Читать книгу Season Of Glory - Ron/Janet Benrey - Страница 10

How do I get them to tell me the whole truth?

Andrew Ballantine mulled over his situation and cataloged the six forlorn facts he knew for certain:

1. According to the embroidered label on his blanket, he was a “guest” of Glory Regional Hospital.

2. He’d spent an entire night in a hospital for the first time in his life.

3. He’d been asleep much of that night—drifting in and out of consciousness.

4. He’d awoken at 10:00 a.m. and now felt reasonably clearheaded, although his innards still ached a bit.

5. His illness, whatever its cause, had begun at an afternoon tea party—he dimly recollected drinking a mug of an especially fine Indian Assam.

6. The nurse who’d visited him twice to take his temperature this morning—a rosy cheeked woman named Melanie, who looked about twelve years old—repeatedly replied “I don’t know” when he asked what was wrong with him or why he was attached to five different medical monitors.

Andrew lifted the blanket and peered at the various wires connected to circular pads stuck on his chest, arms and legs, and contemplated yanking the clips loose.

“That would set off the alarms and start a noisy commotion,” he mused. “Maybe then someone in this hospital will tell me what’s going on.”

A tap on the door interrupted his scheming. “Mr. Ballantine?”

Now what? It seemed too soon for another visit from Melanie. Besides, she didn’t knock; she simply stormed in.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened, revealing a strikingly attractive woman wearing sky-blue scrubs. It took him a few seconds to recognize her as the woman he’d talked with for more than an hour at the tea party. Sharon…

Rats! I’ve forgotten her last name.

She smiled at him from the doorway. “How do you feel?”

“Confused. No one will tell me what put me in a hospital. I woke up an hour ago, and I’ve received a full-blown runaround since then.”

“That’s my fault, I’m afraid.” She moved into the room. “None of the staff who came on duty after seven o’clock this morning knows the whole story of why you’re here. I haven’t had a chance to bring the nurses up to speed.”

Andrew struggled to think of Sharon’s last name. She’d looked different in The Scottish Captain’s back garden. Her complexion had seemed more golden in the late afternoon sun, especially in contrast to the deep green of her outfit. But her blue scrubs this morning and the cool fluorescent overhead lighting in his room conspired to made her skin look pale, almost porcelainlike.

Yesterday, her ash blond hair had brushed her shoulders; now, it was tightly pinned back. One feature hadn’t changed, however. Despite her metal-rimmed glasses, her amber eyes appeared as luminous as when he’d stood next to her on the gazebo steps—and even more lively.

A vision flashed in Andrew’s mind. “I remember a stocky man,” he said. “In his forties. Mostly bald with a friendly face and a small goatee. He kept shining a light in my eyes.”

“Ken Lehman is our lead emergency room physician. He spent most of the night working on you.”

“I want to talk to Dr. Lehman. How can I get hold of him?”

“You can’t right now. He went home to get some sleep.”

“He’s home sleeping? That’s just wonderful!”

“Actually, it is wonderful,” she said. “I had to fight with Ken to make him leave the E.R. He came on duty at two o’clock. yesterday afternoon, and it wasn’t until five this morning that he agreed you’d made sufficient enough progress for him to get some rest. I promised to monitor you and call him if your condition gets worse.”

“Will I get worse?”

“No. You’re on the mend.”

Another memory jogged his mind. He’d woken up briefly during the night and seen a patchwork of images: a tress of blond hair, a woman praying silently and the glint of a needle attached to a green plastic tube.

“You were my nurse last night, right? You stuck something in my arm.”

Her amber eyes flashed mischievously. “Several somethings.”

Concentrate! What’s her last name?

Andrew tried to dredge up their conversation in the gazebo. Had she told him that she was an emergency room nurse? Probably, and many other things about herself, too—but most of the tea party was still a blank in his mind.

You’re not as clearheaded as you thought you were.

He peered at her nametag, but her last name was too small to decipher from across the room.

“On the mend from what?” he asked.

She took a step toward him. “You were poisoned.”

“Tainted food! I thought it must be something like that.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “That’s what happens when Americans attempt to cook Scottish vittles without proper training. No doubt a fusty scone I ate at afternoon tea laid me loo—as my Scottish grandmother would say.”

He expected her to nod, but surprisingly her face darkened. “None of the food you ate at the party made you ill.” Then she glared at him. “Not even the dessert I prepared.”

Embarrassment tore through him. “I remember. You made the Strathbogie Mist.”

“Which you loved.”

“How could I not? It’s comfort food straight from my childhood. My grandmother served us Strathbogie Mist every Sunday—even during the winter when she used canned pears instead of fresh. That’s why I ate two helpings at the tea party.”

“Now you’re fibbing,” she said with a laugh. “There weren’t any extra portions.”

She came another step closer. At last, he could read her nametag.

Pickard. Sharon Pickard!

“There must have been extras,” he said. “Two of those little ceramic dishes appeared by my side. I don’t recall who gave me the first one, but I’m all but certain that Emma Neilson brought me the second helping a few minutes later.”

Her smile vanished. “I wish you hadn’t eaten any.” She sat down in the visitor’s chair alongside his bed and pointed at his heart. “You were poisoned. Really poisoned. Someone tried to kill you by spiking one of your ramekins with oleander toxin. You consumed more than enough toxin to stop your heart. Oleander poisoning has a high death rate. You could easily have died last night.”

Andrew glanced at her fingers a few inches from his chest, and then at the anxious grimace on her face. All at once, the words she spoke hit home. Poisoned. Toxin. Stop your heart. Death. He shivered as he recognized that she sincerely meant everything she said. He made a feeble wave toward the medical monitors in the room. “All these electronic gadgets…you actually used this stuff on me?”

“Every last screen, meter and dial.”

“I could have died…” he said without meaning to.

“But you didn’t. Ken Lehman kept you alive.”

Andrew recalled that he’d seen many glimpses of blond hair during the night. “Ken and you.”

“True. I helped Ken,” she replied with a new smile that made her face glow.

He realized that he was gawking at Sharon. Her jubilant expression made her more than striking—she’d become beautiful.

Stare at her later. After she’s answered all your questions.

“You said that the toxin I downed came from oleander. Do you mean the shrubby evergreen with large five-petalled blossoms? The plant some people call rosebay?”

She nodded. “Is gardening one of your hobbies?”

“I’m not sure I could recognize an oleander in the flesh, so to speak, but during the 19th century, the Ballantine Studios built several church windows that incorporate oleanders in their designs. I’m quite familiar with the stained-glass rendering of the plant. Some have pink blossoms, others white.”

“Oleander is an efficient killer. Fortunately, the symptoms you presented helped Ken Lehman make a quick diagnosis. You even had the classic redness of the skin around your mouth.” She touched the depression on his face, just above his chin. “It hasn’t faded yet.”

Andrew shivered at her touch, astonished at its gentleness. He thought back to the tea party. He remembered feeling woozy, uncoordinated. He wondered what he’d eaten that was making him nauseated and his insides ache. Then he became dizzy and everything changed perspective. He slowly became aware that he’d tumbled to the floor. His side hurt, but nowhere near as much as his stomach. He’d probably hit something solid, perhaps a chair, on his way down.

Someone was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw Sharon.

“Dr. Carroll,” she said. “Can you take a look at Andrew?”

A moment later, Andrew felt a woman’s fingers touch his wrist and then the artery in his neck.

“His pupils are dilated and I don’t like his pulse. I barely felt anything in his wrist and his carotid pulse isn’t much stronger. I wish I had my medical bag.”

“I know that Emma has an EpiPen auto-injector inside the Captain’s first-aid kit,” Sharon said. “Could this be some kind of allergic reaction?”

“I doubt it. He doesn’t have the other symptoms of allergic shock.”

“Hang on, Andrew,” Sharon said. “The paramedics are on their way.”

“Praise God for that,” Andrew had muttered. The pain in his stomach had become sharper, more concentrated. And then his chest had felt tight. He could tell that something was wrong with his heart. Could he be having a heart attack?

Not when I’m only thirty-four years old.

Emma had said, “Here’s a folded tablecloth. I’m going to put in under your head.”

“What a good idea,” Andrew had replied, softly. Despite the aches in his stomach and his chest, he’d begun to feel drowsy. Why not take a little nap? He’d had a long day, starting with a seven-hour drive from Asheville…then he’d studied the church windows…and then all the talking at the tea party…

Returning to the present, Andrew found the bed remote control and worked the button that lifted him to a sitting position. “I don’t even remember the trip in the ambulance.”

“You were unconscious when we strapped you to the gurney.” Sharon’s face was filled with anxiety again. “Oleander toxin causes a variety of heart rhythm problems—all of them serious.”

He tried to assess the beating of his heart. The gentle throb inside him seemed normal, although something Sharon had said kept nudging at his thoughts.

“Look…I don’t have any enemies in Glory—or in Asheville, for that matter. I can’t get my head around the idea that someone poisoned me on purpose.”

“The police confirmed it.”

“The police? So it’s an official investigation?”

“That’s right. They consider your poisoning attempted murder.” She tossed her head unhappily. “In fact, a special agent named Keefe wants to talk to you. I told him you’d be ready to be interviewed later this afternoon.”

“Sheesh!”

“And a dozen reporters have called the hospital asking about you. By evening, your story will be front-page news from coast to coast.” She looked faintly amused. “Who can blame them? It’s not often that a famous stained-glass guru is poisoned by a toxic Scottish dessert during afternoon tea at a small-town bed-and-breakfast.”

“Whoa! Who says I’m famous?”

“The Internet.” She held up a wireless laptop computer. “Last night while I was waiting for the antitoxin we gave you to do its thing, I accessed a search engine and entered your name.”

“Don’t believe everything you find on the Net.”

“I discovered that Glory Community Church imported the world’s foremost expert on painted stained-glass windows. We knew that you’re the great-great-great-grandson of James Ballantine of Edinburgh, the man who built our windows. But we didn’t know that you’re celebrated on four continents.”

“In highly limited circles.” He let himself grin. “But world expert or not, I have no interest in talking to reporters.”

“Bless you! The Scottish Captain doesn’t deserve a flood of negative publicity merely because Emma Neilson did a good deed and hosted a tea party.”

“Talking about good deeds…I need to get back to work. I have a presentation to prepare. I’m scheduled to speak to the elders of the Church tomorrow evening.” He laughed. “Well, you know that. You sent me the invitation.”

“If you take it easy today,” she said, “I’ll do my best to get you released tomorrow.”

“I’m feeling fine.”

“You look fine, too. But five hours ago, you were sleeping in our emergency room—and twelve hours ago, we had you listed in critical condition.”

“And so, I’m stuck here in bed until tomorrow morning?”

“Until we’re sure that your heart rhythm is back to normal.” She swung her index finger to and fro like a metronome. “I’ll keep you company for a while.”

Andrew saw something blossom in Sharon’s eyes that he tried to gauge. Was it…enthusiasm? Did she enjoy spending time with him? He felt a ripple of concern. He’d never been good at reading women’s faces. Her “enthusiasm” might be nothing more than wishful thinking on his part, or maybe her routine attempt to come across as polite and professional.

They had spoken for a long time at the tea party. He must have liked her then…he certainly liked her now. But what had they talked about? He remembered only snips and scraps of their conversation. They were both single. They both enjoyed skiing. And both bicycled from their homes to their workplaces. Not much to go on. Worst of all, he didn’t recall her body language or the other non-verbal cues that signaled her thoughts about him.

“What else did you learn about me on the Internet?”

Andrew squirmed at the clumsiness of his own words. You sound like an egotistical clod. Ask about her.

Before he could undo the damage, she said, “I learned that we have something in common.”

She reached into her pocket and brought out a cell phone that was also a personal-digital assistant. She pressed a few buttons. A photograph of a small white dog appeared on the screen.

“Meet Heather Pickard.”

“You have a Scottish Terrier, too?”

“Heather is three years old. She isn’t a show dog, like your Scottie.”

“You’ve heard about MacTavish? Well, he’s retired from the show ring.” He looked around for the telephone. “I have dozens of photos in my laptop. If I can get someone to retrieve it from the Captain, I’ll dazzle you with Mac’s portfolio.”

Sharon pulled a face. “Nice try. But no laptops or cell phones until tomorrow. You’ll have to make do with conversation today.”

“In that case, let me ask you a question. You know how to cook Scottish desserts, you have a Scottish Terrier, and you live in Glory, North Carolina, a town founded by Scots. I see a pattern developing. Am I right?”

“It’s true that I like Scottish things…” She smiled then added, “All except plaid.”

“Me, too—but I can explain my Scotophilia. It’s in my blood. What’s your excuse?”

She began to laugh. “You used the wrong word. Scotophilia is a medical term that means a preference for darkness or night. You don’t seem the type of person who avoids the light.”

“Scotophilia is also a fondness for Scotland and the Scots. I found the definition on the Internet.”

She laughed louder.

“Anyway,” he said. I’m a Scotophile because my grandparents moved from Scotland to North Carolina after WWII.”

She stopped laughing long enough to say, “As a matter of fact, so did my grandparents. The Pickards hail from Glasgow.”

“I can’t believe that Pickard is a Scottish name. It sounds French.”

“Our Scottish branch isn’t as large as the Ballantine Clan, but ‘men of Picardy’ have lived in Scotland for hundreds of years.”

Andrew forced himself to look at the small Christmas wreath on the wall above Sharon’s head and count the four gold angels and nine silvery stars. From what he’d seen, the hospital had been restrained in putting up Christmas decorations. Still, thanks to the holiday season, he could gaze at something other than Sharon’s lovely face.

Don’t say what you want to say.

He ached to tell Sharon that that she looked her most lovely when she laughed—but that would probably make her laugh at him. Even if it didn’t, why start something that would only lead to disappointment. Some guys weren’t meant for long-term relationships. You, for example. You’ve proven that enough times to recognize the truth.

Help them restore the church window, and then get out of Glory.