Loree Lough - Out Of The Shadows

“Juan, enough. You’re—”

“My condition began to worry the good doctor, here. And months after the surgery, after a checkup, he came to our house. I was making soft tacos, he agreed to join us for supper…and he gave me the idea for Mi Casa, right there at our kitchen table.”

Patrice blinked and sighed. If she said “my hero!” like an actress in some B movie, he’d dump the sugar bowl into Juan’s lap.

“We had spent all our savings, keeping the bills up to date while I was out of work. One bill we didn’t have to pay was Dr. Cameron’s. He didn’t charge a penny for his services. What do you think of that, Patrice?”

She looked from Wade to Juan and back again. “I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“Well, what would you say about this. He also gave me the down payment to buy this place.”

Wade could only exhale the breath he’d been holding and shake his head, hoping for the best.

A few seconds ticked by before she said, “I guess I’d have to say you’re right to call him a hero.”

The entire Gomez clan had been calling him that for years. Patients and their families routinely dubbed him a hero, too. His sister’s kids had never said the word, but he could see in their eyes that they thought the world of their Uncle Wade. Despite it all, he hadn’t felt the least bit heroic—until Patrice said it.

But, sure as he was sitting here, looking into her gorgeous face, the truth would come along sooner or later, and change her opinion of him. So for as long as this feeling lasted, Wade decided, he may as well go ahead and enjoy it.

She thought it was charming, the way Wade blushed like a schoolboy under Juan’s obvious admiration. Horse and saddle references aside, she admired him, too. And so Patrice made a concerted effort to ease his discomfort.

She introduced dozens of topics, from the philosophical to the political. The interchange of opinions and ideas taught them they had a lot more in common than Ellicott General. They voted for the same man in the last election, became enraged at the mere mention of flag burning, loved kids and dogs and apple pie.

“Dessert?” Enrique said, rolling the dessert cart to their table. Patrice smiled as Wade rubbed his palms together.

“I’ll take an order of the flan,” he said, grinning. “Patrice, what’ll you have?”

She couldn’t remember her name ever sounding quite so lyrical. “I’m stuffed,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ll just have a bite of yours?”

His grin made her stomach flip and her heart lurch. He turned to the waiter, held up one finger, then two. “One flan, two spoons,” he said. And when Enrique rolled his cart to the next table, Wade blanketed her left hand with his. “You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden. Worried about your dad?”

“Maybe.” With thumb and forefinger, she measured a centimeter of air. “Just a little.”

He gave her hand a gentle pat. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

She nodded. “I know. And I know it’s silly, worrying about him, because he’s really quite capable.”

“Well, we’ll be through here in no time. Then you can see for yourself.”

Another nod. “Thanks, Wade, for understanding.”

He gave a shrug, as if it was no big deal that he’d cued in to her fears…and hadn’t made her feel ridiculous for them, as other men had.

“So how’d it happen?”

Patrice took a sip of her decaf. “Car wreck.”

His hold on her hand tightened slightly.

She’d learned a ton about him tonight; why not even the score a bit?

“It was my fault.”

Silence was his response. She wondered if his caring expression was sincere, or something practiced and mastered in med school. “It was raining that night…teeming is more like it. I wanted to go to a party, and talked him into driving me.”

Patrice tried to wriggle her hand free of his grasp, but Wade wouldn’t allow it. Absently, her right forefinger picked at its neighboring thumbnail. If she were a betting woman, she’d say his concern was genuine. “He slammed the car into a big brick wall after he picked me up from the party. He’s been paralyzed from the waist down ever since.”

He nodded, and she could almost read his mind. No wonder you’re such a devoted daughter—you blame yourself.

“I’m sure you’ve heard this before, hundreds of times, no doubt,” Wade said, “but accidents happen, Patrice.” His hazel eyes darkened and his lips thinned when he added, “Usually, they’re nobody’s fault.”

Usually? The fact that he’d stressed the word made her wonder if Wade blamed himself for an accident in his own past.

“I didn’t have to go out that night, but I didn’t want to miss Marcy’s party.” If she didn’t shut up, and quick, she was going to cry. Why had she opened this Pandora’s box!

“And your dad didn’t have to take you.” He sandwiched her hand between his own. “If you insist on laying blame, lay half of it on his shoulders. You were a kid, he was a grown-up. He made the final decision, after all.”

She shook her head. “Not really. He hadn’t been himself at all since the—” Lord, she prayed, please help me deal with this!

“Since the what? C’mon. You’ve told me this much. What’s the point in holding back the rest?”

“Suicide.”

His brows dipped low on his forehead. “Sui— What?”

Nodding now, she sighed. “A year after Timmy died—almost to the day—my mom killed herself. She knew Dad would take it hard, said so in her note.” She closed her eyes. Okay to shut up now, Lord? Or is this my penance…telling a total stranger about what happened to my mother and that I’m responsible for my father’s paralysis?

“You were a kid,” he repeated. “Just a kid, for cryin’ out loud. Give yourself a break!”

She was about to say “My dad didn’t get a break, why should I?” when Enrique returned, a serving of flan resting on one palm, two spoons wrapped in the other. He placed each on the table.

“More coffee?” he asked.

“Make it decaf, okay?”

“Sure thing. And the lady?”

“Same,” Patrice said, her voice still trembling slightly. “Thanks.”

Wade seemed in no hurry to eat the dessert. Instead, he changed the mood from confessional to conversational. He talked about the weather, the last movie he’d seen, an article he’d read in the newspaper about certain brands of bottled water that came straight from kitchen taps. She had to admit, he had a real knack for making people feel relaxed, comfortable. At least, he had that talent with her.

Suddenly, Wade picked up one of the spoons and carefully cut off a piece of the custard. Holding it in front of Patrice’s face he said, “You first.”

Calmer now, she laughed at the suggestion. She’d seen this in the movies, and now hesitated, afraid she might open too wide, or not wide enough, and the dessert would end up all over her face—or worse, in her lap. “This is silly,” she admitted.

Yet she went along with the suggestion. Wade skillfully slid the bite past her teeth, his own lips parting slightly as he watched her accept his offering. “Thwnkym,” she said around it.

He’d already popped a sizable chunk into his mouth. “Ywr wrlcm.”

Their laughter brought inquisitive stares from nearby diners. They seemed to share one thought: All dressed up like respectable adults, but talking with their mouths full, like a couple of kids.

“I do believe,” he said between snickers, “we’re making public spectacles of ourselves.”

He chose that exact moment to reach out and remove a tiny drop of caramel syrup from her lower lip. The pressure of his thumb lingering there, seemed natural and normal. Their eyes fused on a sizzling current.