But as I watch him walk away, his innocuous question swims around in my brain. I’ve got a great boyfriend who totally gets me, a volunteer job I’ve fallen in love with, and a group of friends who feel a little more like family with every passing day.
DoI want anything else?
25
Over the next few days, summer hits the island with a vengeance. Every morning is dazzlingly bright and warm, every songbird has come out singing, and Kiara and I swap our hot coffee for iced coffee and start planning picnics on the beach. I’m going to invite Rose along, since I just know that she and Kiara will hit it off (and because I have a secret plan to merge all my tiny friend families into one).
The Canada Day event is right around the corner, and John has been putting in nearly as much time on it as I have. We’re still spending almost every night together, and the prickly feeling I felt at the racetrack has almost completely gone away. I don’t even know what it was about. John is the perfect boyfriend. Like, the other day, he actually cleaned out a drawer at his apartment for my stuff, without acting like it was a big deal at all. And then when I mentioned to him that I was thinking I’d stay around Waldon a while longer, he gave me this casual shrug and said, “That’d be cool”—but then I caught him grinning to himself as he made us coffee. It makes my heart fizzy just remembering it.
Honestly, I’m probably just not used to things being so easy. I remember my university boyfriend throwing a fit when I put a thing of floss in the bathroom cabinet at his house. He said it felt like I was trying to move in with him.
(With a thing offloss.)
(Which I wouldn’t have had to put there, by the way, if he ever bought floss for himself.)
So, yeah. That prickly feeling obviously has nothing to do with John himself. And it’s basically gone now, anyway.
On Wednesday, the week before the Canada Day event, I spend most of my day at the shop running through my event checklist for the millionth time and trying to figure out if I’ve missed anything. Craft booths, check. Food and drinks, check. Entertainment, check. Give Shelley just enough to do that she feels important but not so much that she starts whining about it, check.
At five o’clock, I say goodbye to John and Dave, who show no sign of finishing anytime soon, and head out into the parking lot. On the way to my car, my phone rings. It’s Mrs. Finnamore’s daughter, Debra.
My stomach tenses unpleasantly.
“Hello?” I say warily.
“Emily? It’s Debra.”
Uh-oh. She sounds pissed.
“Hi, Debra. How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” she says, her voice dripping with nasty sarcasm. “I suppose you’ve heard what’s happened?”
My stomach tightens. “No.”
She lets out a harsh, disbelieving breath. “My mother has been taken to the hospital,” she says. Every word feels pointed, an accusation rather than a statement.
My hand flies to my mouth. “What happened? Is she all right?”
“She’s broken her hip,” Debra says tersely. “And the doctor said her blood pressure was sky-high.Clearlyshe hasn’t been taking her medicines properly.”
“But—she has been!” I stammer. “I swear—”
“I have to go,” Debra says coldly. “I’ll expect reimbursement for the remainder of the month.” She makes that harsh noise again. “This is exactly why I wanted her to haveproperhelp.”
I open my mouth to say, I don’t know, something—but she’s already gone. I stand frozen with my mouth open, my phone screen blank in my numb hand.
Mrs. Finnamore broke herhip?
I have to get to the hospital, right now.
I leap in my car and drive there in a blind panic. My mind is running through every visit I’ve had with her over the past week. Did I leave something on the floor that she could have tripped over? Did I actually see herswallowher medications after I handed them to her? I’m struck by a vision of her taking the pills from me and then stuffing them in her pocket when I’m not looking. Oh god. I should have watched her take them, I should have made her open her mouth after she swallowed them.
The local hospital is small, only two stories, but I still get lost three times on the way to the emergency room. The waiting room is completely full, a hundred curious eyes boring into me as I walk up to the doors and press the buzzer. After a few minutes, I press it again. A moment later, a young woman in scrubs opens the doors. She looks irritated.
“Take a number and the triage nurse will call you when they get to you,” she says, pointing to a big sign that says the same thing in huge letters.
“Oh, no,” I say hastily, before she can close the door. “I’m just looking for someone who was brought in earlier. Betty Finnamore?”
