For once, I’m not invisible in a room full of women.He’s not charming them, not slipping into his easy Hollywood smile. Every bit of him is here, with me, with Gran. And God help me, I want to believe that means something.
A thrill shivers through me as I look up at the gruff fireman beside me. He’s the kind of man I could come to rely on … who could care for Gran and me, be a part of our family.
A rap sounds on the door, and Ambrose clears his throat, ordering, “Come in.”
A man in a white lab coat, with disheveled gray-streaked black curls, greets us as he paces towards the bed. His name badge reads, “Dr. Mark Stuart.”
“Good evening, Ms. Dupont and family.”
My hand finds Ambrose’s, and I squeeze it, eyes flickering momentarily to his.Family. I like the sound of that. He smilesa restrained version of his adorable lopsided grin, and my heart flutters like a hummingbird inside my chest.
Dr. Stuart perches on the hospital bed next to Gran. “It sounds like you had an eventful evening at the Harvest Festival.”
She shakes her head, smoothing her pretty white curls carefully. “I hope I didn’t make a scene.”
Ambrose leans closer to me, whispering, “Now I see where you get all that ‘I don’t want to be a bother from.’”
The corners of my mouth turn up, and I nod. I learned from the best.
“I can imagine it’s not how you expected your evening to go. But fortunately, I have good news for you. Your heart checked out fine. So did your vitals. In fact, everything looks good except for your blood sugar, which was very low. When’s the last time you ate?”
“I don’t know,” Gran says, taking me aback. “But my granddaughter and I were about to get funnel cakes.”
“Not the healthiest choice,” he says, flicking a critical glance my way.
Gran shrugs. “I wanted to indulge a little. Try to get my mind off what happened a year ago with my dear Ferdinand.”
“My Grandpa passed away unexpectedly after visiting last year’s Harvest Festival,” I explain, wiping the backs of my hands over my cheeks. Ambrose’s big, warm hand settles on my shoulder, steadying, grounding.
“How awful,” Dr. Stuart says.
It was. There are no words to describe the horror of that night. Something I never want to repeat, but felt like I was reliving earlier this evening. Emotion grips me, and I bite my bottom lip, fighting to hold back tears.
I need a distraction, something to fixate on so I don’t fall apart. Grabbing my purse, I rummage through it, saying, “You told me Tilly made a big lunch, Gran. Remember?”
She nods hesitantly. “Did I?”
“Hold on.” Finding my cell phone, I open it and type quickly, staring at the screen before a response comes through. “Okay, I just texted Tilly, Gran’s home health nurse, and she said you barely touched your lunch today. She said she left a note on the kitchen counter?—”
“Oh, yes, I remember now,” Gran confirms.
I sigh. “Then, why didn’t I see the note on the counter?”
Gran shrugs, chuckling. “Because our counter is covered in Ambrose’s flowers.”
I shake my head. “I feel terrible. I should’ve fed you dinner before we left.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Ambrose murmurs, rubbing his thumb across the curve of my shoulder. Sparks of heat spiral through me at his reassuring touch.
Dr. Stuart chimes in, “Fortunately, Ms. Dupont’s tests, apart from blood sugar, indicate she’s as healthy as a horse. That said, she also showed some signs of dehydration, a very common condition in older people. So, we’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”
“Okay,” I say in a wavering voice.
Ambrose squeezes my shoulder. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
An hour later, Gran looks cozy in an upstairs room of the hospital. Ambrose asks the nurses for freshly warmed blankets, piling them gently on her bed until she begins to doze off.
“We should go,” he whispers. “Marguerite needs to rest up.”
