"Isla? The wire?"
"Right. Sorry." I ring her up, smiling through my distraction. "How's the jewelry business going?"
"Good. Bennett's helping me set up a proper workspace in his shop." She grins, that happy glow that comes from being newly in love. "It's nice having someone who understands the creative process."
After she leaves, the shop falls quiet again. It's been slow all week. March always is a weird lull between winter and tourist season. I've been rearranging displays to pass the time, but mostly I just keep thinking about Mac.
About last night, when he stayed up late working on a new blanket while I read beside him. The way his face relaxes when he knits, the tension melting from his shoulders. The way he looked at me when I asked if I could try.
I'm dusting shelves when I hear the sirens.
An ambulance, racing down Main Street. Not unusual in a small town, but something makes me go to the window. And then I see Mac's truck, following close behind the ambulance, hazards flashing.
My stomach drops.
I'm dialing his number before I consciously decide to, hands shaking.
"Isla." His voice is rough, strained. "Can't talk right now."
"What happened? I saw the ambulance."
"Birdie fell. At her house. Bad this time." I hear him take a shaky breath. "Sprained her arm. Maybe worse. They're taking her to the hospital."
"I'm coming."
"You don't have to."
"I'm coming." I'm already flipping the sign to CLOSED, grabbing my keys. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
The hospital is small—, so I find Mac immediately. He's pacing in the waiting area, still in his work clothes, sawdust in his hair. When he sees me, something in his expression cracks.
"Hey." I go to him, and he pulls me against his chest, holding on like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.
"She was just getting the mail," he says into my hair. "Slipped. Called me instead of 911." His arms tighten around me. "She couldn't get up. Couldn't move her arm."
"But she called you. She's conscious, talking?"
"Yeah. Pissed off that I called the ambulance." He pulls back, and I can see the fear in his eyes. Fear and guilt. "I should have made her get the walker last week."
"Mac, no. You can't control everything."
"She's eighty-five. She fell twice in two weeks. I should have convinced her."
"Mr. Hawthorne?" A woman in scrubs appears in the doorway. I recognize her—Bronwyn Allard, the nurse who came back to town a few months ago. "You can see her now. Her arm is sprained, not broken. We've wrapped it, given her pain medication. But we need to talk about fall prevention."
Mac nods, his jaw tight. He reaches for my hand, and I lace my fingers through his as we follow Bronwyn down the hall.
Birdie is sitting up in bed, looking annoyed and slightly loopy from the pain meds. Her left arm is in a sling, and there's a bruise forming on her cheek.
"Oh good, you brought reinforcements," she says when she sees me. "Mac's been hovering like I'm dying."
"You fell," Mac says flatly. "Again."
"I slipped. There's a difference." But her usual spark is dimmed, and I can see the fear underneath the bravado. She's scared. Maybe for the first time, she's actually scared.
The doctor clears his throat. "Mrs. Callahan, you've had two falls in two weeks. At your age, falls are the leading cause of—"
"I know the statistics, dear. I'm old, not stupid."
