All She Ever Wanted - Barbara Freethy [61]
"Give me some credit. I have matured a little in the past ten years."
"I think I'll reserve judgment," she said as they walked out of the bookstore and back to their rental car.
As he unlocked her door, he said, "I'll drive. You tell me where to go."
She smiled. "I've already told you where to go— a number of times. But you're still here."
"Very funny. You know, if you're not careful, you may actually develop a sense of humor in your old age."
Natalie felt every year of her age as Cole drove down the streets of her youth. In some ways it seemed like yesterday since she'd been home. In other ways, it felt as if a lifetime had passed. With each turn, they drew closer to the house where she'd spent her early childhood. She didn't know why she'd directed him to go there. Maybe because it was so far removed from her life it was easier to look at. The one-story, ranch-style home sat at the end of a cul-de-sac in a modest neighborhood in North Hollywood, the kind of street where young families settled. It was the picture of suburbia with bikes in driveways, toys on lawns, and the sound of a barking dog.
"This is where you grew up?" Cole asked with surprise. "I thought you lived in an apartment building."
"This was my first house—where we lived when my dad was alive. It's smaller than I remember."
"Most things are." Cole stopped in front of the house. "When did you move out of this place?"
"When I was eight. About six weeks after my father died. We couldn't stay here. We didn't have enough money. There was no life insurance. My dad was thirty-six years old. He hadn't anticipated dying of a heart attack, so he hadn't prepared."
"That's understandable."
"I guess." She stared at the house, imagining the rooms inside, the green tile on the kitchen floor, the recliner in the living room, the old TV where the cat liked to nap, the small bedroom where she'd had her own twin bed, her own posters, her own things. They hadn't been rich, not even when her father had been alive, but they'd had enough.
"What are you seeing?" Cole asked quietly.
"My mom and dad sitting at the dining-room table, talking, laughing." She offered him a sad, wistful smile. "They loved to sit after a meal. I'd bring my homework to the table. I liked being around them, hearing them talk, even when they would bicker with each other. I could hear the love in their voices. It was powerful."
"I didn't think you remembered anything good about your childhood."
"I didn't think I did, either," she said, surprised at herself. "For a long time I only had one image in my head, the night my father died. My mother and I were sitting on the couch in the living room, watching television. My dad came into the room and started to say something to my mom about the credit card bill. I remember being worried, because I knew mom spent more than dad wanted her to. Mom said I needed the clothes, and I felt so guilty when she said that." She paused, remembering that moment in vivid detail. "Dad looked like he was going to argue; then his eyes got wide and scared, as if something had just jumped out of the closet at him. He put a hand to his chest, then fell to the floor. My mom screamed. She just sat there and screamed. I ran over to him and tried to shake him, but he stared back at me without blinking. His eyes were so big. They said he died instantly, but I couldn't tell, not with the way he was looking at me ..." Her voice broke at the memory, and it took her a moment to catch her breath.
"I thought he was begging for my help," she said, lifting her gaze to meet Cole's. She saw compassion and understanding in his eyes and felt a trust that she hadn't felt in a long time. She hadn't told anyone about that night—ever. For some reason she wanted to tell Cole now. "I didn't know what to do. My mother couldn't seem to move. She just kept crying. I felt so helpless, and I was angry with her for not helping him." Natalie wiped the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. "I think that's when I first knew I wanted to be a doctor. I didn't want to ever feel that