Ron/Janet Benrey - Season Of Glory

Yesterday, her ash blond hair had brushed her shoulders; now, it was tightly pinned back. One feature hadn’t changed, however. Despite her metal-rimmed glasses, her amber eyes appeared as luminous as when he’d stood next to her on the gazebo steps—and even more lively.

A vision flashed in Andrew’s mind. “I remember a stocky man,” he said. “In his forties. Mostly bald with a friendly face and a small goatee. He kept shining a light in my eyes.”

“Ken Lehman is our lead emergency room physician. He spent most of the night working on you.”

“I want to talk to Dr. Lehman. How can I get hold of him?”

“You can’t right now. He went home to get some sleep.”

“He’s home sleeping? That’s just wonderful!”

“Actually, it is wonderful,” she said. “I had to fight with Ken to make him leave the E.R. He came on duty at two o’clock. yesterday afternoon, and it wasn’t until five this morning that he agreed you’d made sufficient enough progress for him to get some rest. I promised to monitor you and call him if your condition gets worse.”

“Will I get worse?”

“No. You’re on the mend.”

Another memory jogged his mind. He’d woken up briefly during the night and seen a patchwork of images: a tress of blond hair, a woman praying silently and the glint of a needle attached to a green plastic tube.

“You were my nurse last night, right? You stuck something in my arm.”

Her amber eyes flashed mischievously. “Several somethings.”

Concentrate! What’s her last name?

Andrew tried to dredge up their conversation in the gazebo. Had she told him that she was an emergency room nurse? Probably, and many other things about herself, too—but most of the tea party was still a blank in his mind.

You’re not as clearheaded as you thought you were.

He peered at her nametag, but her last name was too small to decipher from across the room.

“On the mend from what?” he asked.

She took a step toward him. “You were poisoned.”

“Tainted food! I thought it must be something like that.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “That’s what happens when Americans attempt to cook Scottish vittles without proper training. No doubt a fusty scone I ate at afternoon tea laid me loo—as my Scottish grandmother would say.”

He expected her to nod, but surprisingly her face darkened. “None of the food you ate at the party made you ill.” Then she glared at him. “Not even the dessert I prepared.”

Embarrassment tore through him. “I remember. You made the Strathbogie Mist.”

“Which you loved.”

“How could I not? It’s comfort food straight from my childhood. My grandmother served us Strathbogie Mist every Sunday—even during the winter when she used canned pears instead of fresh. That’s why I ate two helpings at the tea party.”

“Now you’re fibbing,” she said with a laugh. “There weren’t any extra portions.”

She came another step closer. At last, he could read her nametag.

Pickard. Sharon Pickard!

“There must have been extras,” he said. “Two of those little ceramic dishes appeared by my side. I don’t recall who gave me the first one, but I’m all but certain that Emma Neilson brought me the second helping a few minutes later.”

Her smile vanished. “I wish you hadn’t eaten any.” She sat down in the visitor’s chair alongside his bed and pointed at his heart. “You were poisoned. Really poisoned. Someone tried to kill you by spiking one of your ramekins with oleander toxin. You consumed more than enough toxin to stop your heart. Oleander poisoning has a high death rate. You could easily have died last night.”

Andrew glanced at her fingers a few inches from his chest, and then at the anxious grimace on her face. All at once, the words she spoke hit home. Poisoned. Toxin. Stop your heart. Death. He shivered as he recognized that she sincerely meant everything she said. He made a feeble wave toward the medical monitors in the room. “All these electronic gadgets…you actually used this stuff on me?”

“Every last screen, meter and dial.”

“I could have died…” he said without meaning to.

“But you didn’t. Ken Lehman kept you alive.”

Andrew recalled that he’d seen many glimpses of blond hair during the night. “Ken and you.”

“True. I helped Ken,” she replied with a new smile that made her face glow.

He realized that he was gawking at Sharon. Her jubilant expression made her more than striking—she’d become beautiful.

Stare at her later. After she’s answered all your questions.

“You said that the toxin I downed came from oleander. Do you mean the shrubby evergreen with large five-petalled blossoms? The plant some people call rosebay?”

She nodded. “Is gardening one of your hobbies?”

“I’m not sure I could recognize an oleander in the flesh, so to speak, but during the 19th century, the Ballantine Studios built several church windows that incorporate oleanders in their designs. I’m quite familiar with the stained-glass rendering of the plant. Some have pink blossoms, others white.”

“Oleander is an efficient killer. Fortunately, the symptoms you presented helped Ken Lehman make a quick diagnosis. You even had the classic redness of the skin around your mouth.” She touched the depression on his face, just above his chin. “It hasn’t faded yet.”

Andrew shivered at her touch, astonished at its gentleness. He thought back to the tea party. He remembered feeling woozy, uncoordinated. He wondered what he’d eaten that was making him nauseated and his insides ache. Then he became dizzy and everything changed perspective. He slowly became aware that he’d tumbled to the floor. His side hurt, but nowhere near as much as his stomach. He’d probably hit something solid, perhaps a chair, on his way down.

Someone was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw Sharon.

“Dr. Carroll,” she said. “Can you take a look at Andrew?”

A moment later, Andrew felt a woman’s fingers touch his wrist and then the artery in his neck.

“His pupils are dilated and I don’t like his pulse. I barely felt anything in his wrist and his carotid pulse isn’t much stronger. I wish I had my medical bag.”

“I know that Emma has an EpiPen auto-injector inside the Captain’s first-aid kit,” Sharon said. “Could this be some kind of allergic reaction?”

“I doubt it. He doesn’t have the other symptoms of allergic shock.”

“Hang on, Andrew,” Sharon said. “The paramedics are on their way.”

“Praise God for that,” Andrew had muttered. The pain in his stomach had become sharper, more concentrated. And then his chest had felt tight. He could tell that something was wrong with his heart. Could he be having a heart attack?

Not when I’m only thirty-four years old.

Emma had said, “Here’s a folded tablecloth. I’m going to put in under your head.”

“What a good idea,” Andrew had replied, softly. Despite the aches in his stomach and his chest, he’d begun to feel drowsy. Why not take a little nap? He’d had a long day, starting with a seven-hour drive from Asheville…then he’d studied the church windows…and then all the talking at the tea party…

Returning to the present, Andrew found the bed remote control and worked the button that lifted him to a sitting position. “I don’t even remember the trip in the ambulance.”

“You were unconscious when we strapped you to the gurney.” Sharon’s face was filled with anxiety again. “Oleander toxin causes a variety of heart rhythm problems—all of them serious.”

He tried to assess the beating of his heart. The gentle throb inside him seemed normal, although something Sharon had said kept nudging at his thoughts.