Page 50
Story: Hard to Kill (Jane Smith #2)
FIFTY
“WELL,” I SAY AFTER a lengthy trip to the ladies’ room, “that was embarrassing.”
“Don’t feel embarrassed on my account, pal.” Sam smiles. “As I remember it, I cried for a week after Tommy O’Neill broke up with me in high school. I thought I was going to have bags under my eyes for the rest of my life.”
We both order appetizer salads as entrées, even though I’ve pretty much lost my appetite.
“I frankly don’t know how you’ve managed to hold it together this long.”
“Fake it till you make it.”
“Jane Smith,” Sam says, “you’re the toughest person I know.”
“Everybody going through what I’m going through is tough. I’m not better or braver than anybody else.”
“How about we go with as tough as anybody I know?”
“What if it doesn’t do me any good in the end?”
Our glasses are empty. But Sam holds hers up anyway. I feel as if I have no choice but to do the same.
“Let’s not drink to that,” she says.
We both pick away at our salads. The waitress comes by and sees how little each of us has eaten. I tell her to blame us, not the chef.
I wink at Sam when the waitress has walked away. “At least don’t blame her chef.”
My breathing is back to normal, even if I feel as if I’ve thrown a brick through our night out together.
We sit there quietly until she says, “Can you see yourself marrying him? Ben, I mean.”
“You mean marry him and live happily ever after?”
“Yes.”
“Before I answer, maybe you could tell me how long ‘ever after’ is.”
“I’m your friend and your doctor, Jane. But not a prophet.”
“How about an informed opinion?”
“My opinion, as your doctor, is that you just keep doing what you’re doing, with the same strong attitude you’ve always shown, and we’ll both see where that leads us.”
“The witness didn’t answer the question.”
We smile at each other. This is more like it. More us being us.
“You’re just afraid I’m going to have another crying jag,” I tell her. “You weenie.”
“Totally!” Sam Wylie says. “You know the deal. Doctors are supposed to do no harm.”
She picks up the check, over my objections. She got to the restaurant before me, so her BMW is parked so close to the front door she’s almost at the hostess stand.
We hug before she gets into her car and then she tells me to go home and take two shots of Irish whiskey and call her in the morning.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you, too.”
“Is it as easy telling Ben that?”
I grin. “Easier,” I say. “Much, much easier.”
I think about calling Jimmy on the way back to Amagansett, just to see how he’s feeling and if he’s managed to stay out of trouble tonight. But then I decide I’ve done enough talking for one night. And definitely enough crying.
I lock up and set the alarm and take a hot shower, which helps me sleep sometimes, and get into bed and for once fall asleep right away.
I’m awakened by the sound of Rip barking from somewhere else in the house, definitely not the end of the bed.
When I sit up, that’s where I see the outline of a man.
“You need a better alarm system,” the voice in the dark says. “And a better guard dog.”
His voice is very soft.
“And if you’re thinking about reaching for your gun,” he says, “I already have it.”
From outside the bedroom door, I can hear Rip’s low growl. I want to do the same.
“Who are you?” I manage.
“We haven’t met,” he says. “I’m the prodigal son.”
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