Читать книгу Picking Up the Pieces - Barbara Gale - Страница 11

The waiting room in Elmhurst Hospital was chilly and poorly lit, but Althea didn’t mind. She had her fur coat to warm her and hospital protocol to distract her. Waiting for an ambulance at the snowbound airport had been a major distraction of worry, too, but eventually it arrived to whisk them away. Then the paperwork, and all those questions for which she didn’t have answers. But as long as they were tending to Harry Bensen, wherever he was, having been swallowed up by the medical machine, she didn’t care what the admitting nurse wrote down.

How strange it had been to run into him. Of all people, didn’t one always say? Old lover, lost love. The set of his shoulders, the way he walked, the tilt of his head, the color of his hair. Had he honestly thought she could ever forget? A woman never forgot her first love. Never.

When finally she was allowed to see him, every inch of Harry’s torso was wired to various monitors, and an IV was dripping magical curatives into his arm. Although Althea was able to smile with some measure of relief, she couldn’t help noticing how frail he seemed, lying against the starched linen of the hospital bed, his lips white and chapped, the rest of him an alarming shade of yellow. Fighting an odd impulse to brush her lips across his brow, she instead allowed her fingers to skim his burning temple. Harry’s eyes fluttered at the featherlight touch.

“Hey soldier, how are you feeling?” she whispered.

Depleted by his illness, tremendously dehydrated, and dazed by the drugs dripping into his arm, Harry was grateful to feel a cool hand on his body. Barely able to open his eyes, his smile was tenuous as he fought the surge of happiness he felt when he saw who was standing by his bedside.

Althea leaned over him, her concern plain as she brushed his hair from his forehead. Obviously fighting, too, an ineffable sadness. “Oh, Harry, why didn’t you tell me how sick you were? No, don’t answer that,” she hushed him with a timid smile. “It was my fault, I had no idea, I should have noticed. Malaria. Who would have thought? You sure scared the heck out of me, back at the airport, collapsing like that without any warning.”

“Next time…I’ll send…a telegram.”

“I wish you would,” Althea admonished him tenderly, recalling her horror as Harry had slid to the cold ground, a ballet in slow motion. “Never mind. The doctors aren’t quite sure what you have but they’re pumping you up with antibiotics. Your blood count is high so they’re running a few tests, but they do promise you a full recovery. They said you have to take better care of yourself, though. No more trips to steamy climates, for one thing.”

“They…said so?”

“That and more, way more than I should know about your body,” she teased gently. “I think they assume I’m your wife.”

“You didn’t correct them?”

“The path of least resistance.” She thought he was smiling but couldn’t be sure, his lips were so cracked. It probably hurt to speak, it probably hurt for him to move anything, given his high fever.

“Hush now, I’ll do all the talking.” Gently she pressed a piece of ice to his parched mouth. With the lightest touch she bathed his face and hands with a wet washcloth, trying to cool him down. Eventually he seemed to be more comfortable. You poor guy, she thought, what on earth have you been doing to get to this point? I sure hope this is the worst you’re going to go through. But she knew that was wishful thinking; she hadn’t seen anyone this ill in ages.

Not wishing to disturb him, but unwilling to leave him alone, Althea sat by his side for an hour, until a nurse came to check on his IV. Although the nurse told her she could stay as long as she liked, Althea knew she still had to battle the snow and figured this was a good time to leave. Quietly she gathered her belongings.

“I think I’ll be getting home, now that he’s safely settled,” she whispered.

His head barely turning, Harry’s eyes flickered open when he heard the scrape of her chair.

“You’ll come back?” he begged hoarsely as he followed her with his eyes.

How could she refuse? Nodding, Althea pressed his hand gently, ignoring the wrench in her heart.

Once, long ago, when she’d had choices to make, Harry Bensen had been one of them. Leaving him behind had not been the high point of her life, and she would never fool herself that he forgave her. Looking down now at his ravaged body covered with wires, she knew all he wanted was a lifeline to the outside world. Glancing at the machines surrounding his bed, monitors attuned to his every heartbeat, an oxygen tank helping him to breathe, she could appreciate that. All right, then, she would give him what she could, and maybe—in the smallest way, of course—it would make up for what she had refused him in the past. Giving in to her impulse, she lowered her lips to kiss his brow and promised to return.

Dawn was breaking as Althea left the hospital. A path plowed by the maintenance crew enabled her to make her way to the express bus, the only vehicle big and heavy enough to dare the city streets after such a storm. Glittering with six inches of newly fallen snow, New York was a prism of beauty now that the sky had cleared, and as the bus lumbered into Manhattan, she was treated to the sight of a skyline that seemed just short of unearthly. Against the expanse of white snow that covered the buildings and floated on the river, a red-orange sun was creeping into the early-morning sky, painting the city with a Technicolor wand. For one brief moment, suspended as she was between her old life and new, Althea wondered if the sight was an omen. It pleased her to think it was.

The bus left her two blocks from her West Side co-op, but treading carefully, she managed to make her way home. It had been nearly a year since she had been back, but Broadway seemed the same. She dashed through the heavy brass doors of the lobby, hungry for its familiar warmth.

In the year she had been gone, its ornate vestibule remained unchanged. Heavy gold-framed mirrors still decorated the walls; the vestibule was still crowded with cabbage-rose sofas and fake greenery. Its familiarity was a comfort, and yet a strong sense of disquiet disturbed her as the doorman greeted her uncertainly. He was new and didn’t know who she was. He saw only a black woman rushing through the door, tracking snow into his immaculate lobby. Scrambling to his feet, he gave her a hesitant smile, but she noticed that, very tactfully, he blocked her path.

She watched as he assessed her. A black woman. That was mainly what he saw.

“Ma’am?”

Althea sent him a cool nod, his single word a question she refused to answer. Exhausted, her feet like icicles, and half sick with worry about Harry, she was not in a tolerant mood. Her eyes glacial slits, she could almost read his mind, as he tried to figure her out. Could she live there? She could be a visitor. Maybe a maid using the wrong entrance? No, not a maid, not wearing that fur coat. No, she was definitely not someone’s maid. She was too young and pretty, no, definitely not a maid. He stepped aside and let her pass. You never knew.

“I live here,” she said tersely as the elevator door closed on his red face.

Shaking with anger, Althea rode the elevator to her floor. The way the doorman had stopped her, stared at and assessed her had been humiliating. Having developed the technique of the cold stare to enormous success, she was not as vulnerable as she used to be, but the assessment was something that, although it happened from time to time, she could never get used to. It happened in stores, in restaurants, in so many countless places. When she stared back, she felt as if she was maintaining her dignity, but it didn’t make these confrontations any less painful, or the young man’s rudeness any less distressing.

Her distress was twofold. The forbidding silence of the apartment, after she found her keys and let herself in, felt symbolic of her life. She berated herself for being melodramatic, but the feeling would not leave. The silence of the future stretching out before her was a question mark that hovered in the air, not easily dismissed now that she was home. The faint, musty odor of disuse that greeted her, the hollow click of her heels on the cold tile floor were unnerving. She was glad to tug free of her ruined shoes and toss them in a corner, shrug off her coat and turn the thermostat to high.

Nothing had to be decided in a day, a week or even a month, she told herself, as she made her way from room to room, turning on the lights. The workaholic in her was making such unreasonable demands, she knew, as she switched on her bedroom light. Her favorite room, it was done up—unabashedly—in every shade of pink imaginable, lacy and feminine, hers alone. With its pale-pink quilt and featherbed, throw pillows scattered everywhere, a pile of books always at the ready on her night table. It was her safe haven. The custom-made makeup table with its fully lighted mirror made it her work space at the same time.

Plowing through one of the huge bedroom dressers, Althea searched for a favorite pair of cashmere socks she hoped were still buried beneath the pile of stockings. She might be meticulous with her public appearance, but when she was home alone, with no obligations to fill, makeup never touched her face, and it was sweatpants and socks, all the way.

Taking the opportunity to change and get comfortable, she wandered into her office and plugged in the phone machine. Calling the supermarket down the block, she asked them to send up some milk and butter, a piece of cheddar cheese, a loaf of sourdough bread and a few oranges—until she could get to the supermarket herself. She placed a Post-it note on the refrigerator to call Kennedy Airport in the morning and have them forward her luggage. In the chaos of Harry’s fainting spell she had left her luggage behind. A cursory look through the kitchen cupboards revealed a canister of English Breakfast tea. Tried and true, it would go well with a long soak in a hot bath, before she crawled into bed.

Thirty minutes later, surrounded by pale-pink marble and gleaming brass fixtures, the scent of bath oil heavy in the humid air, Althea sank low into the tub. She almost fell asleep, it was so heavenly to lose herself in the bubbles, but the mental notes kept piling up, and she finally gave in to them. No doubt it was a form of regaining control. After her ex-husband’s domineering ways, it would be a relief to begin making her own decisions again. She had abrogated so much to him, when they married.

Thus she made a mental note to call her mother, who was probably wondering where she was and not above calling Althea’s friends or, worse yet, her ex-husband. Safely tucked away in a pretty house twenty miles outside Birmingham, Alabama, Mrs. Almott still kept close tabs on her only child. The waters Althea traveled were muddy, as her mother was always quick to point out.

In a few days, when she was rested, it might be a good idea to call her old agency, too, and ask her long-time agent, Connie Niles, to start booking her some modeling assignments again. She and Connie had been together forever, since Althea first arrived in New York. Althea had signed with Connie for the simple reason that Connie could be trusted to look out for her interests—Connie was African-American, too. Having just opened her agency, Connie had been on the lookout for new faces. One look at Althea’s tall elegant frame, creamy black skin and slanted, golden eyes, and Connie had offered to take Althea all the way to the top with her, if she wanted to come along for the ride. It had taken two years, but things had turned out just as Connie promised. The Niles Model Agency was now one of the most respected agencies worldwide, and that was saying a great deal in an industry that was predicated on whimsy.

So, yes, she would call Connie. And she would call up some of her old friends, drop by some of her old haunts. A long look at her hands and she knew that a manicure was in order, too. She must find a decent gym to join, also. A gym, not a sports club. Her body was her meal ticket; these things must be seen to. She would begin her life anew, and maybe, just maybe, things would work out this time. And if the image of Harry Bensen flashed before her eyes to distract her, she was quick to tamp it down.

Unfortunately, he resurfaced in her dreams, reliving the moment at the airport, when, distracted by her arrival, her belongings, the snow, she looked up to see who called her name. When she discovered Harry standing there, so absolutely disheveled, his unruly blond hair brushing his shoulders, his incandescent-blue eyes shining with the pleasure of their meeting. When her heart had soared at the sight of his familiar, silly half smile. The all-too-brief moment when the years dropped away and they were young again and loved each other so much, the smallest smile a wordless poem.

The next time Althea visited Harry, she found him far more alert. Whatever they were pumping into his veins had begun to kick in. His blue eyes positively glittered as she kissed his cheek lightly.

“I see you’ve begun to eat,” she said, noting the food tray set aside.

“I guess. Just clear soup and Jell-O, though,” he grumbled, struggling to sit upright.

Althea wouldn’t allow it. “No way, Harry. You stay where you are, and I’ll sit here beside you. Let’s not have any unnecessary movement. Look, I’ve brought you tons of magazines and a crossword puzzle book.”

Harry’s lack of enthusiasm was pronounced.

“For when you’re feeling better,” she said quickly as she set them aside.

“You know…” He smiled, his eyes an impish twinkle. “When you’re close up, like this… That purple sweater looks great on you. And I like your gold braids, but what happened to your long, black curls? I liked them, too.”

“Perhaps the lovely lady likes to stay current with the latest styles.”

Startled by a deep voice, they turned to find a huge man standing in the doorway. Not particularly handsome, yet with a presence that was unmistakable, his dark skin fortold his African heritage. The wide smile that reached his twinkling brown eyes told of his good nature.

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry’s mouth curved into a sulk. “Leonel. It’s about time you showed. I was going to call your office, again.”

“I missed you, too, pal.” Smiling faintly, Leonel’s long stride made the trip to Harry’s bedside in five quick steps. “Here you go. A little something to cheer you up.”

Dropping a scrawny bunch of yellow carnations on Harry’s bed, Leonel turned the full force of his charming smile on Althea. “You look familiar,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Leonel Murray, Harry’s editor at Torregan Publishing.”

“And erstwhile friend,” Harry muttered, but they both politely ignored him.

“Hi, I’m Althea Almott, an old friend of Harry’s. I was at the airport when he collapsed.”

“Ah, yes, the model,” Leonel said with a snap of his fingers, “and Good Samaritan. A lucky thing for Harry that you were there. A real pleasure, Miss Almott, a real pleasure. And Harry’s right, by the way, that shade of lavender becomes you.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Murray.”

“Leonel. Please, call me Leonel. And as for you, my invalid friend… ‘Erstwhile,’ is it?” He laughed. “Is that in the dictionary? It sounds more like an island in the Caribbean.”

“Yeah, well, you think the world begins and ends in the Caribbean.”

His laugh warm and rich, Leonel explained Harry’s remark to Althea’s puzzled look. “I was born in Antigua. I miss it, that’s what Harry means.”

Althea’s brow smoothed. “Oh, I’ve been to Antigua, it’s absolutely lovely. I don’t blame you for being homesick. The people, the weather, the flowers, the beaches, the food.”

“I can see you’ve been there.”

“Many times.”

“Me, too. I go back whenever I can. As a matter of fact, my parents still live there. I’ve asked them many times to come here, but they’ll never move. The idea of snow appalls them. They—”

“Excuse me?” Harry piped up feebly. “I hate to interrupt, but is anybody here to visit Harry Bensen, the patient in Room 826?”

“Ah, yes,” Leonel said with a wink to Althea as he turned to Harry. “Harry, old man, how are you? I got your message, and here I am, ready to spread cheer. How are you feeling?”

“Lousy,” Harry said, clearly in a sulk.

“Well, that’s good, that’s good,” said Leonel with a smile. “Why else would you be here? And, yes, I got your message. You have some film for me. Hiding the cannisters under your pillow, laddie?”

“They’re in that locker in my duffel bag. My God, what took you so long? They could have been stolen, for all you care.”

“Now, who would want to steal a hundred canisters of film?” Leonel asked, the metallic locker door jangling his words. “It’s not like they have any value except to you and Torregan Publishing.”

“Leonel, did the possibility of their being damaged never occur to you? My cameras are in there, too, and six thousand dollars worth of lenses. They could have been stolen. Take that stuff home with you, will you, for safekeeping?”

“No problem.” Carefully, Leonel removed Harry’s heavy duffle bag from the hospital locker and began to search through its contents. The camera and satchel of film were easily found. “Tell you what, Harry,” Leonel said, as he placed the bags by the bed, “how about I treat you to the film development? As a get-well present.”

“Tell you what, Leonel, you’re supposed to pay for the development. It’s in my contract.”

Althea watched as the two men traded bantering quips, obviously enjoying themselves. Something told her it was not the first time, either.

“Tell you what,” Leonel said as he shouldered the heavy satchel filled with Harry’s camera equipment and film when a nurse came to tell them visiting hours were over. “You take your medicine like a good little boy, and I’ll have the proofs ready for you in a few days.”

“Is that a promise? Seriously? I’m anxious to see what I have.”

“Me, too. I have a Pulitzer in mind for you.”

Tired as he was, Althea could tell that Harry was pleased by Leonel’s announcement. “A Pulitzer prize?” she marveled. “Is Harry that good?”

“Harry’s that good.” Leonel promised, suddenly serious, “and it’s about time the rest of the world knew it. He did some terrific stuff on volcanic activity two years ago at Mauna Loa, and I’m hoping that this next series is every bit as good, if not better. As long as I get the dedication, he can have the prize.”