Judy Duarte - Race To The Altar

From what Betsy had said in the past, and Molly had gathered, Betsy had some money from a trust fund her aunt had left her, and as a successful doctor, she’d managed to save quite a bit over the years. But those funds were no longer available to her.

Most people didn’t know it, but Betsy was one of the investors in BVMC. And while she certainly wasn’t one of the principals, she’d put the bulk of her money into the hospital investment.

Thank goodness she had. Otherwise her ex-husband would have cleaned her out completely before he’d disappeared six months ago, leaving her with a slew of bills to pay and an empty bank account.

Of course, that was another tidbit that most people didn’t know.

“On top of the financial troubles,” Betsy added, “Diana is taking care of her elderly grandfather, who’s clearly showing signs of dementia. He used to babysit for her so she could work part-time at the fabric store, but he’s at a stage where he needs almost as much care as the children do.”

“That’s too bad,” Molly said. “Has she considered putting him in a convalescent hospital?”

“Yes, but the man raised her, and she feels an obligation to keep him at home as long as she can.”

Molly could relate to that. She’d had to deal with her own grandfather’s health issues—not dementia, but a stroke. “Diana is in a tough spot.”

“I know.” Betsy blew out a weary sigh. “I gave her the contact number for a social worker who is a friend of mine, but I still felt…ineffective.”

Molly wasn’t sure how much help she could be, but she’d like to do something, especially since Chase had picked up the cost of the medical bill. “Would you mind giving me their address? Maybe I can take them something myself.”

“It’s a long ride on a bicycle,” Betsy said, “even for you. You’d have to take your car.”

Betsy was one of the few people at the hospital who knew that Molly preferred not to drive when she didn’t have to. Not that it was a big secret; she just didn’t think it was anyone’s business but her own.

“Do Diana and the kids live in Brighton Valley?” she asked Betsy.

“Yes, but it’s on the opposite side of town. They live in a trailer park on Sage Brush Trail.”

Molly was torn between the sympathy that urged her to visit Diana Haines and the discomfort she felt whenever she slid behind the wheel. But there was only one way to get to the other side of town, and that was by car.

She could call a cab, but she made a lousy passenger—white knuckles and the whole nine yards. She felt powerless in the backseat, not to mention vulnerable, so she rarely kept her mouth shut, no matter who she rode with.

In retrospect—and with a nursing degree now under her belt—she realized that she probably should have had some counseling right after the accident.

Her grandparents had lost their only child in that accident, and seeing their eyes well with tears each time they thought of her father had made her own grief nearly unbearable. They’d been so caught up in their pain, they hadn’t realized how tough it had been for her, although that’s probably because she masked it so well.

But why make any of them suffer any more than they had to?

“Do you have a space number for the Haines?” Molly asked.

“Yes, it’s two-twenty-three. It’s close to the entrance, so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”

No, her biggest problem would be in mustering her courage for the trek.

As long as she knew exactly where she was going, she did okay driving into Wexler or even to Evansville, which was ten miles to the east. But whenever she had to drive anywhere unfamiliar, she got a little uneasy.

But, hey. It wasn’t that bad. She would just put on her seat belt, adjust her mirrors, stay under the speed limit and keep lots of space between her car and the other vehicles on the road.

So what if she had to deal with a few impatient drivers who honked at her?

“I’ll probably stop by sometime tomorrow,” she said, thinking it would be best if she had more daylight hours ahead of her and she didn’t have to risk being on the street at night.

“Thanks, Molly.” Betsy smiled, but before she could add anything else, her pager went off. “Uh-oh. That’s my answering service. I’ve got to call in.”

Molly nodded, just as her pager went off, too. She glanced at her own display screen. Room 310.

Chase needed her.

Chase lay in bed, his television on the blink. He supposed he could have used the call button, which would have paged any nurse at the desk, but it wasn’t just any nurse he wanted to see; it was Molly.

Why did he get the feeling she was avoiding him today?

Had he gone too far when he’d asked her to let him use her mailing address?

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