and, with a whoosh that tickled her insides, she landed gently on her feet. Still dazed, she thought it awfully convenient that Heaven’s volunteer firemen had such great timing. She shifted onto her back to smile and say thanks when she saw that fireworks designer looking at her like she had looked at him in the canyon. Questions.
“You!” With the single word, the scrapes on her forehead and chin widened and began to sting.
“I did yell. I knew it was you.” His grin looked satisfied. “I remember your backside—er, the back of you from last night.” He gestured at the field. “You were just about to walk right through my rocket landing zone.”
Snorts and giggles greeted that comment and looking further, Emma saw the crowd of teens watching the show.
“Your landing zone? Of all the irresponsible—” Now she noticed the orange cones with the yellow caution tape fluttering in the warm breeze, the ends tugged free from their moorings. Great. It wasn’t even his fault.
Thinking about her grandmother, she’d wandered into no man’s land.
Trouble pulled on the leash. He wanted attention from the crowd. She wanted to say much more, but the dirt in her nose was making it hard to breathe. She wanted it out. With this audience, how was she going to do that?
Sparks faced the crowd and yelled for a tissue and after a pause, a young man parted the crowd and handed her a wrinkled packet of tissues. “Allergies,” he whispered.
She grabbed a tissue, muttered her thanks and blew her nose hard. A quick check of her watch told her she’d now have to speed those ninety minutes to reach her grandmother.
She sensed him before he touched her shoulders. His large hands were warm and reassuring. He was such a...such a...problem.
“Let me make it up to you,” he said. He tugged her toward him so that she could see him, a crooked smile in a sun-reddened face, and a shock of too-perfect hair falling over his wide, tanned forehead. “I’m really sorry. Uh...how ’bout going for food?” Blue eyes stared into hers. More questions lingered in their depths. What?
Emma straightened. She needed distance from this man whose gaze gathered her close. Too close. “Man moratorium! Irresponsible— Undependable— I—I have an urgent appointment!” Her voice, intended to be strong and off-putting, wobbled and squeaked.
His eyes widened. “Appointment? Oh, I...uh...” He instantly released her and fled across the field, scattering students in his wake, who looked disappointed that the show was over.
Never in her wildest expectations had she anticipated how good a defense this man moratorium would be. It was a little sad, actually.
NAOMI STARED AGHAST at her granddaughter as she blew into the hospital room—late, mind you—to join her, Chet and the neurologist. The child had bits of yellowed grass in her hair along with streaks of dirt on her face, hands and T-shirt. A couple of the facial and knee scrapes were oozing blood. What on earth had Emma been doing?
Soon, Chet, Emma and the doctor, who looked young enough to be one of Emma’s students, were watching her eat as if she was some freak exhibit at the state fair. What she would give for a Dew Drop kitchen-sink omelet, hash browns with cheese and a strong cup of coffee, heavy on the cream.
Since the tubes in her nose didn’t help the eating process any with what passed for food here, she pushed at the tray. Emma pulled the rolling table away from the bed.
“Are you in pain, Nomi?” Emma’s brows furrowed, perplexed most likely at Naomi’s swift change of expression.
No, dear, she wanted to say, that had been a smile on my face at seeing you here in town, where you belong. Drat it. Would the girl never pick up on one of her cues? She sighed.
The girl probably didn’t understand she was talking about either the dog or Sparks last night.
Though seeing Emma here now set some of Naomi’s world to rights. Getting on with the Jamboree would stabilize everything. Now, what she needed most was for that charming young man to arrive, so Naomi could let them know how it was going to be for the summer. Then she could work on getting out of this terrible place and supervise the rest of the event details from home. Home.
Chet put an arm around her shoulders. “Relax, Naomi. You have to depend on others this year.”
How did he read her mind, and more important, had he also lost his? Who did he think could pull off the town’s biggest moneymaking opportunity, especially this year when the event was do or die? She turned her head so she could see her granddaughter full-on. Only Emma could be trusted with organizing the Jamboree, and then, only with Naomi’s assistance.
Emma understood tradition, or at least had, until the two of them had had a misunderstanding at Raymond’s funeral. Emma had made too much of it.
“I’ve seen worse strokes,” the neurologist was saying to Emma, as though discussing cuts of meat. He lounged against the bathroom doorway, one hand resting on the monitor, the other loosely in his pants’ pocket. Naomi thought his bedside manner needed work. After several more minutes of being treated as though she was invisible, Naomi struggled to get words out, ignoring Chet’s pressure on her shoulders. “You can t-t-talk to me, d-doctor. I—I’m not dead.”
The doctor’s face reddened and he shifted over to face Naomi. “The stroke has affected you a great deal, Mrs. Chambers. Due to the trauma to your left side, you’ll need six to eight weeks in a rehabilitation center to regain the use of your hand and increase stability. Therapy’s essential.” He slipped the stethoscope from around his neck and checked his watch.
Naomi wanted to snort, but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. She’d never neglected a thing in her life. Except—the sting of the secret burned—neglecting that one thing Emma needed to know.
“She’ll recover completely, though, won’t she?” Chet asked.
She wanted to cheer; someone was finally asking a decent question. The next one should be, “When can she be discharged?”
Emma was chewing on her little finger like she always did when thinking deeply. Naomi had never broken her of the habit.
The doctor glanced at the time again.
Straightening, Emma tugged at the hems of her scruffy shorts. She looked at Naomi, and then at the physician. “She’ll get there,” she answered, determination clear in her voice.
Naomi cocked her head. She’d been racking her brain to think of a way to get Emma to come home and give up the silly trip Raymond was always encouraging her to take. Had something good come out of this horrendous event?
The doctor nodded. “She’ll be ready to go, most likely, in a day or two.” He typed in notes on his tablet. “I’m writing orders for eight weeks’ on-site physical and occupational therapy at an extended-care facility. Garden Terrace is good.”
An old folks’ home? Naomi about lifted straight off the sheets. If any of them thought she was going to an old folks’ home, they had beets for brains.
Where was Sparks?
What
