Debbie Macomber - Summer in Orchard Valley - Valerie / Stephanie / Norah

Norah was standing in the hospital lobby when Valerie walked through the double glass doors. Her sister, looking drawn and pale, was visibly relieved by her presence. “Oh, Valerie,” she said, covering her mouth with one hand. “Oh, Valerie. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Dad?” Valerie’s throat closed up. If her cantankerous father had had the audacity to die before she arrived, she’d never forgive him. The thought made her realize how much this ordeal had drained her.

“He’s resting comfortably … for now.”

Valerie hugged her sister. Norah looked dreadful, her stylish shoulder-length blond hair brushed away from her face as if her hands had swept it behind her ears countless times. Her blue eyes, normally so clear and bright, were red-rimmed from tears and lack of sleep.

Valerie hadn’t had much rest herself, but she was still running on adrenaline. She wouldn’t collapse until after she’d had a chance to see her father.

“What exactly happened?” she asked as they hurried to the elevator. Their shoes made a sharp, clicking sound against the polished linoleum floor, a sound that reminded Valerie of similar visits a few years ago, when her mother was dying. She remembered similar nighttime walks down these silent corridors. She hadn’t been to this hospital since. The memories overwhelmed her now, tearing at the facade of her poise.

“After dinner last night, Dad went out onto the porch,” Norah began, her voice quavering.

As far back as Valerie could remember, after the evening meal her parents had adjourned for coffee to the sweeping front porch of their large colonial home. They’d sat together on the old wicker chairs, sometimes holding hands and whispering like teenagers. Valerie was never sure what they discussed, but she’d learned early on not to interrupt them. In the winters, they’d sat in front of the basalt fireplace in her father’s den, but during spring, summer and the early part of autumn, it was the porch.

“I should’ve known something was wrong,” Norah continued. “Dad hasn’t sat on the porch much since Mom’s been gone. After dinner he goes right into his office and does his bookkeeping.”

The guilt Valerie experienced was crushing. Norah had repeatedly told her how hard their father was working. She should have listened, should have demanded he hire an assistant, take a vacation, something . As the oldest, she felt responsible.

His heart was weak and had been since a bout of rheumatic fever in his thirties. By all accounts he should’ve died then, but a young nurse’s devotion had pulled him through. The nurse was Grace Johnson, who became David’s wife, and Valerie, Stephanie and Norah’s mother.

“I brought him a cup of coffee,” Norah went on, “and he looked up at me and smiled. He … he seemed to think I was Mom.”

“Was he in terrible pain?”

Norah bit her lower lip. “Yes, he must have been. He was so pale … Only he was too proud to admit it. I asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t answer. He just kept saying he was ready.”

“Ready for what?”

Norah glanced away. “Ready to die.”

“Die!” Valerie cried. “That’s ridiculous! If there was ever a man who had something to live for, it’s Dad. Good grief, he’s worked hard all his life! Now, it’s time to reap the fruits of his labors, to enjoy his family, to travel, to—”

“You don’t need to convince me,” Norah said quietly as they reached the third floor and stepped out of the elevator. The Coronary Care nurses’ station was directly in front of them. Norah walked to the counter.

“Betty, would you tell Dr. Winston my sister’s arrived?”

“Right away,” the other woman replied. She appeared to be gentle, compassionate—and practical. No-nonsense. Valerie recognized those traits because Betty shared them with Norah. And with their mother.

Valerie had to suppress a sudden smile at the memory of her youngest sister lining up dolls in her bed and sticking thermometers in their mouths. She’d fussed over them like an anxious mother, bandaging their limbs and offering comfort and reassurance.

Norah came by this temperament naturally, Valerie supposed, since their mother had been the same. Although she’d given up her hospital job when she married David Bloomfield, Grace continued to nurture those around her. It had been her gift. It was Norah’s gift, too.

“Who’s Dr. Winston?” Valerie asked. She’d never heard of him before; he must be a recent addition to the hospital staff. But the last thing their father needed at a time like this was some hayseed family practitioner. He should be in a major hospital with the best heart surgeon available!

“Dr. Winston’s been wonderful,” Norah returned, her eyes lighting up briefly. “If it hadn’t been for Colby, we would’ve lost Dad in the first twelve hours.”

“Colby?” The doctor was named after a cheese? This didn’t sound promising.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done without him,” Norah said. “I wasn’t sure what to do at first. I could tell Dad was in a lot of pain, but I knew he’d object if I called for an aid car. He’d argue with me and that would’ve made matters even worse if it was his heart like I suspected.”

“So you phoned Dr. Winston?”

“Yes. Luckily I was able to get hold of him, and he drove out, pretending to drop in out of the blue. He knew the minute he saw Dad that it was a heart attack. He immediately gave him a couple of aspirin. Then he sat down on the porch and had a cup of coffee with him.”

“He drank coffee while our father was having a heart attack? ” Valerie wasn’t finding this doctor too impressive.

“I believe it was what saved Dad’s life,” Norah said, her eyes flashing a protest. “Dr. Winston convinced Dad to go to the hospital voluntarily. It wasn’t until he’d been admitted that he suffered the worst of the attack. If he’d been at home arguing, no one could’ve done anything to save him.”

“Oh.” That took some of the heat out of Valerie’s argument. She suspected she was looking for someone to blame—in an attempt to ease her own guilt for having ignored Norah’s concerns about their father.

The door Betty had walked through opened, and a tall dark-haired man came toward them, his expression serious. Valerie couldn’t help noticing how attractive he was. In fact, the man had movie-star good looks, but good looks with nothing soft or insipid about them.

“Hello,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “I’m Dr. Winston.” He held out his hand.

“Valerie Bloomfield,” she responded briskly, placing her hand in his. She’d always been taught that it was impolite to stare, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her father’s physician didn’t look much older than her own thirty-one years. “Excuse me,” she said, not glancing at Norah, who would, she suspected, immediately leap to Dr. Winston’s defense. “I don’t mean to be rude—but how old are you?”

“Valerie,” Norah groaned under her breath.

“I just want to know how long he’s been practicing medicine. Good grief, Norah, this is our father .”

“It’s quite all right,” Dr. Winston said, smiling at Norah. “If David was my father I’d have a few questions myself. I’m thirty-six.”

Valerie found it hard to believe, but she couldn’t very well insist on seeing his birth certificate. Besides, her thoughts were muddled and she was exhausted. Now wasn’t the time to question his qualifications. “How’s my father?” she asked instead.

“He’s resting.”

“When will I be able to see him?”

“I’d rather you didn’t go in right away.”

“What do you mean?” Valerie snapped. “I’ve flown across the country to be with my father. He needs me! Why shouldn’t I be able to go to him?”