Chapter Eight
Kensington pressed her cool palm against her tall forehead. “I thought you said we had two weeks.”
The lines on the doctor’s face were as serious as the grave. “It was an estimate. There’s no formula to determine when a body will succumb to a terminal illness, especially one like cirrhosis of the liver. Dying is not an exact science.” Dr. Lee leaned on the edge of the antique wooden desk, one leg slightly off the ground and the other holding his weight. He might have needed the support after tending to her dad for the last few months. Dad wasn’t an easy man to make happy, although dying had softened him in ways Kenzi hadn’t anticipated.
Her stomach rolled, rebelling against her earlier anger that led to unfortunate behavior. Nash was right: she didn’t want her last words to condemn the man who had raised her. It didn’t matter that he’d stolen her father away drink by drink, that he’d taken a man she’d looked up to, idolized, and broken him. She should have held her tongue. But then, she’d wanted him to know how badly his choices had hurt her—to understand what his selfishness cost her. And after taking one look at his shriveled frame and loose jaw, she knew time was short. Placing blame was one of the stages of grief that she’d not fully explored. Why point a finger at Dad when he was pointing one at himself?
The desk holding up the doctor was part of her father’s Civil War collection and had once belonged to Nathaniel P. Banks, the first political major general appointed by Abraham Lincoln. The top of the desk was shiny, and there were grooves in the wood where an inkwell and pen once sat. The nicks and dings only added to the charm of the piece. Was it that way with people too? The shock and horror on Nash’s face when she’d left Dad’s room would say that no, humans didn’t become more charming upon closer inspection. At least, she didn’t. Perhaps others did. She hoped Nash would.
The doctor continued, “He stopped taking liquids eighteen hours ago, which means it could be any time.”
Kenzi wiped an errant tear. “Why is everyone so afraid to say the word ‘die’?”
Dr. Lee shifted. “It’s not good bedside manner. Death is a final verdict.”
Kenzi felt the anger surge to the surface again, frustrated that Dr. Lee felt the need to protect her and her sisters from something they’d been talking openly about for months. The word “die” was no less real to them today than it had been four weeks ago when they’d rolled the oxygen machine into her father’s bedroom. “I’d appreciate it if you and your staff would—”
“Aunt Kenz.” Short-legged footsteps crashed through the side door and her niece, Hattie, threw herself into Kenzi’s legs.
Kensington bent down and scooped the child into her arms, squeezing her as close to her body as possible. “Hello, baby.” The smell of strawberry shampoo and sunshine soothed away Kenzi’s frustrations. She glanced at Dr. Lee. “I’m sorry for my anger.”
He nodded once and stepped forward to pat Hattie on the back. “Did you drink your veggie juice?”
Hattie nodded. “Myrtle says it will make me strong.”
“It will.” Dr. Lee gave her an indulgent smile before speaking to Kenzi. “I’m going to check on your father.”
Kensington patted Hattie’s back. “Thank you, Dr. Lee. I, I don’t know what we could have done without you.”
“You’re welcome.” His shoulders dropped a fraction. “I’ll be here to the end, and then I’ll make arrangements for him to be transported to the funeral home.”
A shiver ran down Kenzi’s back at the thought of her father’s lifeless body being carted out of the house. The idea was morbid and horrible, and she was full of guilt for thinking of his future remains in such a way. Yet she’d never done well with funerals and bodies, staying in the back of the room and as far away from an open casket as possible. The body never looked the same as the person had in life. The stillness was unnatural, and their pallid complexions more like wax figures than the people she’d known and/or loved.
“I want to see Grandpa,” announced Hattie.
Kenzi took the doctor’s place and leaned against the desk. It had survived the Civil War, and probably many a gentleman and lady had leaned against it for support. “I’m sorry, sweet thing. That’s something your mama will have to do with you.” She rocked gently, wishing, and not for the first time, that this little girl was hers.
Myrtle, the nanny, pushed the door completely open and held out her hands for Hattie. “You little scamp. I turn my back for two seconds and you’re running off.” Though her words were rough, Myrtle’s face was soft with love for Hattie, and the child went willingly into her open arms. A retiree with no family of her own, Myrtle had fallen right into their laps and answered Kenzi’s prayers for a stable influence in Hattie’s life.
Hattie folded her chubby little arms across her body. “I want to see Grandpa.”
Myrtle brushed her hand down Hattie’s head. “I know that—but we need to wait for your mama.”
“Where is Lunette?” Now that her hands were free, Kenzi used them to brace herself.
Myrtle fidgeted with Hattie’s hair band. “I’m not quite sure.”
Kenzi shoved off of the desk. “Don’t worry. I’ll find her.” She had a pretty good idea of where to start looking for her sister, and she wasn’t happy about the situation.
* * *
Nash tracked Kenzi as she stalked across the sitting area and down a dark hallway without so much as a glance in his direction. So far, this marriage thing was not at all what he’d pictured. Not that he’d had much time to contemplate what an arranged marriage to a stranger would look like. Still, this was all too bizarre—even for his life—and he’d come to expect that his life would not to take the path he’d envisioned.
Seconds later, an older woman, with hair as silver as the necklace hanging around her throat, carried a small girl out of the office and down the stairs. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted up the stairway, leading Nash to believe that the kitchen was below.
As the woman’s shiny hair disappeared from view, Harrison’s face appeared. His tie had been loosened and hung at an odd angle. The lawyerly polish that irked Nash to no end clung to him like day-old cologne. He carried two sodas, one in each hand, as he navigated the steps. When he came to stand before Nash, he thrust one toward him. “I thought you might be thirsty.”
Nash accepted the drink with a wary eye. “Thanks. I thought only family was allowed up here.”
