Читать книгу Cavanaugh Strong - Marie Ferrarella - Страница 8

Prologue

“C’mon, Henry, I know you’re in there. Did you forget about our lunch date?” Lucinda O’Banyon paused to press her ear against the door she’d just been knocking on, trying to ascertain if she heard any movement within the closed-off room. Though she was well into her seventies, her hearing was still good. “Open up, Henry. I can stand out here longer than you can play possum, old man. You know that.”

Lucy took a step back, keeping her eyes on the door.

It remained shut.

Lucy blew out a breath and frowned. This wasn’t like Henry.

She and Henry Robbins had an “unofficial” standing date for every other Thursday afternoon for several years now, ever since, in a fit of depression, her friend had sold his house and moved in to the Happy Senior Retirement Home.

As far as Lucy was concerned, the latter was a misnomer if she’d ever heard one.

“There’s nothing ‘happy’ about shoehorning a bunch of older people into tiny rooms and dictating every facet of their lives from here on in,” she had told Henry when she’d heard what he planned on doing.

Only a year older than she was, after one surgery had left him feeling weak and far from his old fit self, Henry had been advised by his doctor that he might be better off in a place where help was available 24/7. And even though Lucy had reminded her childhood friend several times that she was only a phone call away, Henry had sold his house and thus opted to “withdraw from life,” as she had phrased it.

After she had reconciled herself to his decision, she’d begun visiting him at The Home—and watched, to her horror, Henry become progressively more morose. Which was why she’d made up her mind that today, as tactfully as she could, she was going to suggest that Henry move in with her—strictly on a platonic basis. She intended to make sure he understood that part. They were friends, always had been. It had never gone beyond that.

A year ago, her stipulation would have gotten a wicked response from Henry who fancied himself to be somewhat of a ladies’ man. But he’d changed in the past year.

Blessed with incredible health and excellent eyesight, Lucy still had her driver’s license at seventy-eight and she made a point of driving Henry as far away as possible from this so-called “happy” home.

He still wasn’t opening the door. What was that man up to? she wondered.

“Henry, you leave me no choice. I hope you’re decent because I’m coming in,” Lucy announced, putting her hand on the doorknob.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a pleasant, albeit somewhat condescending and authoritative, voice behind her said before she could turn the doorknob and let herself into Henry’s room.

Surprised, Lucy turned around to see Amanda Wright. The rather attractive, statuesque dark-haired woman, who volunteered a couple of days a week at the home, was standing almost directly behind her.

“Henry likes his privacy,” Amanda told her.

Lucy’s back went up. She resented this woman, in her early fifties, presuming to know her lifelong friend better than she did.

For the sake of peace, Lucy took a breath in order to subdue her temper and then said, “Honey, Henry and I go way back. I knew him when he used to smile,” she added after a beat.

Amanda raised her chin. Taller by five inches, the woman gave the impression that she was looking down at her. “Henry told me that he wasn’t feeling well after breakfast. I suggest that you let him rest,” the volunteer told her. “Perhaps even come back later for your little visit.”

Lucy had a sudden urge to scratch the woman’s eyes out, but she didn’t. “And I suggest he tell me so himself,” she countered.

She might have been smaller than the younger woman, but Lucy was nothing if not full of sheer grit and determination. She’d come up the hard way and had triumphed over her circumstances. She was not about to allow this woman to dictate to her.

With a deliberate movement, Lucy turned her shoulders around and opened the door.

Fully dressed, appearing to have decided to take a quick nap, Henry was lying very still on his bed.

Too still, Lucy thought, a chill shimmying up and down her spine.

Until just a short time ago, before his surgery had taken place, her friend had been a rather robust and healthy man, especially given his age. However, he had always complained about his inability to sleep. Henry was a light sleeper at best, prone to waking up even if there was the least, inconsequential noise somewhere in the vicinity. That was the reason why she’d gotten him a set of earplugs as a housewarming gift when he had moved into The Home.

“See, he’s asleep. You need to leave,” Amanda told her, taking her by the arm. The woman looked as if she was ready to hustle her out of Henry’s room.

Shrugging out of the woman’s hold, Lucy silently counted to ten in an effort to rein in her temper. She’d had just about enough of this know-it-all woman.

“I’ll be the one who decides what I need or don’t need to do,” Lucy retorted.

Putting her hand on Henry’s shoulder, she was about to gently shake her friend awake when she suddenly froze. A coldness swept over her, initiated by the coolness of Henry’s skin. She could feel it beneath the thin light blue polo shirt he was wearing.

Fear began to do a soft-shoe through her. She did what she could to block it and the thoughts that were simultaneously being generated.

“Henry,” Lucy said, raising her voice. “Wake up. Henry?”

But even as she repeated his name, the sinking feeling inside her chest told her that no amount of calling was going to get her childhood friend to open his eyes.

Henry Robbins was dead.

That made two, she thought numbly.