Page 18 of Late Harvest

Only to invite into her own life the mistakes of the past.

Her phone chimed. Brinder—calling on a weekend. Experience told her that was generally not a harbinger of happy news.

“Brinder. What can I do for you?” She kept the wariness out of her voice, striving for the cool professionalism warranted by a Saturday call from the boss.

“Hey. You at the shelter?” Brinder was aware of her volunteer work, but not the reason behind it.

“Yes, just got here. What’s going on? Everything ok with the baby?”

“Yep, he’s fine. Judah’s currently sound asleep in his uncle’s arm, his little belly full and tight like a drum.”

His uncle. Bash.

A shiver raced down her spine as she pictured his stupidly handsome face. Shit. This mild obsession with him was ludicrous. Bash Wheatley wasn’t even around and he was causing an ache in places that hadn’t reacted like that in a long time.

She’d even had to break out her vibrator last night—pissed that it needed a charge. While she waited, she’d had one more glass of wine, finishing that second bottle.

And the orgasm she’d had, picturing him rising above her and pounding into her over and over? Off the fucking charts.

“Remy?” Brinder’s concerned tone interrupted her reverie.

“Sorry. Just distracted this morning. What’s going on?”

“I’m the administrator on call this weekend and I just heard some news I thought you might want to know.”

Brinder’s somber tone grounded her in reality. Definitely not a social call. Remy braced herself for bad news. “Ok. What’s that?”

“Your patient passed away. The seventy-two-year-old hip patient who’d been admitted to the ICU yesterday.”

Remy’s heart sank. “Oh. Wow. Ok. Shit. What happened?”

“Cardiac arrest. They tried to revive him, and were successful twice, but he coded.”

“Dammit. He passed the cardiac workup, Brinder. Flying colors. He likes—liked—to hike with his daughter and grandsons, for fuck’s sake. He was in better shape than people twenty years younger.” A tear snaked down her cheek, and she dashed it away with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry, Remy. I know you really connected with him. His daughter pleaded with the charge nurse to call you. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he called me. And I knew you’d want to know.”

Remy closed her eyes and pressed the back of her head to the headrest. “Thank you,” she choked out, unsure why she was taking it so hard. She’d lost patients before, though it was a rare occurrence in her specialty, largely confined to ortho trauma patients with other bodily damage.

She sniffed back her running nose. “Do you have his daughter’s cell?”

“I do.” Sympathy tinged Brinder’s tone. “I’ll text it to you.”

“Thanks, Brin.” Remy dabbed at her tears, hoping her boss couldn’t tell she’d become emotional. “I’m about to head into the shelter, but I’ll call her later. I’ll go to the funeral, if there is one.”

“You’re a good woman and an amazing doctor, Arabella Remington.”

Remy smiled sadly. “You, too, Brinder Desai.”

She disconnected the call. Fuck. Remy blotted more tears, inhaling shaky breaths. No matter how many times she came to the shelter, and it had been at least thirty in the last year, she got emotional. Add to that her sorrow over her patient, and if she didn’t pull herself together, she’d probably end up in a soggy puddle of pathetic sadness, one of the other volunteers sopping up her tears with a pile of tissues.

Sighing, she steeled herself for her shift. Every week—unless she was at the hospital—Remy volunteered at this tiny shelter just outside Charlottesville. She’d also earmarked a portion of her paychecks for charitable donations to St. Dymphna’s. It was the least she could do, and she always wished she could do more.

The area surrounding St. D’s was impoverished, the nearby buildings dilapidated and in poor repair. But the shelter, its brick edifice painted a crisp white, represented a visible shift. A visual and literal oasis amidst harsh realities. Yes, the building had seen better days. The plumbing was going up. They had occasional sewage line issues. Sometimes the HVAC just gave up and gave out.

But, for the women and children who desperately needed it, St. Dymphna’s was a sanctuary of peace. A bridge to healing and, sometimes, a fresh start. It was the type of place where Remy knew she could make a difference. Because every time she walked in, she recognized the faces she saw there as a reflection of her mother’s. And her own.

Moreover, Remy had a debt to pay. A long time ago, she swore a final pledge of honor to Etta Remington that she’d do everything in her power to pay forward the saving love of the Remingtons.