Читать книгу Waiting for Sparks - Kathy Damp - Страница 16

CHAPTER SEVEN

NAOMI STARED AGHAST at her granddaughter as she blew into the hospital room—late, mind you—to join her, Chet and the neurologist. The child had bits of yellowed grass in her hair along with streaks of dirt on her face, hands and T-shirt. A couple of the facial and knee scrapes were oozing blood. What on earth had Emma been doing?

Soon, Chet, Emma and the doctor, who looked young enough to be one of Emma’s students, were watching her eat as if she was some freak exhibit at the state fair. What she would give for a Dew Drop kitchen-sink omelet, hash browns with cheese and a strong cup of coffee, heavy on the cream.

Since the tubes in her nose didn’t help the eating process any with what passed for food here, she pushed at the tray. Emma pulled the rolling table away from the bed.

“Are you in pain, Nomi?” Emma’s brows furrowed, perplexed most likely at Naomi’s swift change of expression.

No, dear, she wanted to say, that had been a smile on my face at seeing you here in town, where you belong. Drat it. Would the girl never pick up on one of her cues? She sighed.

The girl probably didn’t understand she was talking about either the dog or Sparks last night.

Though seeing Emma here now set some of Naomi’s world to rights. Getting on with the Jamboree would stabilize everything. Now, what she needed most was for that charming young man to arrive, so Naomi could let them know how it was going to be for the summer. Then she could work on getting out of this terrible place and supervise the rest of the event details from home. Home.

Chet put an arm around her shoulders. “Relax, Naomi. You have to depend on others this year.”

How did he read her mind, and more important, had he also lost his? Who did he think could pull off the town’s biggest moneymaking opportunity, especially this year when the event was do or die? She turned her head so she could see her granddaughter full-on. Only Emma could be trusted with organizing the Jamboree, and then, only with Naomi’s assistance.

Emma understood tradition, or at least had, until the two of them had had a misunderstanding at Raymond’s funeral. Emma had made too much of it.

“I’ve seen worse strokes,” the neurologist was saying to Emma, as though discussing cuts of meat. He lounged against the bathroom doorway, one hand resting on the monitor, the other loosely in his pants’ pocket. Naomi thought his bedside manner needed work. After several more minutes of being treated as though she was invisible, Naomi struggled to get words out, ignoring Chet’s pressure on her shoulders. “You can t-t-talk to me, d-doctor. I—I’m not dead.”

The doctor’s face reddened and he shifted over to face Naomi. “The stroke has affected you a great deal, Mrs. Chambers. Due to the trauma to your left side, you’ll need six to eight weeks in a rehabilitation center to regain the use of your hand and increase stability. Therapy’s essential.” He slipped the stethoscope from around his neck and checked his watch.

Naomi wanted to snort, but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. She’d never neglected a thing in her life. Except—the sting of the secret burned—neglecting that one thing Emma needed to know.

“She’ll recover completely, though, won’t she?” Chet asked.

She wanted to cheer; someone was finally asking a decent question. The next one should be, “When can she be discharged?”

Emma was chewing on her little finger like she always did when thinking deeply. Naomi had never broken her of the habit.

The doctor glanced at the time again.

Straightening, Emma tugged at the hems of her scruffy shorts. She looked at Naomi, and then at the physician. “She’ll get there,” she answered, determination clear in her voice.

Naomi cocked her head. She’d been racking her brain to think of a way to get Emma to come home and give up the silly trip Raymond was always encouraging her to take. Had something good come out of this horrendous event?

The doctor nodded. “She’ll be ready to go, most likely, in a day or two.” He typed in notes on his tablet. “I’m writing orders for eight weeks’ on-site physical and occupational therapy at an extended-care facility. Garden Terrace is good.”

An old folks’ home? Naomi about lifted straight off the sheets. If any of them thought she was going to an old folks’ home, they had beets for brains.

Where was Sparks?

What had happened to Emma’s face?

Someone had better start doing some talking, and fast.

* * *

WITH HIS STOMACH reminding him how close lunch was, Sparks dashed up the wide steps of the hospital two at a time, sweating in heat more typical of Las Vegas than Colorado. He wanted Naomi to confirm one thing: yes, his contract was a go.

He’d been having too good a time so far, he chastised himself. He would have to stay focused. His job was everything to him.

Still, it’d been easy to get caught up in the charming flavor of the town. Besides knowing he would enjoy Monday’s parade, there were the barbecue invites from Duff, Willard and Ray and their families, and fun at the lake with new friend Ben, owner of Washed Ashore Marina.

On the heels of that enjoyable thought came the image of Emma. Yes, from the kids at the football field he knew that he’d flattened “poor little Emma,” who was Naomi’s sidekick and had been a favorite teacher at Heaven High. That bit of a woman who’d saved his life and looked as though she had too many heavy concerns weighing on her mind... She was the miracle the town was waiting for? His gallant tackle had delighted the crowd. Her, not so much.

He winced, remembering the laser stare and the knifelike words—irresponsible, undependable—as they’d left her rosy lips. They were taking turns saving each other, he thought, and wished he’d said that when she was telling him, among other things, that she wasn’t a tackling dummy.

Forcing himself to slow to a trot, he strode through the hospital room door that he’d been directed to. There lay Naomi Chambers, mayor of the town, glaring at him; Chet; the doctor and— His breath caught. Dirty, bloody and gaping at him wide eyed was his summer girl. Hopefully.

The doctor nodded to Sparks on his way out. Chet stepped over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks for coming, son.”

Son. Something deep inside stirred, melted a bit.

“L-late,” said Naomi, closing her eyes as though his tardiness was too much for her to bear. “Emma, go f-find out when someone is coming to t-take this tray.”

“I’ll take it, Nomi.” Emma moved to pick up the tray, but Naomi waved her off.

“You d-don’t g-get paid to do that. They d-do.”

Emma’s face froze and she abruptly left the room.

Wow. Growing up under Naomi’s thumb suddenly made him traveling the world alone not seem so bad.

Naomi waved again; this time a royal sweep of her hand drew him to the chair beside her bed.

“Mrs. Chambers...” No matter how far he’d travelled or who he met, the manners he’d been taught by Mother Egan would always remain with him. He leaned in. “I don’t want to bother you. I just want to make sure everything is still a go for the fireworks.”

Now, up close and personal, he drew in a breath.

Light from the window showed every line, all the gray folds in her face and neck. Word at the Rexall soda fountain was that Naomi Chambers was “too stubborn to die.” Judging from her pasty complexion, death had nearly succeeded.

Naomi drew the covers up to her shoulders with her right hand, while Sparks waited for her to continue.

But the silence grew.

Chet stood by the window, peering outside.

Am I in trouble? Sparks rubbed his neck. I can’t be in trouble. He sneaked a peek at Naomi. Why do I feel as if I’m in trouble? The silence persisted.

“How are you feeling?” Sparks ventured.

She twitched slightly. “As w-well as...c-can be expected with—” she swallowed and closed her eyes, then reopened them “—s-somebody w-waking me up every fifteen m-minutes to see if I’m still alive.” If she hadn’t spoken, he might have done the same.

At breakfast, the guys had mentioned that folks were taking bets on whether Naomi would go to rehab if ordered. Had Emma been speeding to see her grandmother when she’d stopped to help him? His respect for her flourished. She’d taken the time to help him, a stranger, while needing to be with family.

“T-to be honest, young man, finances are tight, but you’ll be paid.”

A whoosh of relief left him. “My fireworks always draw a good crowd, so that’ll raise quite a lot of money for the town.”

Summer was on. He only needed one good pyrotechnic event to get back in the game.

As he heard Emma greeting some nurses in the hallway, Naomi wiggled closer, gesturing with a beckoning finger. Sparks hunched forward.

“You’ll be p-paid, but I want you to h-help Emma—coplan with her. But don’t b-breathe a word...until I say so.”

Sparks’s face flushed with heat and embarrassment; his mouth dried so fast he could feel its hinges creak. Help plan the Jamboree?

There were two immediate problems with that edict. First, he didn’t know a thing about planning a Jamboree. Fireworks, yes. But that was it. Second, if he worked closely with the townsfolk and they really got to know him, they would eventually find out he was the type to let them down.

He frowned. Hadn’t the guys at the Dew Drop said Emma was leaving?

* * *

EMMA SWUNG OPEN the door, her back teeth grinding in the old familiar way, ready to tell her grandmother that the nurses said someone would be right in to take the silly tray, when Sparks leaped up and barreled out of the room. She watched him go.

What had caused his face to blush so deeply?

Even though there were more pressing issues, such as Nomi’s rehab and Emma’s own escape, she showed her grandmother the Organic District cinnamon-bomb bread from the tote bag she’d left by the bed. “I forgot. I brought this for you.” Then she looked at the empty chair. “What did you say to him?”

Nomi’s eyes gleamed. “We...were talking about the Jamboree...telling h-h-him...fun.”

This wasn’t the way to stay on track with her goal. This was her grandmother trying to control the situation just like always. “Not for me.”

Emma summoned her courage. Here goes. She took in a big breath. Think new green suitcases, think British Airways.

“Emma...” Nomi’s lips, lopsided now, twisted as she spoke. “You...liked it. Miss F-f-fire...crac...ker...you r-remember?”

Emma did remember and was glad Sparks wasn’t around to hear the tale. What had made him tear off like that?

What had she just been thinking about? Oh, yeah, the Miss Firecracker pageant. Indeed, she did remember. Short the required number of contestants for the kiddie pageant, Naomi had coerced Emma and her best friend Zoo to participate.

As they did every year, a group of townspeople protested this exploitation of women. Required to wear a red, white or blue T-shirt and blue shorts, each five-to seven-year-old contestant sang a patriotic song or twirled a baton to the same sort of tune. No bathing suits, no interviews about world peace.

Emma and Zoo, unfortunately, did not sing on key and were not particularly coordinated. Zoo agonized through “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and Emma gave herself a black eye from her baton. Neither of them won, and Emma had thrown the baton in the lake. She now changed the subject. “Think how fast you will progress with twice-a-day therapy.”

A vehement shake of Naomi’s head.

“Nomi—”

Naomi stretched her lips with effort. “Me...” She stopped and drew in a deep breath. “P-planning would be a little much...”

A little? Denial is a warm bedfellow on a cold night of reality.

Naomi nodded. “Someone else...plan it.”

Emma’s spirits soared. Here was a breakthrough. If Nomi was going to be reasonable about this, why not the rehab?

“Someone will turn up,” Emma enthused. A girl had to move on. Right on to England, Lady Emma. “The Jamboree has always been and always will be around, so there’s no need to worry. Now, let’s get you ready for transport to the facility, Nomi. I’ll have the nurse bring the transfer forms.”

Her grandmother rose up on her good elbow like Napoleon on his deathbed. “Emma,” her imperial tone commanded. With eyes boring into Emma’s, the left one slightly unfocused, she said, “You must p-plan the J-jamboree.”