Kay David: Marriage To A Stranger

Lara followed the woman’s wave toward a door on one side. Stepping into a long corridor sectioned off by curtains, she quickly located the first one. She pushed aside the dark-blue fabric and her heart stuttered to a stop.

Conley sat on a metal examining table. Theresa Marchante stood close beside him, patting his bare shoulder in a comforting way. She nodded at Lara, touched Conley one more time, then dropped her hand as Lara stared at Conley in distress. It was obvious someone had cleaned him up, but just as obvious he was hurting. A huge bruise on his temple was already turning black, the edges of it ragged and painful looking. His right pant leg had been sliced from his hip to his ankle, an angry swelling distorting the calf, a long, nasty cut on the side. His eyes were what stopped her, though. They were full of something Lara had never seen before. She ran to his side, Theresa stepping away slowly.

“My God…Conley…are you…are you all right?” Lara touched his jaw and then his arm, her horrified eyes taking in a litany of minor wounds she hadn’t seen from the doorway.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

From across the cubicle, an older man with his back to her spoke before Conley could, his voice deep and reassuring. He turned, a syringe in hand, a stethoscope around his neck. A name tag on his smock identified him as Dr. Sorelli.

“His injuries appear severe, but they’re mostly insignificant. Landing in the snowdrift saved his bacon, big time. You’re Mrs. Harrison, I presume?” The man’s manner was forthright, almost crusty and Lara suddenly realized why his name sounded familiar. He was well-known in town, having been in the emergency room for almost two decades.

Lara nodded, but her eyes stayed on her husband’s face. “Conley, I can’t believe this happened. Good grief—”

“I’m fine, Lara.” His words were brusque and curt, and somehow that made her feel better. He didn’t look like himself, but he sounded like himself. “It was a stupid accident, that’s all. I wasn’t paying attention when I crossed the street in front of the office. A car came out of nowhere and clipped me as I stepped up on the curb.”

Lara’s knees went weak. She gripped the edge of the bed and held on, fighting nausea as well. “A car hit you?” She turned to Theresa then sent her horrified gaze back to Conley’s face. “I thought you were in the Suburban…I thought there’d been a wreck, not this!”

The doctor came to where she stood. “If you’re going to faint, do it outside. I need to give him this shot and we can’t handle you, too.”

Pulling herself together, Lara nodded numbly then watched Conley wince as the needle went in. The doctor stepped back to the counter, dropped the syringe into a red jug then he started to wash his hands.

Lara had more questions, but Sorelli grabbed a towel and turned around, speaking before she could. “I want to keep you for a couple of hours, Mr. Harrison. For observation. Sometimes nasty things develop that we can’t see at first. After that you’ll need to take it easy for a day or two—”

“I can’t do that.” Conley shook his head then grimaced. “I don’t have time to be here as it is. I’ve got a flight to Baku tomorrow and work to do before I leave.”

The doctor crossed his arms. “You’re not going anywhere tomorrow. You’ll be lucky if you can make it from the bed to the bathroom without these little white pills I’m going to give you.”

“But I feel fine—”

“No, you don’t,” the doctor said, “and you definitely won’t tomorrow. Especially after I sew up that leg. It’s going to be stiff for at least a week.”

Conley’s mouth went into a familiar line of stubbornness and Lara stepped closer to the table. “You need to listen to him, Con.”

“She’s right.” Theresa spoke up from the side of the room. “You were lucky out there, Conley. Don’t be a fool. Stay home and take care of yourself.”

“And Baku?” he asked.

“Matthew could go,” Lara suggested.

Conley answered her, impatience heating his voice. “No, he can’t. Matthew designs the damn chips but I can’t let him near the clients, you know that. His people skills are nonexistent. We’d lose the account and then—”

“I can handle Baku.” Lara and Conley both turned to Theresa when she spoke.

“You don’t know the first thing about that account, Theresa.”

“You’re absolutely right,” she agreed, “but I can handle it. I’ll pick up the phone and tell them you’ve been delayed. If they don’t like it, that’s too bad.”

He seemed to hesitate for just a second, and Lara held her breath. She felt a tug of anger that he’d consider Theresa’s suggestion and not her own, but on the other hand, whatever worked, worked.

Reaching for the suture equipment he’d laid out on the counter, the doctor spoke again. “You’ll have to talk to the police, too, you know. We’ve already called them.”

Conley shot Lara a look, his gaze skimming hers in an unfamiliar way, something quick and fathomless shimmering there then swimming away before she could catch it. He turned to the doctor who was threading the needle. “That wasn’t necessary,” he protested. “It was a simple accident. All my fault, really. The car couldn’t have avoided me—”

“It was a hit and run, Mr. Harrison. The police have been called.” The doctor’s words were blunt but his touch was swift and professional. Within seconds, he had Conley’s wound closed with almost invisible stitches. He stepped back and appraised his work, then nodded, clearly pleased.

Snapping off his gloves he washed his hands once more and looked at his patient. “We’ll find you a bed and let you settle in. If you’re okay after a while, you can go home.” Smiling at Lara, he spoke a final time. “Good luck keeping him quiet, Mrs. Harrison. Something tells me you’re going to need it.”

CONLEY HAD NO intention of sleeping, but as soon as his head hit the starched white pillowcase, he found he didn’t have a choice. When he woke hours later, it was early evening. He was stiff and sore and felt as if…he’d been run over in the middle of the street.

Without moving, he opened his eyes. Lara sat in a padded chair on the other side of the bed, holding a magazine. She wasn’t reading it, just holding it. The look on her face broke what was left of his heart. A deep sadness darkened her gaze and there were lines of weariness around her mouth. Lavender shadows colored the hollows of her cheeks and made circles underneath her eyes.

He let his lids flutter down and cursed himself. She looked like that because of him. There was no other reason and he knew it.

His mind skipped back to the moments before the car had come down the street. It had been a car, he was sure. A coupe. He struggled to recall more details but none came. Almost with relief, he knew that was all he could tell the police. He had absolutely no proof that it’d been anything but an accident. Maybe the driver had kept going because he hadn’t even known he’d hit something.

The argument sounded hollow, even to Conley’s doped-up senses.

He kept his eyes closed but the shot the doctor had given him was working well and all the thoughts Con usually managed to control now refused to stay buried. The problems he’d managed to suppress for months eddied around him like the snow outside.

It had all started with the notes.

They’d been arriving for several months, some by regular mail, some by computer, one right after another. At first he’d been amused, then as they’d continued, he’d become annoyed. His answer had been to ignore them, but lately even that had become impossible. Whoever had been harassing him had decided it was time to turn up the heat.