In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [7]
Oh, what he would give to hear her call him honey one more time. Even “hon” would do.
She lived at 139 Ascot Street, Santa Monica, California, in an old craftsman-style Victorian cottage on a leafy side street, a place so small that when he first saw it, it had reminded him of his own birthplace, a two-room cabin in the foothills of the Great Smokies.
“Hi, Zel,” he would say on the phone from New York. “How’s my girl today?”
“Busy,” she might snap. “It’s suppertime here, and I’m just giving Riley her grits.”
He laughed, imagining her with the phone tucked into her shoulder as she juggled pots and pans on the stove. Of course, she wasn’t fixing grits. And a cook Zelda was not. Nevertheless, she insisted on giving Riley a home-cooked meal, including fresh vegetables, every night.
And she kept Sundays free only for Riley. Even he had not been included. Riley’s day was Riley’s, to do whatever she wanted. Which usually meant homemade buttermilk pancakes for breakfast while still in their PJs, then rollerblading on the Venice boardwalk, afterward catching a bite of lunch and maybe a movie. Then supper somewhere later, to which he had been privileged to be invited several times by Riley herself.
What a kid she was. Had he ever been lucky enough to have one of his own, he would have wanted her to be like Riley, with her mop of copper-red curls, her big brown eyes just like her mom’s, and that engaging gap-toothed smile. He’d even mentioned to her that it might be a mistake to grow new teeth, it was so cute just the way it was.
“Thanks a lot,” she had replied, whistling slightly through the gap as she spoke, “but I don’t think I’d be a very good kisser without my front teeth.”
“Kissing? What kissing?” Zelda had been so outraged at the idea, Ed and Riley had laughed at her.
Good times, he thought. Those were such good times. What a pity he hadn’t written them down. Then he thought, Listen, buddy, make the most of this day. This may be all there is.
He shifted restlessly in the narrow bed, heard the nurse’s soft rubber-soled footsteps, felt her cool fingers on his wrist as she took his pulse. He heard her say, “Good evening, Dr. Jacobs.” Then his friend and doctor replied, “How’s our patient, Nurse?”
“Much the same, sir. Though he has been a little restless.”
“How’re you doin’, Ed?”
Art Jacobs bent over him. Ed could smell his cologne, guessed he’d been out to dinner and was wearing his usual smart Italian suit. Art was a fashion plate in the medical world, had all the nurses running after him, which was how he’d met his wife. A good guy. One of the best, and a dedicated medic. He wanted so badly to see him, tell him hi, one last time. . . .
No. It couldn’t be the last time. He had to get out of here. Zelda was in danger, they would kill her too—and Riley. He had to find Zelda. Protect them. . . .
Dr. Jacobs straightened up. He patted his old friend’s arm. “Doing good, old buddy,” he said. “It’s all you can expect with wounds like yours.” He took a step back, startled, as Ed’s eyes flew open. They stared maniacally into his.
Dr. Jacobs leaned over him again. “What is it, Ed? I can tell you need to say something. Look, if I put pressure here, on the tube in your throat, you can speak. Try to tell me, buddy. Tell us who did this to you.”
“Zelda.” Ed’s voice was a throaty gurgle.
“Zelda did it? Zelda who?” Art kept his finger on the tracheotomy tube, but it was no good.
Ed groaned in frustration and despair as he felt himself retreating again. Oh, God, not the tunnel. Not now. It was almost funny—when he wanted to leave this world, he couldn’t. When he didn’t want to, it seemed they came looking for him. Dammit, he wasn’t going down that tunnel now, though he could