Читать книгу The Mistletoe Melody - Jennifer Snow, Jennifer Snow - Страница 9
ОглавлениеMELODY SNEEZED AND reached for a tissue from the magazine table of the walk-in medical clinic’s crowded waiting room. Then she promptly pumped her hand sanitizer.
Lindsay Harper, the clinic’s head nurse, looked over at her from where she was plugging in the artificial Christmas tree in the corner. “Not you, too, Mel,” she said. The white, five-foot-tall decoration began to rotate, its multicolored LED lights twinkling in time to the sound of “Jingle Bells,” which suddenly filled the air.
Melody could do without the reminder of the upcoming season. Christmas used to be her favorite time of year, but since Patrick’s death, it only caused her stress—emotionally and financially.
“’Tis the season,” she mumbled, sitting back in the plastic waiting-room chair she was sharing with her eight-year-old son, Josh. Every year around this time, they both seemed to get sick. She could mark her calendar by it. December first—first day of the flu.
Josh’s head fell against her shoulder, and with a scratchy voice he asked, “How much longer, Mom?” The fit of coughing that followed gained him sympathetic looks from some of the other waiting patients.
Melody wiped the boy’s dark hair off his hot forehead and checked her watch. “Soon, sweetheart.” She hoped. Her evening shift started in less than an hour. Thursday was one of the busiest nights at the bowling alley.
Josh’s twin brother, David, who had been sleeping curled up in the chair next to them, stirred and opened his eyes slowly. “Mom, I don’t feel so great.”
“I know, sweetheart. We’ll see the doctor soon.”
Lindsay reappeared with their file and a sympathetic smile. She leaned close to Melody as she whispered, “I know you have to get to work, so I’m bumping you guys ahead.”
“Thanks,” Melody said, grateful for the gesture. Despite Lindsay’s reputation as a party girl, she took her job seriously, and her affection for her patients, especially the young children, was obvious. Helping Josh to his feet and taking the hands of both her sons, Melody followed Lindsay down the hallway to an empty examination room. “Dr. McCarthy will be just a moment.”
“Okay,” Melody said, helping Josh onto the examination table, as David sat in the chair near the door. She buried a throaty cough in the crook of her arm and cringed. Each time she coughed, her chest hurt and her throat felt rawer than ever. If she was feeling this awful, she hated to think how Josh was feeling.
She yawned, shaking off a wave of exhaustion. She’d spent the night before sitting on the edge of Josh’s bottom bunk, one hand propping up his pillow while he slept and the other continuously checking his forehead for a fever.
“Where are our pictures, Mom?” David asked, slumping against the back of his chair and studying the wall of photos of newborns. Dr. McCarthy was one of two pediatricians in Brookhollow and was essentially always on call. She’d delivered almost every baby born in the small New Jersey town in the past decade, including Melody’s boys.
“Just look for the cutest ones,” Melody whispered with a wink at the older twin, who had been born six minutes before his brother on November 2, in the middle of a hail-and-sleet storm. Patrick, a guitar player in a country band, had been performing in Beach Haven that night, two hours away, and had almost missed the delivery, rushing in just minutes before David’s arrival. But he’d been there...
“There we are,” David said.
Melody’s heart swelled as it always did at the sight of the boys’ baby photos. They’d looked so much like her husband in that first year, with their light hair and bright, crystal-blue eyes. Over time, their hair had darkened to the same chestnut-brown color as hers, minus the ever increasing gray ones that seemed to have arrived in the three years since Patrick’s death. Despite the passing of time and the deepening lines on her face, it still felt as if he’d died yesterday. Seemingly overnight, she’d transformed from a stay-at-home mom with virtually no professional skills, to a working woman holding down several jobs and supporting a family on her own.
Dr. McCarthy knocked once on the door before walking in. “Hello, Myers family,” she greeted, setting their files on the tiny desk in the room. “Let me guess—coughing, sneezing, fever and muscle aches?”
“Been seeing that a lot today?” Melody asked.
“When one person in Brookhollow gets sick, we all get sick,” Dr. McCarthy said, placing a hand on Josh’s forehead. “Part of small-town charm, I guess. Has he taken anything for his fever?” she asked as she reached for a tongue depressor. “Say ‘aaah’ for me, okay, buddy?”
“Children’s Tylenol about two hours ago,” Melody said.
Dr. McCarthy nodded as she looked at Josh’s throat. “Strep is my guess, but we’ll send a swab to the lab just to be sure.” She swabbed his throat and placed the pad in a tube, which she then sealed and labeled. She turned to David. “Him, too?” she asked, sympathetically.
“I think so... Not as bad, yet,” Melody said, before another sneeze escaped her.
“You don’t sound too good yourself,” the doctor said. She checked David’s throat.
“I’m fine... I’m too busy to be sick.” It was true. Three jobs didn’t afford her the luxury of giving in to sickness, even if it meant she was spreading the contagion.
“I think it’s strep over here, as well.” Lifting the back of David’s shirt, Dr. McCarthy listened to his breathing. “I’ll give you a prescription for antibiotics for both of them.” She scribbled a prescription. “And just continue the Tylenol every four to six hours for the fever... Do you want me to take a look at you, as well? I’ve heard you cough.”
Melody shook her head as she accepted the prescription slip and helped Josh climb down from the table. “Thank you, Dr. McCarthy.” Antibiotics for the boys would be expensive enough, and they needed the drug more than she did. If only her pending promotion with Play Hard Sports, the big sporting-goods store in town, could happen a little sooner. Medical coverage was a benefit enjoyed by a full-time management employee, which she hoped to become in a few days, after she’d completed the training course and written the final exam. She hoped the three months of study would pay off. With the raise in pay, she could quit her two evening jobs bartending—as long as she passed this one last exam.
She began to collect their belongings. She had half an hour to pick up their babysitter, Lauralee—a high school girl who’d been babysitting the boys for years—drop them all off at home, put their dinner in the oven and then get to the bowling alley. She’d be lucky if she had time to change out of her Play Hard Sports uniform. She prayed the predicted snow hadn’t started yet. Her old minivan still had its summer tires and it would be at least a few weeks before there was money in her tight budget to take the vehicle into Bailey’s Place to have new winter tires put on. She knew the mechanic, her future sister-in-law Bailey, would do the work without charging her, but she couldn’t accept charity.
When Patrick was alive, he’d taken care of such things as the upkeep of the vehicles, or repairs to their old bungalow, which they’d bought as a fixer-upper ten years ago. As much as she loved the character-rich home, in recent years the maintenance had drained her limited funds. Still, the idea of selling the home where her family had made a lot of happy memories wasn’t one she liked to entertain.
“Come on, guys,” she said, taking Josh’s hand.
“Mel, hang on a sec.” Dr. McCarthy opened a locked mini fridge in the hallway near the file cabinets. Removing a white plastic bottle, she checked the label before handing it to Melody. “Here. This is essentially the same antibiotic I gave the boys—just a stronger dose. It’s FDA-approved, but it’s still in the clinical-trial stage, so it isn’t being offered in pharmacies yet. It’ll help with your cough.”
Melody hesitated.
Dr. McCarthy reached for her hand and forced the medicine into it. “Take it. It’s really not a big deal—I’ve been handing it out all week. Unfortunately, the dosage is too strong for the boys,” she said, stopping in front of the door of the next examining room and turning her attention to a file.
“Thank you again, Dr. McCarthy,” Melody said. Exchanges like this were so awkward. She longed for the day when her financial struggles weren’t obvious to everyone in Brookhollow. But today wasn’t that day. She was sick and she was expected to be behind the bowling alley bar in twenty-five minutes.
* * *
“THE KEY STEPS in performance-based management are...defining missions and goals,” Melody muttered as she stacked clean beer mugs on the glass shelves behind the bar. The Thursday-night crowd at the bowling alley was full of the usual suspects. To her right, the over-thirty men’s bowling league occupied eight of the twelve lanes, and to her left, several off-duty firemen played pool at the corner table. The front wooden doors opened and a group of twentysomethings entered. “Be with you guys in just a moment,” she told them, turning to grab menus.
She noticed her brother approaching the bar. “Hey, Ethan, another round?”
“Just for those guys,” he said, pulling out his wallet and nodding toward his fellow firefighters. “Bailey’s off in ten minutes and I’m picking her up from the shop. I finally talked her into storing her motorcycle a few weeks ago.”
Melody nodded her understanding. Ethan’s fiancée, Bailey Sheppard, loved her motorcycle, and since Brookhollow had been blessed this year with a mild fall season, she had been able to ride the bike longer. “Have I mentioned how happy I am that you two finally got together?” Melody said, drawing the beer.
After years of friendship, Bailey and Ethan had finally realized what the whole town had known for years—they were perfect for each other. They’d gotten engaged three months before during a trip to Venice.
Ethan tossed enough cash on the bar to cover the group’s tab, and added several additional bills to Melody’s tip jar. “You and me both. I can’t believe it took me so long to see how amazing she is.” Then, noticing the textbook on the bar, he asked, “How’s the studying?”
“A lot tougher than I’d expected.” It was true. The three-month management-trainee program had included ten different instruction manuals, four exams and weeks of on-the-job training, in which she’d had to shadow a Play Hard trainer in his management role. “But it’s worth it,” she was quick to add. “I just wish I had more time to study. A lot is riding on this last exam.”
“Well, you know Bailey and I would be happy to babysit the boys if you need some extra time.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the offer. I wish it was just the boys keeping me busy, but honestly, I’ve been working such long hours lately, I barely have enough time with them as it is. I really hope I’ll be able to give up these evening shifts soon.”
The strong early December wind caught the front double doors as Heather, the part-time bartender, walked in, her long, dark hair blowing wildly around her pink cheeks. Tugging the doors closed behind her, she mumbled something unintelligible. “Sorry I’m late, Mel,” she said, panting.
“Don’t worry. It’s just starting to pick up.” She watched as Heather struggled to catch her breath. “Did you run here?” She shot a glance at Heather’s feet. She was wearing five-inch-heeled, red leather, pointy-toed boots. Still, if anyone could run in them, the tall, slender, feisty brunette probably could. A New York City girl, she’d come to Brookhollow for the wedding of her friend Victoria Mason, the owner of the B and B in town, to Luke Dawson, and had decided to stay. She said she’d taken a liking to small-town life. Melody was grateful to have someone to train to take over the bar once she left.
Heather took off her coat and hung it on the hook behind the kitchen door. “Practically. That piece-of-crap car I bought broke down again yesterday—it’s still at the shop.” She wrapped the black apron around her thin waist and smiled at Ethan. “Thank God for your fiancée. She rescued me from the side of the highway again last night.”
“Bailey picked you up in the tow truck?” Ethan’s annoyance was pretty obvious.
Heather hesitated and Melody waved her arms, shaking her head behind Ethan’s back. Heather shot her a puzzled look as Ethan swung around to face her. “I saw that. She was supposed to have Nick doing the evening highway tows.”
“Oops,” Heather said sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to get her in trouble.”
Ethan grabbed the tray of drinks from the bar. “Don’t worry. I suspected she was still doing the towing herself. Bye, ladies. Mel, good luck on the exam. Tell the boys I need them next week at hockey practice, so they should take it easy this weekend and get better.”
In addition to working as a firefighter, her younger brother coached the junior boys’ soccer, hockey and football teams. “Thanks. I will, but you know the boys—they’d play even if their limbs were falling off.” Her twins had been born with athletic genes, and they rarely missed a practice.
She hoped they’d feel better once the antibiotics kicked in. Already her own symptoms appeared to be easing, for which she was grateful. Customers rarely appreciated being served by someone at death’s door...
Heather saved Melody’s textbook page with her finger as she closed the book to see the cover. “Essentials of Management...yuck.” She wrinkled her nose. “How’s that going?”
“It was going terribly. But it’s much better now that I took your advice about writing my notes on index cards and leaving them all over the house. Now as I’m cooking or getting the boys ready for bed, I’m memorizing information.” She covered a cough as she opened the dishwasher and loaded in the empty beer mugs. She’d never been great at academics, barely getting by in school, but this management course was important to her. The past three months, she’d pushed herself harder than she ever had before. She’d passed the three previous exams with a B average.
Heather collected more empty cups from around the bowling alley and set them on the bar before reaching for the television remote control. “Well, take a break. It’s eight o’clock. Our show is on.” She flipped through the stations on the flat-screen television above the bar. She passed the hockey game, ignoring the cries of protest from the men playing pool, and stopped on American Voices, the reality television competition they’d watched every Thursday night together since she’d started training at the bar.
A young woman wearing a black leather jumpsuit, was crooning a Sheryl Crow song. Heather folded her arms and leaned against the bar as she watched. “I still think you should have tried out when they were holding auditions in New Jersey, Melody. You can sing circles around these contestants.” She winced as the redhead struggled to hit a high note.
Melody took several shot glasses down from the shelf and refilled them with tequila as Mark Adams, a local firefighter and the biggest flirt in town, approached the bar. He asked for another round of shots. “Good luck, Heather. We’ve been trying to convince Mel to try out every season for three years.”
“I’m too old, guys,” Melody said, sliding the shot glasses toward him. She tossed her long, wavy chestnut hair over one shoulder as she added, “Besides, I gave up on that dream a long time ago.”
At twenty-one, all she’d wanted to do was leave Brookhollow and move to Nashville to pursue a career in country music. But then she and Patrick had gotten married and the boys had arrived...and the dream had turned into more of a quiet longing.
She held up her textbook. “I have a new dream now.” One that made sense. One she could depend on. One that would provide a secure future for her children. Nothing kept her more firmly planted in reality than two boys who needed new clothes, school supplies, sporting equipment and medicine.
Heather scoffed. “You’d be an instant star in Nashville and you know it. And you’re always writing your own songs.”
Melody’s shoulders tensed. She wished Heather would drop the subject. She hadn’t written a new song in a long time. Sure, she often hummed original tunes that popped into her head, or made up random lyrics, none of which she could ever remember afterward, but she hadn’t actually put pen to paper in more than three years. Not since the last song she’d cowritten with Patrick.
After Patrick’s death, a record label had approached her, offering to buy any original material Patrick may have had, but she’d been unable to sell the music they’d written together. She only had a few mementoes left of him—his lyrics and musical scores were vital to her.
“Oh, I love this guy,” Heather said, her attention captured by the screen. “Victoria and I saw him in New York last summer when he opened for Toby Keith.”
“Who?” Melody asked, turning to look at the television.
She lost her grip on the wet beer mug in her hand and it crashed to the floor, shattering in a million pieces at her feet.
Brad Monroe, her husband’s former bandmate and friend, sat in the guest judge’s seat on the critique panel, commenting on the girl’s performance.
Her mouth went dry. She held on to the edge of the bar as the deep, husky voice she hadn’t heard in years filled the heavy air around her.
“Mel, you okay?” Heather asked. She reached for the broom behind the kitchen door.
“I got it,” Melody insisted, taking the broom from Heather with a shaky hand. “Um...do you mind if we turn that program off?” She knew her request would sound odd and would require an explanation, but she wasn’t sure she could handle seeing Brad’s carefree, handsome face at that moment—or ever. She’d been successful in avoiding that face for the three years since Patrick’s funeral. She was sure she’d done the right thing by keeping Brad completely out of her and her sons’ lives. The man had been responsible for her husband’s death, and she felt unnerved enough just by the sight of him on television.
“Oh, sure.” Heather quickly changed to the channel showing the hockey game and held the dustpan for Melody as she swept the broken glass onto it.
Heather’s lack of protest spoke volumes. “Who told you?” Melody asked.
“Told me what?”
“About my late husband and Brad Monroe...uh...Jackson.” The smug jerk had changed his last name to Jackson to sound more “country” when he’d left Brookhollow to pursue a record deal with Propel Records, a record deal that had launched his career. A career that should also have been Patrick’s.
“I remember Victoria mentioning something about it after the concert when we bought his CD from the merchandise table. He’d mentioned your family in his acknowledgment section, and Vic recognized the connection.”
Melody hadn’t known. She’d refused to even look at his CD cover in the music store at the mall or talk about him with family and friends over the three years. So he’d acknowledged them—big deal. It didn’t soften her feelings toward him, not one little bit. As she often told the boys, saying sorry might be the right thing to do, but it didn’t erase the deed.
She emptied the broken glass into the trash can and leaned the broom against the bar. “What did Victoria tell you, exactly?”
“Not much,” Heather replied. “Just that the three of you had a history.”
History was an understatement. “We went to high school together, but Patrick was four years older than Brad, so they were never really friends. Brad and I were in the same classes, but I never knew much about him. I certainly wouldn’t have expected him to be interested in music—he was always hanging around with the jocks and cheerleaders. Anyway, after one of Patrick’s gigs about nine years ago in Beach Haven, where Brad happened to be vacationing with his girlfriend of the week, they caught up on old times and somehow the discussion turned to Brad’s interest in music. Next thing I knew, Brad was joining the band.” She couldn’t keep the disdain from her voice.
She’d liked Brad just fine, but she’d always worried about his playboy influence on her husband when they were on the road—groupies were a simple reality. Her trust in Patrick had been unwavering, but his being with Brad had caused her concern. She wasn’t thrilled about her husband playing wingman for the free-spirited bachelor, no matter how innocent the situation.
“Were you okay with that? Taking a step back?”
Not exactly, but she wasn’t about to tell Heather about all of the arguments she and Pat had had over the decision. The decision that meant walking away from music. “I was pregnant with the boys at the time, so we’d decided it was best for me to step away from performing. Patrick was amazing on the guitar, but even he recognized they needed a new singer. Brad took over the microphone and we all became close friends as well as musical collaborators. Brad is even the boys’ godfather.” She paused. That had been Patrick’s choice, not hers.
“Wow,” Heather said. “But then the accident happened?”
Melody nodded. “The accident report revealed they’d both been drinking—they’d been celebrating the signing of their contract with Propel Records in New York.” She paused, the words still hard to say, “Brad survived. Patrick didn’t.”
In truth, Brad had barely escaped the same fate. He’d suffered critical injuries and a severe concussion that had left him in the hospital for weeks. At Patrick’s funeral, he’d been in a wheelchair.
“Brad was driving?” Heather guessed.
Melody nodded, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. How many times had she told Patrick that Brad couldn’t be trusted when he was drinking? His judgment when sober had been questionable enough.
“And then he left town and that was it? You haven’t heard from him since?” Heather frowned, her expression a mix of anger and sympathy.
“Yeah,” Melody answered, avoiding Heather’s gaze. It wasn’t exactly the truth. Brad had attempted to contact them over the past three years, offering to help in any way he could—emotionally, financially—but Melody had put an end to the contact by changing the family’s phone number and blocking any incoming emails from him.
She didn’t want anything to do with Brad Monroe or Jackson or whatever he called himself.
All she wanted were the things he’d taken away and couldn’t give back—her husband and their dreams for the future.
* * *
“HOW DID YOU get in here?”
“Oh, honey, please. I’m a publicist. I can talk my way into anywhere.”
From the hot tub in the men-only section of BodyWorks, a therapeutic spa and chiropractic clinic in downtown Nashville, Brad watched as Roxanne Klein kicked off her designer shoes. Grabbing a towel to sit on, she lowered herself to the edge of the tub, sinking her tiny feet into the water. He rolled his eyes and then lowered his head back against the towel he had positioned behind him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Roxanne said. “I asked the last guy I saw coming out if there was anyone else in here before going in.”
And that made it okay? The woman was terrible. She had no sense of boundaries, although in truth, it was no doubt the reason she was so fantastic at her job. As one of Nashville’s most sought-after publicists, she could turn acts no one had ever heard of into overnight successes. As much as he hated to admit it, she was worth the astronomical fee she charged—a fee he really couldn’t afford. That’s why he had put the fate of his career in her hands a year before.
So far she’d changed his hair color from light brown to blond and had forced him to buy colored, non-prescription contacts to hide the fact that his eyes were different colors—one a deep blue, the other a sea-foam green. She’d also changed his stage name from Monroe to Jackson and had ordered the name switch on his first CD cover before it had hit store shelves. He’d found out a week later when he’d seen it advertised in a flyer.
“Besides, I wouldn’t have to resort to these measures if you’d stop avoiding my calls,” she said, a chill in her Southern accent.
He felt it, despite the heat of the water. “I got your voice mails and I left you one of my own.” He stood and pushed himself out of the hot tub. There was no relaxing around Roxanne.
Already, he felt his muscles tightening again after the two-hour session with his physical therapist. In the three years since the car accident, he had been going to therapy twice a week to build up the strength in his legs and back. Besides the countless broken bones, he’d had torn muscles and five dislocated disks in his spine.
Yet he’d been the lucky one.
“But you didn’t give me the answer I wanted to hear.” Roxanne kept her eyes on him as he made his way to the towels and wrapped one around his waist. Luckily, he always wore his swim trunks.
“Well, it’s the only answer you’re going to get.” Brad raked a hand through his highlighted hair and watched her as she swung her legs over the side of the tub and stood up. With her shoulder-length blond hair and big blue eyes, he might have found her attractive if she weren’t always trying to convince him to do things he didn’t want to do—such as her latest request.
Even in bare feet, Roxanne was almost as tall as the five-foot-eleven Brad. “Think about this rationally—it’s television. So far, we’ve done the magazine articles, the talk radio, that one-time appearance on that music reality show, but we haven’t been able to secure a prime-time spot focused on you as an artist. This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”
“Heartland Country Television is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for?” He raised an eyebrow. Roxanne could talk, and he suspected 99 percent of the time people bought everything she said. But even she had to know that calling Nashville’s local country television station prime time was a stretch.
“Okay, so it’s not Oprah—and don’t think I haven’t tried calling her—but it’s a start. And their ‘Home for the Holidays’ episode is one of the most watched Christmas Eve programs. Apparently, people love seeing how stars spend their holidays,” she insisted, following him to the men’s change-room door.
“You can’t come in here,” Brad said, pausing with his hand on the door.
“Try to stop me.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “Roxanne, I won’t do it. ‘Home for the Holidays’... Do you even know what that means for me?” He shuddered at the thought of returning to his family home in Brookhollow, a place he hadn’t dared visit in three years. He’d tried the year before when he’d been performing an hour from his hometown, but as the town-limits sign had come into view, he’d pulled a U-turn and hightailed it out of there. Facing his past, especially this time of year, would have destroyed him.
“Let me guess—your family’s crazy? So? Whose isn’t? Country music is about crazy mothers, alcoholic fathers, hillbilly farm life and broken-down trucks. Be the stereotype. Embrace it. Trust me, it will surprise you how fans love humble beginnings. It makes you more relatable—”
“Forget it, Roxanne. I don’t think my family would go for it.”
That was a lie. His mother and five older sisters would have eaten it up. Brookhollow did Christmas in a big way, with the colorfully decorated storefronts on Main Street, the twenty-foot evergreen erected in the town center, the parade and the horse-drawn sleigh rides through the park. He didn’t even want to think about his own family’s extreme holiday traditions. At Christmas, not an inch of wall space inside the home was visible beneath the garlands and wall hangings. Outside, the twelve thousand multicolored lights stapled to the roof lit up the entire neighborhood, and the large evergreen trees around the family farm were decorated with hundreds of baubles and bows. Overdone was an understatement. Tacky was more the word.
“Let me talk to them.” She offered him a confident smile.
“No. And besides, you’ve changed my last name, remember?” How did she expect to pull that off?
“So, we’ll change the name on your family’s mailbox. I’m not seeing an issue here, Brad.”
She was unbelievable. He didn’t doubt for a second she would force his entire family to assume the surname Jackson for this publicity stunt. “Can we talk about this later? I’d like to get dressed now.” He had no intention of resuming this conversation, but goose bumps were covering his bare skin now that he was out of the hot tub. Or maybe it was the icy chill he always felt around his publicist.
“Go ahead,” she said with a shrug, daring him to force her to follow him into the change room.
“You’re unreal, you know that?”
“It’s called being persistent. It’s why you hired me. I’m going to take your wavering resolve and lack of a snappy retort as agreement.” She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out the contract for the television spot.
He accepted it with reluctance and scanned the pages. “You forged my signature?” Why her behavior still shocked him, he didn’t know. By now, he knew there was no point in putting up a fight. Roxanne Klein didn’t know the meaning of failure.
“Don’t get caught up on morality,” she said. “We needed to secure the last-minute spot before they gave it to some adorable seventeen-year-old kid who writes all his own songs and plays like eighteen instruments. I did what I had to do. I’ve also confirmed your travel arrangements to Brookville...”
“Brookhollow.”
“Whatever. Middle of nowhere, New Jersey...” She positioned her aqua-blue heels on the concrete floor and held his shoulder for balance as she slid her feet into them.
“Are you going with me?”
“It’s the holidays. Are you kidding? No.” Her eyes fell to his torso and she frowned. “Have we talked about getting a plastic surgeon to look at those?” she asked, pointing to the scar tissue on his chest and upper abdomen.
“No, and we won’t.” He hoped his voice held enough conviction to make her drop the point.
“Fine. I’ll take my victories where I can get them—we’ll discuss it another time. You fly out on Monday morning. Bye, Brad.”
Brad watched her saunter away. He ran a hand over his damaged skin.
He didn’t doubt she would bring it up again, but removing the scars was something he would never consider. They were a permanent souvenir from a bad decision that had cost him so much, as well as a constant reminder that life was short.
Besides, unless the surgeon could remove the scars he carried on the inside, what would be the point?
