Shirlee McCoy - The Christmas Target

“She means well,” she said, and Chance wasn’t sure if the words were a reminder to herself or information for him and Boone.

“It didn’t feel like it when security was trying to strong-arm me out of here,” Boone muttered, pulling a cookie from the bag. “I nearly lost these babies fighting for my right to stay.”

“I’m sorry she called security on you, Boone.”

“Not your fault.” He stood, brushed crumbs from his lap. “If you two are going to be in there for a few minutes, I’m going to run and get coffee. Maybe see how the cafeteria food looks. You want anything?”

“Juice. Orange. And a black coffee,” Chance responded. He’d drink the coffee, and hopefully he could convince Stella to drink the juice. She still looked shaky, and that worried him. She also looked thinner than she had the last time he’d seen her. A month ago. Maybe a little longer than that. She’d come to DC to pick up a computer system that she could use for work.

She’d said she was fine, that her grandmother was fine, that things were going well. He’d heard a lot that she hadn’t said. Or maybe he’d just assumed that things weren’t as easy as she claimed, that life wasn’t quite as fine as she was making it out to be, because that’s the way Stella was.

She didn’t need help.

She didn’t want it.

Everything was always okay and fine and good.

When a guy got too close, when he asked too many questions, she backed off and walked away.

He’d watched it happen over and over again.

He’d experienced it firsthand.

She wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted more than an easy and light relationship. She didn’t want to share her soul. That’s what she’d told him on their last date when he’d asked about her family, about the accident that had taken them from her.

I don’t go out to dinner with a guy so I can share my soul with him. Sharing a meal is good enough.

He’d told her that he only ever wanted to be with someone who could share every part of herself.

That was it.

A bad ending to a story that should have had a great one. He and Stella had a lot in common. They clicked in a way he’d never clicked with any other woman. He could have made a life with her, but he wasn’t going to insist. He wasn’t going to beg. He wasn’t going to do anything but give her exactly what she’d said she wanted.

“You want anything, Stella?” Boone asked, calling her by her first name. Something he almost never did.

That seemed to shake her out of whatever stupor she’d fallen into.

She frowned, locking the brake on the wheelchair and getting to her feet. “Just to see my grandmother.”

“You go do that. I won’t be long,” Boone continued, meeting Chance’s eyes. “I’ll call Simon and let him know what’s going on here.”

“See if he’s got anything new from the local police.”

“And ask when the sheriff is going to get here. I want to speak with him.” Stella took a wobbly step toward the door.

“Take it easy,” Chance said, taking her arm before she could face-plant into the door.

“If I take it any easier, I’ll be prone in a bed.”

“That’s where you should be.”

“Not yet.” She opened the door and stepped into the quiet room.

A heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm, and the soft hiss of an oxygen machine filled the room. From what Chance could see, Beatrice’s vitals were normal. Or close to it. Her oxygen level was low, but the mask over her face should help with that.

Stella leaned over the bed rail and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “Nana?”

When Beatrice didn’t respond, Stella lifted her hand, studied the gnarled joints and short nails. “She used to love having her nails done.”

“Did she?” Chance pulled a chair over to the bed and nudged Stella into it.

“She thought it made a woman feel feminine. She always wanted me to have mine done, too, but I was never a girly girl, and I hated it. One year, we had matching nails for Christmas. Hers were green with little red Christmas trees. Mine were red with little green Christmas trees. Christmas morning, I realized she’d bought us matching outfits, too. Long red skirts and white blouses with high collars. I think she was going for a Victorian vibe.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“I guess the Victorian theme didn’t go over well with you.”

“No.” She smiled at the memory. “But I wore the outfit to church anyway. Becky Snyder never did let me live that down. I heard about it every other day for my entire high school career.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t shut Becky down.” That was another thing Chance had watched happen over and over again. Stella knew how to put people in their places and how to keep them there. She also knew how to lift them up when they needed it, offer support when no one else could. It made her fantastic at her job, and it drew people to her. No matter how many times she tried to push them away.

“Why would I? I never cared what anyone else thought. Beatrice was happy. That made me happy.”

“I’m sure your grandmother wouldn’t have been happy if she’d known you were being teased.”

“She knew. We used to laugh about how ridiculous Becky was for bringing up something so last year. And about how silly she was to think that someone who’d survived what I had would be bothered by her opinion.” She smiled at the memory.

“Your grandmother was a smart lady.”

Maybe she’d heard the past tense. Maybe she’d realized just how much of herself she’d just shared.

Whatever the case, her smile faded, her gaze shifting to Beatrice’s face. “I hope she weathers this. She’s already frail, and her memory isn’t good. Sometimes older people don’t recover from—”

A siren split the air, the sound shrieking through the silent ICU.

Stella jumped from the chair, swayed.

Chance just managed to grab her waist, holding her upright as her grandmother bolted into a sitting position.

“What’s happening?” she cried, her voice muffled by the oxygen mask.

Good question.

Chance wanted an answer as badly as she did.

“I don’t know, but I plan to find out. Stay here,” he said, looking straight into Stella’s eyes.

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