The Cinderella Deal - Jennifer Crusie [58]
“That’s the fever. Go to sleep.”
“Yes, Linc.” She rolled over closer to him, to snuggle against his side.
He kissed her forehead. It felt as if it were on fire. “I’m sorry, poor baby,” he said.
By the next day Linc’s temperature was back to normal. Daisy’s rose to 102 and stayed there, and Linc called the doctor, frantic with worry.
“If it goes higher, we’ll hospitalize her,” Dr. Banks said. “But she should be able to ride this out.”
Hospitalize her.
He went upstairs and looked at her sweating in her sleep. Daisy in a hospital. He crawled in bed beside her and held her, and she sighed and snuggled closer, still asleep, and he put his cheek on her hair and was afraid.
People called for Daisy.
Chickie was distraught, but Linc absolutely refused to let her in the house. “It’s really contagious. She’d be frantic if she thought you might get it. You know how she feels about you.”
“Oh, Linc.” Chickie started to cry.
“I’ll call you when the fever’s gone,” he promised. “You can come over and try to keep her in bed then.” Chickie had to be content with that.
The kids were equally unhappy.
“Can’t we just stand in the yard and wave to her through the window?” Andrew asked.
“She wouldn’t recognize you. This is a bad fever. But I’ll tell her you’re all concerned. And I’ll call you as soon as the fever’s gone so you can all come back.”
“That’s really nice of you,” Andrew said. “I know you’re not crazy about having us all over there.”
Linc felt as if he’d been hit. He searched for something to say. “Actually, I miss having you around. There are no cookies, and you’ve all spoiled Jupiter so rotten that he expects attention all the time. I’ll call you the minute her fever breaks, trust me.”
Bill called. “I heard about Daisy. This is rotten timing. I just found out that the little jerk I’d saved the January show for has decided painting is no longer his life. When she wakes up, tell her she’s got that show if she wants it. Even if she doesn’t want it, actually. I’m in a bind here.”
“She wants it,” Linc said. “Go ahead, set it up. I’ll tell her as soon as she’s lucid again.”
Art came to the door, and Linc refused to let him in.
“Just let me see she’s all right.” Art’s face was drawn with worry.
Linc felt a spurt of anger and then Art’s obviously real concern got to him. At least he got to see her; Art wasn’t even going to get that. “Look, I can’t let you in. The doctor is worried about this getting out. I swear he comes to see her every day.”
“Take care of her.” Art looked at him with distrust.
“I am,” Linc said. “Believe me, I am.”
He’d tried to sleep in his own room the first night, but he was too worried about her, and when he finally crawled into her bed and held her close, she slept better, without moaning or tossing, so he convinced himself that it was better that he stay with her and hold her. In the few moments that she was lucid, she worried about him.
“You’re so pale,” she said weakly. “Are you eating?”
“Yes. Vegetable soup. Do you want some?”
But she’d eat only a little and then fall back into feverish dreams. Sometimes she’d cry out and then he’d hold her, wishing he knew what she was so afraid of so he could fix it. For the first time in his life, his schedule was completely disrupted and he was getting no work done, and he didn’t care. When at the end of the week her temperature finally dropped, he was so relieved he walked around the house smacking his hand against the doorframes.
Midway through the week of her flu, Daisy got up in the middle of the night and went into the studio to paint. She’d been dreaming of Linc and of painting, dreaming of how much she loved him and wanted him, and of how much she wanted to paint in big, passionate strokes, of all the things she couldn’t think about too much when she was healthy because she was afraid. The fever made her dizzy, but it also made her forget her fear, and she dragged one of the big canvases she’d stretched out of the corner and began to lay in charcoal lines for a portrait of Linc,