. Just until I can figure out what to do next.”
He gulped, disappointed and strangely, horrifyingly pleased. “Let’s say at least until your stitches come out, shall we?” he suggested, catching her by the arm as she made to walk past him.
After a moment more of consideration, she agreed. “That ought to do it.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
At least she didn’t give her word lightly; she actually thought it over before nodding. “You have my word.”
“Let’s go, then.” He walked her to the car, without releasing her arm, and handed her down into it.
“What about my things? My van
