Helena couldn’t say anything else. She got to her feet and moved down the hall to the bed she’d made up yesterday. She thanked herself for having done that when she’d arrived. Now, she took off the clothes she’d been in all night, clothes that reeked of the hospital and bad coffee, and burrowed under the blankets. Within seconds, she fell asleep.
It was the most restful sleep she’d had in years.
11
Helena didn’t wake up till two o’clock in the afternoon. Stretching her arms over her head, she took in the view of the sun-drenched bedroom, wondering where she was. All at once, it came back to her: her departure from Orangeburg, her move to Nantucket, the accident, Matteo. She tore the bedsheets off her and emerged, sort of sweaty, her hair a wild nest at the back of her head. But she couldn’t care what she looked like, not now. She hurried down the hall to find the couch empty, Matteo’s cane gone. She staggered to a halt. Of course, he’d gone. Why had she thought he’d stick around?
“Morning!” Matteo’s voice came from outside. He’d heard her, scampering through the house.
Helena’s relief spilled through her. She assessed the floor in front of the broken glass door, realizing it was perfectly clean. Even the water had dried.
“The vacuum cleaner came!” Matteo explained, still from wherever he was on the patio. “I wasn’t sure if I should use it. I didn’t want to wake you up. But it was quieter than I’ve ever heard. I think they’ve revolutionized vacuum cleaners.”
Helena’s eyes slid over to the corner, where the vacuum in question glinted brightly. It looked state-of-the-art and far more expensive than anything Helena would have bought for herself. She swallowed. “What do I owe you for the vacuum cleaner?”
Matteo laughed. “Come outside! We’ll talk out here. If you want to.”
Helena walked tentatively across the carpet, careful to watch for any remaining glass. She opened the door and stepped into the most remarkable scene: Matteo at the outdoor table, sipping a glass of wine and watching the waves roll up on the beach. His sailboat shifted gently next to the dock, as though it had always belonged there. Helena touched her wild hair, knowing she was a sight to see. Matteo raised his glass. “To the woman who saved my life.”
Helena rolled her eyes. “Did you rest at all?”
“I slept off and on through the morning,” Matteo said. “But then the vacuum cleaner came, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I watched a little bit of a movie, then realized the real movie was out here on the beach. This is some view you have here.” He beamed.
“It really is,” Helena said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”
Matteo and Helena took a moment to gaze out at the water. She imagined that he was comparing it to his previous life in the Midwest: miles of cornfields and highways. There was a beauty in that, too, Helena knew. But this was something else.
“I wish I could offer you something else,” Helena said.
“You just got to the island!” Matteo said. “Opening your wine was probably stepping over the line as it is.”
“No. I don’t really drink,” Helena explained. “The property manager left it here as a welcome present.”
Helena sat beside Matteo for a little while, quiet and contemplative. She kept thinking he would get up and tell herhe had to sail away. But two o’clock drifted to three, and still, he made no move to go.
“I think I’d better go to the grocery store,” Helena said finally. “I want to cook us a big, nutritious dinner.”
Matteo’s eyes glinted. Helena felt overwhelmed with euphoria. When was the last time she’d cooked dinner for someone? There had been sad meals for her mother while she’d been dying, meals that her mother had been able to get down without feeling sick. But before that? She’d cooked for Elliott, creating dynamic, flavorful meals he raved about. She’d missed that side of herself. Did it still exist, somewhere behind the liver disease, behind her sorrow?
“I wouldn’t say no to that,” Matteo said.
Helena showered, did her makeup, and decided to let her hair air dry. After confirming with Matteo that he liked Greek food, she decided to make a Greek salad, cook some fish with plenty of olive oil and Greek spices, and roast some vegetables and feta along with it. Slowly, trying to make her hand stop shaking, she wrote out an ingredient list for herself, then drove to the nearest grocery store, her heart pounding. She couldn’t believe this was her life.
But when she parked the car and cut the engine, her phone began to ring. It was a number she didn’t recognize, but it had a Nantucket area code. Thinking it was maybe something to do with the house or Nantucket logistics, she answered it.
“Helena, hi. It’s Bethany Sutton, the surgeon who operated on your friend, Matteo.”
Helena’s eyebrows shot to her brow line. Since leaving the hospital, she’d allowed herself to stop thinking about collapsing in the waiting room, about the doctor who’d pretended to care.
“Oh. Hi.” Helena gripped the steering wheel with her free hand. “He’s doing fine, by the way. He rested this morning, andhe’s probably going to sail home, like. I don’t know. Tomorrow, maybe?”
“He’s going to be fine,” Bethany said. “I’m actually calling about you.”
Helena closed her eyes. The worry and care in Bethany’s voice startled her. “I’m okay.”
“I don’t know if I believe that,” Bethany said gently.
Helena wondered how Bethany had gotten her number. But then she remembered that, when she’d brought Matteo to the hospital, they’d given her a form to fill out. She’d written her cell number. She’d written her old address back in Orangeburg, for some reason. She hadn’t been thinking clearly.
