Читать книгу New Year Escapes - Leslie Kelly - Страница 26

“EX-WIFE,” SOPHY corrected instantly, staring at George in astonishment. “You do remember that, don’t you?”

George folded his arms across his chest. “I remember no one has filed for divorce yet.”

“You said you would. If you don’t, I will,” she told him fiercely, then flicked a glance at Sam Harlowe. He was, of course, watching this exchange with the fascination of a man with courtside seats at the U.S. Open.

“Well,” he said briskly, smiling as he did so, “I’ll just leave the two of you to discuss this, shall I? Nice to meet you, Sophy.” He squeezed her hand again, then raised a brow and gave her what could only be described as an “interested” look. The smile turned into a grin. “Let me know when you get your marital status figured out.”

She didn’t blame him for being amused. From the outside it probably was amusing. From where she stood her marriage to George was anything but. But she managed to give Sam a wry smile in return.

“I’ll do that,” she said, not because she intended to, but because it would obviously annoy George.

“See you tomorrow,” Sam said to George with a meaningful arch of his brows.

“Not here,” George said.

“No,” Sam began.

But George cut him off. “You said I could go home if I had someone to stay with me.”

“You don’t.”

“Sophy will do it.”

“I—”

George turned his eyes on her. “Payback,” he said softly. “Isn’t that what you came for?”

“You said—”

“I didn’t know, did I?” He was all silky reasonableness now. “I thought I’d be out of here today. No problem. But Dr. Dan here—” he gave a wry jerk of his head toward Sam “—thinks I need someone to watch over me, hold my hand, wipe my fevered brow—”

“Kick your bony ass,” Sam suggested acerbically.

George didn’t even glance his way. He sat in the bed, the bedclothes fisted in his fingers, his unshaven jaw dark, his eyes glittering as his gaze bored into hers. “It’s what you do, isn’t it?”

She’d certainly like to kick his ass right now. Unfortunately she doubted that’s what he meant. “What are you talking about?”

“Rent-a-Wife. It’s your business,” he reminded her, as if she might have forgotten. “I’ll ‘rent’ you.”

Sam goggled.

Sophy gaped. She couldn’t even find words.

George could. “It’s simple. Perfectly straightforward. Like I said, it’s what you do. I mean, you did come and offer, but if you’re going to renege on your ‘payback,’ fine. I’ll hire you instead.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He gave her a perfectly guileless look. “Nothing ridiculous about it. It’s sane, and reasonable. A suitable solution to a problem.” George was in professor mode now. She wanted to strangle him.

He looked at Sam. “You did say that, didn’t you?”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I—” And Sophy thought he might deny what George had said. But then he shrugged helplessly. “That’s what I said. You can go home if you get someone to keep an eye on you. If you take it easy. If you don’t do stupid stuff. No straining. No lifting. No running up and down the stairs. No hot sex,” he added firmly.

“Well, damn,” George said mildly while Sophy felt her cheeks burn. He gave Sam a quick smile, then turned his gaze back on her. “Dr. Dan says I can go home.”

Sophy ground her teeth. He’d boxed her in. Made it impossible to say no. But, why?

It wasn’t as if he wanted to be married to her. Clearly he didn’t. Just this morning he’d been vowing—promising!—to file for divorce. And now? She pressed her lips together in a tight line.

“How long?” She didn’t look at George, only at Sam.

“Depends,” Sam said slowly, and she could see him go back into his doctor demeanor as he thought about it. “He needs to remain quiet. Besides the concussion, which he will still be feeling the effects of, he has a subdural hematoma.”

He went on at length about the blood spill between the dura and the arachnoid membrane, telling her it was impossible to know how extensive the bleeding could be, that it might organize itself in five to six days, that it could take ten to twenty for the membrane to form. The longer he talked, the more detailed and technical Sam became. Sophy heard the word seizure and felt panicky. She heard the word death and her sense of desperation grew.

“Then this is no small matter,” she summarized when Sam finally closed his mouth.

“No, it’s not. So far he’s doing so good. But we’re not talking about Mr. Sensible here.”

They weren’t? George had always seemed eminently sensible—sensible to a fault almost—to Sophy. She looked at him, then at Sam.

“I’m giving you worst-case scenarios.” Sam assured her.

“Thanks very much,” she said drily.

“But it’s necessary. It’s why I won’t let him go if he’s going to be alone.”

There was silence then. Sam waited for her answer. George didn’t say a word, just stared at her with that “is your word good or not?” look on his face. And Sophy wrestled with her conscience, her emotions and her obligations.

“So you’re saying it could be days,” she said finally.

“Honestly it would be better for him to have someone around for several weeks. Or a month.”

“A month?” Sophy stared at him, horrified.

Sam spread his palms. “The chances of him needing anything are minimal. They go down every day. As long as he doesn’t do something to complicate matters. I’m just saying, if he’s alone, how do we know?”

Indeed, how would they?

Oh, hell.

Sophy understood. But she just didn’t like it. Not one bit. And she couldn’t imagine George liking it, either. Not really. She shot him a glance now to see how he was taking Sam’s news. His face was unreadable, his eyes hooded, his expression impassive. His arms were folded across his chest.

“I can’t stay a month or two,” Sophy said. “I have a life—and work—in California. I can’t leave Lily that long.”

“Bring her,” George said.

“Who’s Lily?” Sam asked.

“Our daughter,” George answered before Sophy could.

Sam’s eyes went round. His jaw dropped. “Odd you never mentioned any of this,” he murmured in George’s direction.

“Need to know,” George said in an even tone.

Sam nodded, but he blinked a few times, still looking a little stunned as his gaze went from George to Sophy and back again.

He wasn’t the only one feeling a bit shell-shocked.

All she’d intended to do was drop into the hospital long enough to give Tallie the key to George’s house, say thank-you for the few hours sleep and say that Gunnar was fine. She hadn’t even expected to have to talk to George again. After the way they’d left things this morning, she couldn’t imagine he’d have anything more to say to her.

“There must be ‘wives for rent’ in New York,” she said.

Sam didn’t offer an opinion. He tucked his hands in his pockets and retreated into bystander mode.

“I’ll rent you a wife,” she offered.

“So much for payback,” George murmured.

Sophy’s fingers knotted into fists. “You’d be able to come home.”

George just looked at her. “So you’re saying you won’t do it.” His tone was mild enough, but Sophy didn’t have to imagine the challenge in his words.

She clenched her teeth to stop herself saying the first, second and third things that came into her head. She got a grip, reminded herself that he was not himself—even though, frankly, he seemed more like himself than ever. And then she reminded herself as well that she owed him.

Ultimately she might have resented what he’d done by highhandedly proposing marriage and taking over her life.

But she’d let him.

She’d let herself be steamrolled. Had said yes because she knew George was all that Ari wasn’t, that Ari—even if he’d lived—would never have been. And she couldn’t even put a finger on when she realized she felt about George far differently and far more intensely than she’d ever felt about Ari.

She’d desperately wanted their marriage to work.

Finding out that she was just another obligation, one more of “Ari’s messes” that George had had to clean up had hurt her far more than Ari’s turning his back on her and fatherhood in the first place.

But that wasn’t George’s problem. It was hers.

And before she could move forward, she knew she had to do what she’d told him she’d come to do—settle her debts—even if what she was doing reminded her of the old cliché about the frying pan and the fire.

As for why George wanted her to do it when he didn’t want to be married to her, well, maybe she’d find an answer to that. Maybe, please God, there would finally be some closure.

She straightened. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Sam’s eyes widened. George didn’t blink.

“But only for a month—or less if possible.” She met his gaze steadily. “Then we’re even.”

He wanted to just walk out then and there.

To get out of bed, dress and stroll out of the hospital as if he’d just spent the night in a not very pleasant hotel.

Of course it wasn’t as simple as that. He didn’t have any clothes, for one thing. His had been shredded and bloodied in the accident and cut from his body after. Getting out of bed hurt like sin. Strolling, of course, was impossible. He was on crutches and wearing a boot to give his ankle some support.

But at least Sophy couldn’t say he’d shanghaied her into staying under spurious pretenses.

What she did say, though, as he asked her to go buy him some clothes, surprised the hell out of him.

“Not necessary,” she said. “I’ll just go to your place and bring you some clothes back.”

“My place?”

She shrugged, dug into the pocket of her pants and held up a key. “Your house. I’ve got a key. It’s what I came to bring back to Tallie.”

His jaw dropped. He had to consciously shut his mouth. But he couldn’t keep it shut. He demanded, “She gave you a key to my house?”

Another shrug. “I was tired when I ran into her by the elevator. I hadn’t slept all night. And she had things to do. The kids. Baking. Stuff for Elias. She couldn’t spend all day with Gunnar. So she asked me to spend the day at your place instead of at a hotel—and get some sleep at the same time. I didn’t snoop around,” she told him tartly.

He didn’t expect she had. Why would she bother? He shrugged awkwardly. “I was just surprised.”

“Yes, well, it wasn’t my idea. But it was a nice bed,” she allowed. “And Gunnar is lovely.” She smiled the first really warm genuine smile he’d seen since she’d been here. Better even than the smile she’d given Sam.

“He’s a good dog,” George allowed gruffly.

Their gazes met, and there was a moment’s awkward silence, probably because it was the first thing they’d agreed on since he’d opened his eyes and found her in his hospital room.

Her gaze slid away before his did. She seemed to be staring at the key in her hand.

“So, fine,” George said after a moment. “Go back to my place and get me some clothes. I’ll be getting signed out of here while you’re gone.” He told her where things were.

Sophy nodded. “I’ll be back.” She shook hands with Sam again on her way out. “You’ll leave me lots of instructions? Things to watch for?”

“I’ll make a list,” Sam said. “And you can call me anytime.”

Now her smile for him was as warm as the one she’d had when she talked about Gunnar.

“Take your time,” George muttered.

Sophy shot him a glare and stalked out, taking her luggage and briefcase with her.

“Well, now. You never told me about Sophy,” Sam said with a knowing grin.

“No need.”

“Not for you maybe,” Sam laughed. “Must be an interesting history you two have. And a daughter, too? Did I ever really know you, Georgie?”

George just looked at him. “Stuff it.”

“A month? You’re joking.” But it was clear from her voice that Natalie didn’t think it was a laughing matter. “You didn’t commit yourself to staying a month in New York. Did you?” she demanded.

Sophy sighed, tucking her phone between her jaw and her shoulder as she opened one of George’s dresser drawers and took out boxers, a T-shirt and a pair of socks. “Hopefully not a full month. Maybe just a couple of weeks. But yes, I did. I have to, Nat.”

“You don’t have to.”

Sophy shut the drawer. “All right, maybe not in the strictest sense of have to. But in the world I live in, I owe George.”

“For what?”

“For … things. He’s a good man,” Sophy hedged, moving on to the closet. She didn’t want to discuss this with Natalie, but she had no choice. They were business partners. If she was going to be gone three or four weeks, that would require adjustments.

Life, it seemed, was full of adjustments these days. She pulled a button-front shirt off a hanger in George’s closet and took a pair of khakis off another hanger. It seemed like too intimate a thing to be doing—prowling through George’s clothes—which was why she’d called Natalie while she was doing it. So she’d focus on business and not on being in George’s room.

“A ‘good man’ doesn’t explain anything,” Natalie said.

So Sophy told Natalie what Sam had told her and ended with, “So he needs someone with him. To keep an eye on him. To make sure he doesn’t have more bleeding.”

“And you think you’re the only one who can do that?”

“No, I don’t think I’m the only one who can do it. But right now George does. And—” she sighed “—I need to humor him.”

“Did his doctor say that?”

“No. But getting George stressed isn’t going to make things better.”

“And you’re not going to get him stressed?”

Sophy gave a short laugh. “Can’t promise that, sadly.” She had folded the shirt and khakis and now added them to the single shoe she’d stuck into the grocery bag she’d found in the kitchen. No point in bringing the other since he had an orthopedic boot on his left foot. Then, clothes gathered, she started back downstairs. Gunnar followed her down.

“It’s not about the head injury,” Natalie decided.

“Maybe not,” Sophy allowed. “Maybe we just need some closure.”

“I thought you were already closed.”

“We’re not legally divorced. I told you that.”

“But you haven’t lived together for years, since right after Lily was born. He hasn’t been around at all.”

“I didn’t want him around.”

“And now you do?”

Sophy didn’t know what she wanted. Her emotions were in turmoil, had been since the emergency room doctor’s call last night. Besides, it didn’t matter what she wanted. This wasn’t about her.

“Of course not. I’m just being a rent-a-wife, Nat,” Sophy said with some asperity. “It’s what we do.”

“Oh, okay,” Natalie said after a long moment, and from her tone Sophy could tell her cousin wasn’t exactly convinced.

“I need to do this, Nat.”

“Do it then,” Natalie said more convincingly. There was a pause. Then she said, “I’ll bring Lily out on Saturday.”

It was far more help and cooperation than Sophy had any right to expect. “You’re a gem,” she said, relieved beyond measure.

“I’m glad you think so,” Natalie replied. “But the truth is, I want a look at the man who’s playing fast and loose with your life.”

The man who was playing fast and loose with her life looked like death by the time he was dressed in the clothes Sophy had brought and was leaning on a pair of crutches, waiting while she flagged down a taxi.

Fortunately one turned up almost immediately. If it hadn’t Sophy would have been sorely tempted to march him right back into the hospital and suggest they rethink things.

He had taken the clothes from her with barely a word when she’d returned with them. She’d gone out to get last-minute instructions from Sam while George got dressed. And while Sam had given her a lengthy commentary complete with all the dire things that could happen, George still hadn’t come out of the room when Sam finished.

When he finally had, he was white as the sheets on the bed he’d just left, and Sophy had wanted to push him right back into it.

But George had said, “Let’s go,” through his teeth, and so they’d gone.

He hadn’t spoken again, and he still didn’t say a word when the taxi pulled up and Sophy opened the door. He just got in, not without difficulty, and slumped back against the seat, eyes shut, perspiration on his upper lip, when she shut the door again and Sophy gave the driver George’s address.

Because he had his eyes closed, she studied him. And the longer she did so, the more concerned she got. His breathing seemed too quick and too shallow. His knuckles were white where he clenched his fists against the tops of his thighs. With his head tipped back, she could see his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. She thought he was swallowing too much.

He didn’t open his eyes or his mouth until the driver pulled up outside his place. Sophy eyed him nervously.

“Can you manage?” she asked when she opened the door.

“Yes.” The word came from between his teeth.

She didn’t know if he could or not, but if he couldn’t, she supposed they’d deal with it then. So she got out and paid the driver, then waited as George eased himself slowly out of the car.

Inside the house, Gunnar was barking. She could see him at the bay window, his paws up on the sill as he looked at them on the sidewalk. “He’s glad to see you,” she said and was pleased to see George’s features lighten fractionally as a faint smile touched his mouth.

“I’m glad to see him.”

Getting up the stairs was a chore. He wouldn’t have had a problem with the crutches if he hadn’t also hurt his shoulder in his dive to get Jeremy out of harm’s way. As it was, one complicated the other. Finally he thrust the crutches in her direction and said, “Just go on in. I’ll get there.”

As Gunnar was still barking, she did as George said, opening the door and staying out of sight so he could get up the stairs without an audience. Or at least without her. Gunnar was delighted to see her. He bounced eagerly and nosed her hands. But then he went back to the window to check on George.

Sophy went to the door to hold it open for when he finally got there, which he did at last. He looked like death.

“I know Sam said to get you to bed, but we’re not doing any more stairs right now,” she told him.

He didn’t argue. Wordlessly he headed straight down the hall to the living room, then sank down onto the sofa as soon as he got there. Sophy ran upstairs and got the pillows off her bed and grabbed the comforter folded at the bottom of it, then hurried back down. George hadn’t moved. He didn’t open his eyes when she returned. The north-facing windows let in some light, but his face was in the shadows. His head rested against the back of the sofa, the skin beneath his stubbled cheeks almost white. He looked completely spent.

Sophy plumped the pillows at one end and said, “How about lying down?”

It was an indication of how bad he must feel that he didn’t argue. Slowly, laboriously, wordlessly, eyes still shut, George stretched out on the sofa. She covered him with the comforter.

“Can I get you anything?”

Okay, she knew she was hovering, and he didn’t like hovering. But she wanted a response. Yes, he was doing what she suggested. But she needed a word or two. It unnerved her to see him like this. It was so out of character. George took charge. George could do anything, always had.

“No,” he said, lips barely moving, his voice low and a little rusty. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are,” she said with a smile and tucked the comforter in around him, unable to fight the feeling of fondness—no, not simply fondness … love, God help her—that swamped her.

“Oh, George.” She swallowed hard and blinked back sudden unexpected tears.

His eyes flicked open. “What?”

But Sophy turned her head away. “Nothing. I’m going to get you some water.” She started toward the kitchen.

“I don’t need water,” she heard him say.

“Well, I need to get it,” she replied, not turning around. And she hurried toward the kitchen where, please God, she would get a grip.

She could not survive the coming month if she got teary-eyed at the drop of a hat.

Death didn’t seem like such a bad alternative.

George was appalled at how weak he was, how badly his head hurt—how badly he hurt—and how dizzy and dazed and out of control he felt.

There was no way on God’s earth he could climb the stairs to his bedroom. Not now. Maybe not even today. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and lie perfectly still.

What he did not want to do was deal with Sophy.

Of course it was his own damn fault Sophy was here.

When he heard her footsteps returning, he forced his eyes open, even though as soon as he did the room began spinning again. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Of course I don’t,” Sophy said. But she made no move to leave. She set the glass on a coaster behind his head on the end table. She was so close when she bent to do it that he could smell the scent of her shampoo, enough that he could have reached up a hand and touched her. But God knew what he’d do if he did.

And George, for one, didn’t want to find out.

“So go,” he said with all the firmness he could manage. “You were right before. At the hospital. There are plenty of home nurses in New York. Call one.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sophy—”

“I’m going to put Gunnar out. C’mon, buddy,” she said as if he hadn’t even spoken. She snapped her fingers lightly. And George heard the clink of Gunnar’s tags as the dog—his dog, damn it!—jumped up from beside the sofa and obediently followed Sophy down the stairs.

He didn’t hear them come back.

He must have slept. He didn’t know how long. The first thing he was aware of was a mouthwateringly delicious smell. The second thing was that his head didn’t hurt quite as much. He moved it slowly, experimentally. The pain was still there, but less explosive now. It hurt, but not enough to make him sick to his stomach.

He cracked his eyes open.

Sophy was sitting in the recliner, her laptop on her outstretched legs, her head bent, her burnished copper hair, almost brown in the shadows, hiding her face as she looked at the screen. He turned his head to try to see her better.

Her gaze flicked up. “Ah, you’re awake. How are you doing?”

The first time he’d met her—with Ari at some cousin’s wedding—George had been struck not just by her amazing hair and her pretty animated face, but by her voice. Amid what he thought of as “stage five rapids” of conversational white noise wedding chatter surging all around them, Sophy’s clear soft voice had seemed like a cool still welcome pool. It still did.

He shifted his head again experimentally. “Better.”

“Can I get you anything?”

He flexed his shoulders and discovered that most of his muscles were still on strike. So he said, “Maybe that water you brought earlier.”

Immediately Sophy set aside the laptop and got up to fetch the glass for him. He considered saying he could get it himself, but he wasn’t sure he could—not without making a production of it. So he just said, “Thank you,” when she handed him the glass.

He wasn’t expecting her to kneel down next to him and slide her arm under his shoulders to lift him up enough to drink easily. He let her do that, too, because it did help—and because her hair brushed his cheek and he could breathe in the scent of her just as he used to. Hers was a scent so uniquely Sophy that even if he hadn’t known it was her, one breath would have taken him straight back to the night’s he’d lain next to her in bed, wanting her.

Now he swallowed too quickly and choked, coughing, making his head pound once more.

Swiftly Sophy set the glass down. Her arm tightened around his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

George coughed again, wincing, then made himself nod even though it hurt. “Yeah. Just … swallowed the wrong way. I’m okay.”

She eased him back down and slid her arm from beneath him. Then she sat back on her heels, her gaze intent. “Are you sure about being home, George? I can call Sam. Tell him you’ve changed your mind. Or he can come over. He said he’d stop by after work.”

“No.”

“But—”

“No! I’m not going back and Sam is not coming over. No way. Not having him here hitting on you and—”

“What?”

He gave her a derisive look. “You didn’t notice Sam was just a little bit interested?”

“Interested in what?”

George stared at her. “In you!”‘

“Me? Sam? Oh, don’t be ridiculous. We just met. We spent five minutes talking about you and—”

“Doesn’t take Sam long. He’s a fast worker,” George muttered. “You don’t want to fool around with Sam. He’s not dependable.”

“I don’t even know Sam.”

“And now you won’t have to. Got you out of there before he could work his wiles on you.”

“What?” Sophy’s cheeks were nearly as red as her hair. “You got me out of there?”

“Don’t shout.” George put a hand over his eyes.

“I’ll shout if I want. And I’m not shouting. I’m enunciating. I don’t believe you!”

George heard the sound of her standing abruptly and stalking away. He squinted to look for her, but the room began tilting again. “Just doing you a favor,” he said to her back.

Sophy turned and slapped her hands on her hips. “I don’t need you—or anyone—doing me favors like that!”

He looked up at her. “Just saying, you don’t want to go out with Sam.”

“I’ll go out with whomever I damn well please!”

“Sam’s a womanizer.”

“Ari was a womanizer,” Sophy said. “I know all about womanizers.”

George went suddenly cold. Ari. It always went back to Ari. He dropped his head back on the pillows. “And that’s what you want, isn’t it?” he said dully. “Go away, Sophy. You’re making my head hurt.”

Deliberately he shut his eyes.

He refused to eat the chicken soup she made.

She told him if he didn’t, she’d call Sam.

He gave her a baleful look, but when she picked up her phone and started to punch in Sam’s number, George glared at her, but picked up his spoon and began to eat.

In the end he ate two bowlfuls because once he started he finished the first bowl quickly and Sophy refilled it without even asking him.

She hadn’t intended to eat with him, retreating to the kitchen after she’d filled his bowl a second time. But when she didn’t come back into the living room, he called after her, “Hiding in the kitchen, Soph?”

“No, I’m not hiding in the kitchen,” she retorted irritably. “I’m feeding Gunnar.” But then, when Gunnar finished his food and trotted happily back to be with George, she had no recourse but to bring her own bowl and return as well.

He looked a little better now. After another hour’s sleep following the Sam incident, he had a bit of color in his cheeks again. He said his headache was better and the room had stopped spinning. So he had sat up on the sofa to eat and he was still sitting up now.

“It’s good soup,” he told her.

“Thank you,” Sophy said stiffly.

“You always were a good cook.”

“Thank you again.”

He looked up at her. “You could sit down. A guy could get a stiff neck staring up all the time.”

She wanted to say he didn’t have to look at her. But instead she just sat or, to be more accurate, perched on the edge of the recliner, holding her soup bowl in one hand and her spoon in the other. But she couldn’t help giving him an arch look.

“Better?”

“Oh, much,” George said drily, which had the effect of making her feel as if her irritation was petty and unreasonable at the same time he made her want to laugh.

Damn George could always make her laugh.

It was one of the most surprising things about him—that a man so serious, so responsible and so … so … annoyingly “right” all the time could have a certain subtle wryness that could make her stop taking herself so seriously, could make her smile, could make her laugh.

Could make her fall in love with him again.

No, oh, no. He couldn’t.

Abruptly Sophy stood up. “I’m going to take Gunnar for a walk.”

She didn’t wait to hear what George thought about that. She just grabbed Gunnar’s leash and they left. Because it was night, she took the dog over to Amsterdam Avenue and they walked south from there. Tomorrow morning, she promised him, they would go to Central Park where dogs could run off the leash before nine.

“This one isn’t for you,” she told him. “This walk’s for me.”

She needed it to give herself some space—a little more breathing room and a little less George Savas and all the feelings he evoked.

She walked briskly—Gunnar was a good pacesetter—trying to regain her equilibrium, to put her mixed-up feelings in a box and lock it up tight. This was a job. It was not a second chance. It was doing what needed to be done so she could walk away knowing that the scales were balanced, that she owed nothing more to the man who had married her.

She lectured herself all the way down to 72nd St. before she felt the adrenaline surge level off. Then they walked more sedately back while she told Gunnar all about Lily and how her daughter loved dogs. Focusing on Lily helped. And when she got back to George’s she felt calmer and steadier and as if she was in control again.

The minute she opened the door and unclipped his leash, Gunnar went shooting straight for the living room. Sophy followed at a more sedate, far less enthusiastic pace.

“So,” she said as she came down the hallway to enter the living room, “how’s the headache now?”

George wasn’t there.