Can they build a future on hope alone?

For years nurse and grief counselor Christie Bates has been teaching her patients to confront their fears, express themselves and trust in hope. But as her feelings for cancer survivor Eli Roberts and his two children grow, can she overcome her own fear and love a man who lives every day with the possibility of recurring illness?

Tackling cancer and single parenthood simultaneously has turned Eli into a devout realist. Which is why he finds Christie’s perpetually upbeat attitude so aggravating. Still, despite himself, she’s making a place in his heart. If only he could offer Christie more than an uncertain future.

“I wouldn’t change a thing.”

As Eli said it, they turned their heads at the same moment and touched noses. His eyelashes brushed Christie’s brow when he blinked in surprise. For a moment she’d thought he’d been about to…

Softly, he pushed back the damp tendrils clinging to her forehead.

The gentle pressure of his hand lingered against the side of her face, his fingers cupping her chin so tenderly that it made her heart ache. Would she ever learn to accept that friendship was all there was to her and Eli?

Here was the chance to ask the million-dollar question. “Even Jacqueline walking out?”

“Especially that.” He leaned closer, their noses touching once more. “Because then I couldn’t have met you.”

Her lips parted as she breathed in the moment and the man.

There was no denying her feelings for him. But did she dare risk the chance that he might get sick again? That she’d end up hurting him somehow? She cared too much for him now.

“Eli, I don’t know.”

Dear Reader,

I learned at a young age that love is an energy that cannot be destroyed. When it is true, love endures, regardless of what life may bring.

When I first learned of my grandmother’s cancer, I wanted to leave college and spend every minute with the incredible woman who’d taught me to be compassionate of others, to have high standards for myself and the men I dated, and that crackers and butter are actually the best snack while watching 1950s horror movies.

Needless to say, her will to have me graduate on time won out, and I finished college just as her life ended. Although we had a chance to say goodbye, and for her to remind me to wear lipstick in public, a window in my heart stays open. Her light will shine through it for the rest of my life.

I’ve met many couples who have touched me deeply with their unflagging devotion during challenging times. Loving another, regardless of what the future may hold, plays a large role in Wish Me Tomorrow, when Christie Bates, a grief counselor, meets cancer survivor Eli Roberts. Together they learn that love and family are worth any risk—even if tomorrow may only be a wish.

I would love to connect with you and hear your inspiring stories. Please visit me at www.karenrock.com.

Karen

Wish Me Tomorrow

Karen Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KAREN ROCK

An English language instructor, Karen Rock has adored romance since her grandmother first gave her Harlequin Presents books. When Karen learned of Harlequin Heartwarming, she was inspired by the opportunity to write unforgettable, deeply romantic, tender love stories that mothers could share with their daughters. When she’s not writing, Karen loves scouring estate sales for vintage books, cooking her grandmother’s recipes, hiking the “high peaks” and redesigning her gardens. She lives in the Adirondack Mountain region with her husband, daughter and two Cavalier King Charles spaniels who have yet to understand the concept of “fetch,” though they know a lot about love. For more information on Karen’s upcoming books, check out her website at www.karenrock.com or follow her on Twitter @karenrock5. She’d love to hear from you!

MILLS & BOON

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To those I’ve loved who are here or gone.

You are ever in my heart.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

ONE EMPTY FOLDING CHAIR. Christie Bates stared at the vacant seat then checked her iPhone to make sure the wall clock was accurate. Yep, still 6:35. Everyone in the cancer support group she led was here except one, the one who’d been coming the longest. Her insides twisted. He hadn’t missed a meeting in three years.

And the sight of an empty chair in a room like this was always...ominous.

She exhaled slowly and squashed the negative thought as her eyes roamed over the chatting group. The world needed positive energy. And they needed it most of all. She jumped when a hand squeezed her shoulder.

“Would you like me to close the door so you can begin?” asked Anne, the West Side YMCA’s receptionist. Pool-bound children shrieked in the stairwell outside.

“No!” Her voice sounded more forceful than she’d intended. It carried over the noise and quieted her group. Seven pairs of concerned eyes turned her way. So much for keeping things upbeat.

She pinned on a bright smile and patted Anne’s hand. “We’re not quite ready to start yet, but thanks.”

Anne studied her for a moment then shrugged. “I’ll be out front if you need me.”

Her heels clicked across the wood floor and echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Overhead fans stirred the muggy June air, the humidity so thick Christie felt as though she wore it. At least she’d had time to change out of her nurse scrubs and shower before the meeting. After a twelve-hour hospital shift, the mini-break had made her feel human again.

“Why are we waiting?” a newer member asked around a mouthful of chocolate-chip cookie.

Another pointed at the clock. “We always start at 6:30.”

“You’re right.” Christie swallowed her fear and widened her smile. Her clients had enough stress to handle. They didn’t deserve more. “But let’s give it a few more minutes in case someone’s late. You know how hard it is to get a taxi in the rain.”

The group nodded sagely then resumed their conversations. She sagged against the back of her chair. Phew. Her quick excuse worked. It was a logical reason for the delay given Manhattan’s traffic issues and she wouldn’t imagine another possibility. There was power in positive thinking. She shredded a napkin in her lap. Not that it had saved her brother. If only she’d been there when... She shook her head. Nope. She wouldn’t get on board that dark train of thought.

She bent to pick up her juice cup and discreetly knocked on the wooden floor, no-bad-luck, an Irish superstition passed down by her gran. She’d witnessed enough medical miracles to know that science couldn’t explain everything.

Christie crossed her legs, smoothing her gray pants and rumpled white blouse. Forcing her eyes from the empty chair, she surveyed the assembled group members for changes in skin color, weight and discomfort levels. Everyone seemed stable. But where was her absent client? Perhaps she would ask Anne to call and check on him. She might be overreacting, but knowing he was okay would help soothe her nerves.

Before she could stand, a tall stranger wheeled the missing man through the door. She drew her first easy breath of the night. He’d come after all. The group called out greetings to John, relief evident in their voices.

“Hello. Hope I didn’t hold everyone up,” the latecomer declared, as his helper—a very handsome helper, Christie noted—wheeled John into the spot beside the empty chair. Where were John’s canes? Her heart sank. His condition must be deteriorating.

“Lousy weather out there, huh? My neighbor brings his kids here a couple of times a week, so I asked him to help me catch a cab.” He gestured to the dark-haired gentleman wearing a navy polo shirt, jeans and a polite smile. “Eli Roberts, this is Christie Bates and—” he waved a veined hand “—everyone. You’ll like them. Oh. And would you get me one of Christie’s raisin-oatmeal bars? Been craving one all week.”

The man nodded then helped John out of his coat, shook the rain from it and placed it on the back of the chair. His face reminded her of a Roman soldier on one of her father’s ancient coins—he had a powerful jaw, straight, prominent nose and a strong brow.

“May I get anyone anything?” he asked once he’d locked John’s wheels in place. After taking a few requests, he strode to the snack table. It was a good night when the group ate. Sometimes the number receiving chemo was so high the side table went untouched.

She noticed that he grabbed John a napkin and a cup of juice along with the snack. Thoughtful.

After giving John a quick hug, she straightened and looked up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Her grin faltered at the man’s piercing stare.

“Eli. If you’d like to join us—” She extended a hand to guide him to the seat, but he jerked back. Caught off balance, Christie stumbled, her black Keds trampling each other. Heat flared in her cheeks.

“Sorry,” he muttered, righting her with a quick, efficient hold on her elbow before seating himself.

O-kay. Not a touchy-feely guy. Heard and understood.

She sneaked another glance at him, registering his tense shoulders along with his guarded expression. He’d done a nice thing by bringing John in, but cancer support groups were a lot for healthy people to handle. She should give him a graceful excuse to leave.

“The Yankees’ pregame coverage is playing on TV in the lounge down the hall if you’d like to wait there, Mr. Roberts.”

“Call me Eli,” he said in a gruff voice, his eyes inscrutable. “And I promised John I’d stay.” A look passed between the two as he took his seat.

She forced a welcoming grin and nodded. If John wanted him here, that was fine. But if he didn’t lighten up soon, she’d send him on a coffee run so he wouldn’t put a damper on the meeting.

When she got back to her seat, she glanced his way and caught his intense gaze again. What was it about his stare that flustered her? She was a twenty-eight-year-old professional, not a schoolgirl sneaking peeks at the cute new kid. Time to get a grip.

She looked at the clock and grabbed her clipboard. Fifteen minutes behind schedule. A first. Eli was throwing her off her game, but at least John was here and the seats were full.

“Today’s inspirational quote is by George Herbert,” Christie began. “‘Storms make oaks take deeper root.’ Let’s practice our relaxation breathing as we contemplate its meaning and how it applies to our lives.”

Her bowed head snapped up at a muffled snort. While everyone else closed their eyes, Eli stared at the ceiling and shook his head.

“Do you disagree, Mr. Roberts?” she burst out before she could think better of it.

“I do,” replied the impertinent outsider. Shooting to his feet again, he circled the group, gathering their garbage and carting it to the wastebasket. “No matter how deep trees dig, bad storms can knock them down anyway.”

Well, sure. Of course they could. Although she’d spent her early childhood in Woodlawn, an Irish-American neighborhood in New York, her family had eventually relocated to Kansas—one of Tornado Alley’s hardest-hit states. There, she’d learned to weather storms, not dwell on them. When tempests hit, neighbors pitched in to put back the pieces of shattered lives.

A high-pitched sound rattled through a nearby client’s tracheotomy tube. Christie grabbed the woman’s shaking hand and squeezed. Elizabeth had Stage IV esophageal cancer. She didn’t need a reminder of the dangers she faced.

“We focus on the positive, Mr. Roberts.” She laced her fingers with Elizabeth’s, relieved when the woman’s trembling eased.

His square jaw clenched. “And ignore reality? That seems a bit misleading, doesn’t it, Miss Bates?”

“It’s Ms.,” she corrected, mostly because she was getting good and riled now. What did this man think he was doing? These people lived with far too much reality as it was. They came here for fellowship and support, not a lecture.

“Well, Ms. Bates, the truth is that all trees want to live. It’s just the luck of the draw that some make it and others don’t.”

Heat spread up her chest and rose to her neck. She glanced down. Darn. Those red splotches betrayed her at the worst times. If only she looked as cool and controlled as Eli. She forced herself to meet his eye and caught a brief, tortured look before he averted his face. Interesting.

A ruckus in the corridor distracted her, reminding her that they hadn’t shut the door. A pack of kids rushed past on their way from one activity to another.

“Daddy, Daddy.” A young escapee wearing wet swim trunks raced inside. He launched himself onto Eli’s lap, the smell of chlorine clinging to him.

“I swam without my floaties today.” With his missing front teeth, the child’s grin was irresistible. Christie joined in the group’s chorus of oohs and aahs.

Deep dimples appeared as Eli’s face relaxed into a broad smile. Where was this side of the man moments ago when he’d rained doom and gloom on her meeting? His joyful expression and the affectionate way he ruffled his son’s hair did something strange to her heart. She checked out his ring-free left hand. Had his wife died? That could explain some of his behavior, as well as why John wanted him to stay at the meeting. But he looked young to be a widower, no older than his early thirties.

“Sorry,” an older woman called from the doorway. “I went to get Tommy a towel, and when I came back, he was gone.”

She barreled into the room and gave Christie an apologetic wave.

“It’s all right, Mary,” Eli said. “He does that to me, too.”

Tommy squirmed at his father’s stern expression. “What do you say to Mary?” he prompted and took Mary’s proffered towel.

Tommy studied his swinging flip-flops. “Sorry, Mary,” he said, a lisp turning his s into a th. “I won’t do it again.”

“Right.” Eli hugged Tommy then began drying him.

Tommy pointed at Christie. “That’s how I met her.”

With his hair no longer plastered to his face, the youngster looked familiar. She took a moment to recall how she knew him. Since her meeting was so off track, she couldn’t see the point in forcing the group back into meditation anytime soon. Besides, Elizabeth was smiling and happy, clearly enjoying their energetic visitor.

Eli’s face tightened once more. “You know Ms. Bates?”

The towheaded dynamo wriggled off his father’s lap and scampered over to her. “She gave me an oatmeal bar with raisins.” He scanned the treat table and turned from his father to Christie, face bright and expectant. “Can I have one?”

“If your father says so.” Why hadn’t she recognized the adorable imp earlier? A couple of months ago, he’d burst into their meeting and wolfed down half the pan. She matched Tommy’s grin. “But be careful—last time you almost took out a tray of Jell-O.”

“You stopped me before I crashed.” Tommy flapped the sides of his towel and jumped up and down. “But that lady with the blue hair was mad. She said I had to leave.”

Christie stifled a laugh. Tommy had a point. The former receptionist had been a bit of a grump. “Not to worry. She was angry at everything.”

Tommy’s blue eyes grew round. “Even Jell-O?” He lowered his terry-cloth wings. “But it wiggles.”

Elizabeth’s tracheotomy made a humming sound, her warm smile about to steal Christie’s heart. No way she was letting Tommy out the door yet. Kids had a more positive effect on people than a whole book full of inspirational quotes.

“Exactly.” She nodded solemnly. “Now hold on to one end of the towel. I’m going to show you something grand before you get your dessert.” She sent Eli a questioning look. Tommy had been very patient waiting for his answer.

“How did you two meet?” His light tone held an undercurrent of tension. “And, yes, Tommy, you can have the oatmeal-raisin bar.” He held up his index finger. “Just one, though.”

Christie pulled the other end of the towel, spinning Tommy free of the absorbent cloth.

“Again!” Tommy shouted when he rewrapped himself.

“Answer your father first, Tommy.” She turned him to face his parent.

“I ran away from Mary ’cause I wanted to show Becca my drawing of Scout. Only I got lost and came here instead.” Tommy scratched his freckled nose before turning back to her. “Please spin me, Miss—” He shook his small head, brow furrowed. “Miss—”

“It’s Christie. Hey, everyone.” A preteen girl with brown hair in a tight bun wandered into the room and returned the group’s waves. She wore jeans over a black leotard and had a bag embroidered with sequined ballet shoes slung across her shoulder. “I met her when we picked you up, remember? So why did you run away? Again. You know how much it upsets Dad and Mary.” Despite her admonishment, her tone was mild.

“Becca!” The boy wrapped his arms around his sister’s legs. “Did you see me swim without my floaties? Do you want an oatmeal bar? It’s healthy and Dad said we could.”

“I didn’t see you because I was still in dance. But that’s awesome, Little Man.” Becca fist bumped Tommy. “And, yeah. I’ll have a snack. So starved.”

“How was dance, Becca-Bell?” Eli’s arms opened wide, his gaze expectant.

Some members of the support group began speaking in low-pitched voices, the word Yankees punctuating their discussion. No doubt they were debating the team’s chances tonight. It was a crucial game that Christie was interested in herself. Yet this family fascinated her, as well.

“The same,” Becca mumbled, fidgeting with the latch on her bag. “And please don’t call me that anymore. Remember?”

He slowly lowered his arms, a crease appearing between his brows. “Does that fastener need to be fixed?”

Becca shrugged before she turned away.

Christie glanced between the two; their tension was palpable. Although it could be a teenage thing, it seemed deeper than that.

Elizabeth stood and brought treats, another member following with Dixie cups of juice. After taking the proffered snacks, Becca said, “Thank you,” nudging Tommy to do the same.

“All right, kids.” Eli rose to his imposing height. “Time to go.”

He held out his arms once more. Tommy flew into them while Becca hung back and tightened her shoelaces. “I’ll be home in a little bit,” he promised.

“Sure,” Becca replied, her voice flat. She gave Christie and the smiling support group a small wave, wrapped a protective arm around her brother and followed Mary through the exit.

“That was nice, Mr. Roberts.” Christie’s smile faded at his glower. She cleared her throat. “Does anyone have something they’d like to share?”

She looked pointedly at Eli, who stared back, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Why the sour mood? Even though there didn’t appear to be a woman in his life, and his relationship with Becca seemed strained, he still had what was most important—his health and family. But his bleak expression made her wonder.

Perhaps he didn’t have everything after all.

* * *

ELI FORCED HIS eyes away from Ms. Christie Bates as everyone in the group took turns recounting their week. He knew his staring bordered on rude, but something about her fascinated the photographer in him.

She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. Her nose had a slight upward tilt that spoiled its classic lines. Her green eyes, his favorite color, were set too deep, the dark circles under them belying her carefree attitude. Her forehead was a finger’s breadth too high and her delicate, pointed chin reminded him of old-time movie stars, not modern-day bombshells. Her hair, a shimmering auburn waterfall, would meet the fashion industry’s standards, though.

Despite the imperfections, or perhaps because of them, her face captivated him. Even the splatter of freckles across her nose made him long for his Nikon, something he hadn’t picked up since— He forced his mind away from that memory. It was one he wanted buried, cremated, even.

He peeked at Christie once more and met her jewel-toned eyes. Busted. But the quick glance confirmed his instincts. All her flaws added up to an arresting face. It was a shame her personality was so over the top. All that phony stuff about cancer making you stronger, giving people false hope. It bordered on criminal. He hated to call her out on it, but these people needed to know the truth, to be prepared.

“Elizabeth, that is a lovely scarf. Is it new?” he heard her ask the woman beside her. Her soft voice had a unique, musical lilt. Where had he heard that accent before?

The woman lowered the silk paisley covering her tracheotomy and reminded Christie she had bought the scarf for her last Christmas. Christie laughed, her bowed lips curling. He dragged his gaze away and bolted down a cup of lukewarm juice. Why was this woman getting under his skin?

“Well, then, that was grand of me, wasn’t it?” Christie asked.

His mind clicked. Irish. The accent was subtle, as though she’d grown up around people from the old country. No wonder she bought into all that hope and faith stuff. Maybe she believed in rainbows with pots of gold, as well.

Her white teeth flashed at a man with an oxygen tube. “That’s wonderful,” she responded to something he’d said. “You’ve nearly doubled your white-blood-cell count.”

Eli glanced at the clock, glad to see that there were only twenty minutes left. With any luck, they’d get a cab and be home in plenty of time to relieve Mary. She’d been a loyal friend and employee through these difficult three years.

No matter how much John nagged him to go to the White Horse Tavern, he’d be home by eight. Mary had been telling him for the past two weeks that she and her husband had reservations at one of Manhattan’s best restaurants to celebrate their anniversary.

“And, John, I’ve noticed you’ve got some new equipment. How is that going?” asked Christie. Eli glanced down at his buddy. John’s head rested sideways and back against the chair, his eyes closed. That figured. John dragged him to this meeting, made him promise not to leave—as if he would—and then fell asleep.

Christie rushed toward them, her face creased in concern. She grabbed John’s wrist and held up her watch, checking his pulse with a medical professional’s efficiency.

“Someone get Anne,” she called, all business. “Everyone else, stay seated.”

Eli dashed out into the hall, his heart thudding. Why had he assumed John was sleeping?

He skidded to a stop before a woman whose desk nameplate read Anne Cartwright.

“Come quick,” he urged. “Christie needs you.”

Despite his long strides, the diminutive woman kept up with him.

“John. Blink if you can hear me,” Christie was saying when they returned. “Good. Now, can you squeeze my hand? No. Okay. Don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed up, good as new.” She looked relieved at Anne’s appearance.

“Anne, call 911. Tell them we have an ependymoma patient who’s had an arrhythmia-induced stroke that’s affected the left half of his body and speech. He’s conscious but in atrial fibrillation.”

Anne rushed off, phone already in hand. She stopped at Christie’s next words.

“Where is the center’s AED Unit?”

After spending hours in medical clinics, Eli knew these were machines that used electricity to jump-start failing hearts.

Anne whirled, her face ashen.

“It’s down the hall near the gym.” Her voice was a notch above a whisper. She turned back to her call for the EMTs and hurried out of the room.

“Mr. Roberts,” she began, but he cut her off.

“Got it.” Eli bolted for the door. After scouting the hall, he spotted a couple of guys leaving what looked like the gym and raced that way. In a locked cabinet marked AED he saw a gray plastic box. But where was the key?

“Hey,” Anne called from down the hall, the phone pressed to her ear. She threw a set of keys to him. His hands shook as he tried three before finding the right one.

Back in the meeting room, he passed the AED to Christie. She thanked him with a faint smile before turning her attention back to his friend. Who was this capable, take-charge woman?

“Would you lift him to the floor?”

Eli scooped John from the chair and laid him down, sliding his jacket beneath his friend’s head. Christie pulled up John’s shirt and pressed two adhesive pads to his chest while the rest of the support group sat in a worried huddle. An automatic voice rang out that it was assessing the patient. Eli’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.

After a moment, the voice warned all to stand clear; a shock was advised. Christie pressed an orange button and stepped back, her eyes meeting Eli’s. Her calm expression slowed his racing pulse. Clearly, she knew what she was doing.

A jolt shuddered through John and his lids fluttered open. “Wharrrr—” he slurred.

She smoothed John’s glistening forehead then pressed her fingers to the base of his throat. Behind them, seats shifted and creaked as the group strained to see what was happening.

“Is he going to be okay?” someone whispered.

“John, stay with me. The ambulance will be here any minute,” she said, but John’s eyes closed once more.

“No!” Eli burst out. This was not happening.

She took her fingers off John’s neck. “No pulse. Starting chest compressions,” she announced to no one in particular. “The AED needs two minutes to recharge.”

He scrambled over to John’s other side and grabbed his friend’s limp hand. Hang on, buddy, he pleaded silently. You can do this.

Christie began rhythmically pressing John’s chest. “Is he breathing?”

Eli gawked at her. If John wasn’t breathing, that meant he was—

“Put your ear next to his mouth.”

He bent toward John and felt a faint rush of air against his cheek. “Yes. Still breathing.”

Thank you, God.

She checked his pulse again. “Still no pulse.”

The whimpering behind them gave way to all-out crying as she resumed her chest compressions with cool precision. A minute later, the AED announced its readiness. She hit the button and they moved away before it zapped John again.

Eli and Christie exchanged a worried look. She probably felt as scared as he did, but she hadn’t panicked under pressure. She was a competent professional and he’d made all the wrong assumptions about this strong woman.

After the unit completed its round of electricity, Christie felt for John’s pulse. His breath caught when her eyes squeezed shut, a tear slipping through her lashes. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. No. No way. Not now, John.

“Pulse is faint, but it’s steady,” she whispered and opened moist eyes. Suddenly, she rocked back on her heels. Without thinking twice, he ducked over to her side and slid an arm around her waist for support.

She’d saved John’s life.

Christie blinked up at him but made no move away from his touch. “Thank you,” she said, a blue vein standing out on her pale forehead. “I’m not usually so...” Her voice trailed off as she looked over at John again.

She really was something—unflappable when it counted most, when he could hardly see straight. Eli’s fingers tightened around her slender waist.

“Coming through,” hollered one of the two men pushing a stretcher. She gave herself a small shake then took off the AED unit before he helped them lift John onto the lowered gurney. While they checked vitals, Christie summarized what had taken place.

“Good work.” An EMT nodded to her before tucking a chart under his arm. “Who’s coming with John?”

“Me,” Eli and Christie said.

“Only one rider, up front with the driver. Decide fast and meet us outside in thirty seconds.”

Eli’s shoulders drooped. Without a babysitter he’d have to renege on the vow he’d made John to stay with him, see him through whatever happened. But asking Mary to stay was out of the question. She deserved this special night with her husband.

“I guess it’s you.” He folded John’s wheelchair and picked up his coat. “I promised John I’d be there if the end came, but I don’t have child care.”

She studied him for a moment then surprised him. “Obviously you and John are close. If you feel comfortable with it, you could give me your address and I’ll watch Tommy and Becca.”

“You would do that?”

She nodded. “But I’d want an update every half hour. Deal?”

The children had met her twice. And he’d seen her in action. They couldn’t be in safer hands. Besides, Mary would give Christie the third degree before she’d even let her into the apartment. Mary would make it work. “Thank you. It means more than you know.”

When he rattled off the address, she pressed something furry into his hand and closed his fingers around it. “Trust me. I know how important it is to be there for your friend. And that’s for good luck.”

He called Mary from the ambulance then unfurled his other hand to reveal a rabbit’s foot. Seriously? He tucked it into his pocket, wondering how someone who dealt with loss all the time could believe in something like that.

“Lucky for this guy a nurse was there. She saved his life,” the EMT said.

Eli peered out of the ambulance’s passenger window at the disappearing YMCA. He imagined Christie in full-on pep mode, offering hope and comfort. The platitudes hadn’t been an act. And the EMT was right—she did save lives.

But as his fingers dug into the lucky rabbit’s foot, he knew firsthand that no amount of comfort, luck or medical skill could rescue some people.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER CONCLUDING THE support-group meeting with reassurances and hugs, Christie huddled beside Eli’s brick prewar apartment building on a narrow SoHo street. Streetlamps glowed to life as the purple dusk deepened, illuminating pavement shining from the evening’s drizzle. A few buildings away, a Korean deli’s green awning stretched over flower-filled buckets. She inhaled the sweet scent, desperately needing some grounding after tonight’s ordeal with John.

Her insides still shook, but at least her hands had quit trembling. The need to save John had gone beyond professional, firing through her with a desperation stirred up by ghosts from her past. Maybe that was part of the reason she’d been unable to simply go home afterward. If she couldn’t be at the hospital, she was glad, at least, to be here, where she was guaranteed updates.

John should have arrived at Bellevue by now, and the critical-care team would be working hard to stabilize him. Given his already-compromised health, the group faced a serious challenge. But didn’t they always? And John’s strong, larger-than-life persona would help him conquer this setback. It had to.

She shifted her weight to her right foot and pulled her damp shirt from her shivering body. How much longer would Mary keep her outside? She had promised to watch Eli’s children so he could stay with John. And if she didn’t get inside soon, she might miss hearing the latest on John’s condition.

“Ms. Bates?” Mary’s voice crackled through a brass speaker.

She pressed the talk button. “Yes. I’m still here.” Emphasis on the still. She shifted to her left foot.

“My husband ran your license number and it seems you’re all clear.”

“Your husband?” Mary had some serious connections. Getting inside Eli’s building was tougher than gaining clearance at the Pentagon.

“He’s a sergeant at the Sixth Precinct on West Tenth Street,” said Mary, pride ringing in every word.

“A man in blue? He must be handsome, then.”

“There’s nothing like a man in a uniform,” Mary gushed, the sound of the buzzer ending her sentence.

Christie’s sneakers squelched across a white marble floor to elevators with wrought-iron gates. A bronze art-deco light fixture made of scalloped glass dangled from a fifteen-foot ceiling with crown moldings.

This was the glamorous New York she’d envisioned back when she’d sat on her front porch swing in Kansas, dreaming of the day she’d rejoin Gran in the big city. Visiting her widowed grandmother had fueled her desire to become part of this vibrant, cosmopolitan world once more. She’d never forgotten her old neighborhood’s Irish street festivals and specialty shops, and its fine-dining and family-style restaurants.

She pressed the elevator button and stepped back to watch an ornate dial twitch closer to the lobby. When the elevator dinged, the familiar panic about entering an enclosed space clutched at her throat. An image of her brother’s casket flashed in her mind before she could block it. Where had that memory come from? She thought she’d locked it up and thrown away the key.

She searched her purse with trembling hands. Where was her lucky rabbit’s foot? She’d had it for ages. Wait. She’d given it to Eli. She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured John. He needed it more than she did. She pulled the crisscrossed metal gate open and forced herself inside.

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight...” she counted, a coping trick her psychologist friend and roommate, Laura, had taught her. She whispered “ninety-four” before the doors swooshed open, the lit button indicating the top floor. Impressive. Whatever Eli did for a living, he must be very good at it.

“Christie!” Tommy yelled as he burst through the double doors of his apartment. He wore dinosaur-patterned pajamas and massive green claw slippers. His wet hair and clean scent suggested a recent bath.

“Hey, Tommy.” She strained to keep her voice calm as she tugged at the stuck elevator gate.

“I’ll get you out, Christie. Daddy says I’m strong.” Tommy wrapped his small fingers around the metal strips and pulled. A golden retriever bounded out and barked.

“Scout. Tommy. Back inside.” Mary appeared, shooed the two into the apartment and turned to Christie. “My dear, are you all right?”

Christie slowed her breathing and dropped the hand hovering over her chest. Blackness crept around the edges of her vision.

“I can’t get the gate open,” she gasped. How much longer before she passed out? How mortifying if she did.

“We’ve asked the condo board to replace this thing a hundred times but they claim it’s too valuable.” Mary yanked the gate upward and sideways, applied a light kick to the bottom left corner and pulled. With a grating squeal the apparatus came loose. “Looks like a piece of scrap metal to me.”

Saved! Christie stumbled out and dragged in a deep breath.

“Thank you.” She tried to pull it together. The ambulance call and the high emotions of the night had shaken more than just her claustrophobia.

“We should thank you. Eli would have been crushed if he couldn’t be there for John.”

“Has he called?”

Mary nodded. “While you were outside. He said to tell you that John’s condition is stable but still critical. Oh. And that he’ll call you again soon.”

She smiled in relief. John’s life had hung by a thread at the YMCA. Thank goodness for Eli’s quick-thinking aid. She might be a trained RN, but she hadn’t been on a code response team in years. She wasn’t used to the adrenaline rush that came with that kind of pressure. Having him beside her had helped keep her steady.

“Christie, are you coming?” Tommy called. He held out a silver purse. “And you forgot this, Mary.”

Mary took the purse and put an arm around Tommy. “I would have been sadder if I’d forgotten your good-night kiss.” Tommy tipped his bright head back, his dimples so like his father’s.

“Goodbye, Becca,” Mary called through the doorway.

Tommy waved a dismissive hand. “She’s in her room talking to her boyfriend.” He clamped a hand over his mouth. “Oops, I wasn’t supposed to tell.”

“We’ll deal with that tomorrow, dear.” Mary ruffled Tommy’s hair, stepped into the elevator and gave a last wave.

Tommy grabbed Christie’s hand and yanked her inside. An excited Scout wove in and out of their legs, halting them to beg for an ear scratch before moving aside.

“Want to see my dinosaur? His name’s Rexie and he’s awesome.”

“Sure.” She smiled as the youngster scampered down the hall to her right, Scout hot on his heels. She turned to survey the rest of the apartment and— Wow.

A mammoth open space, so unlike the illegally sublet SoHo loft she and Laura shared, yawned before her. Despite the vintage exterior, the apartment had an ultramodern aesthetic that blended rather than clashed with its Corinthian columns. Square light panels alternated in a checkered pattern across the vaulted tin ceiling. A woven beige area rug covered gleaming maple floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows encompassed an entire wall, commanding a panoramic view of the neighborhood and city. The neutral color palate, repeated in black leather couches with white and beige accent pillows, was broken by vibrant artwork and framed photographs. The apartment could have graced the cover of a decorating magazine...if it wasn’t completely and utterly trashed.

Holy cow.

She leaned against the closed door and gaped at the mess. It looked as if a Kansas twister had barreled through the room, scattering papers, books, toys and, of all things, a sewing machine covered in fabric pieces, feathers and open bags of sequins and rhinestones. Not that the place was dirty. In fact, every uncovered surface shone. No doubt Mary was doing her best to keep things clean, but why leave it so untidy?

She twitched at the lack of organization and bent to pick up a paperback.

“Dad doesn’t like anyone touching his stuff,” Becca said behind her.

Christie put the book on a recessed shelf and turned. “I can see that.” She smiled at the young girl, who wore a pink tank top and gray sweatpants. Her dark hair hung past her shoulders in loose curls. “How are you, Becca?”

“Good. A little hungry, though,” Becca laughed. “I can never eat enough after dance class.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “Is Mr. Vaccaro going to be okay?”

“He’s getting the best possible care,” Christie assured the girl. Good thing her voice sounded steady. When she’d seen John sitting so still in his wheelchair, she’d felt as if her own heart had quit beating. “Now, let’s find you something to eat.”

“Oh. Me, too. Me, too.” Tommy burst from behind his sister and dropped his plastic Tyrannosaurus rex. Scout snatched the toy, trotted to a plaid dog bed beside the door and settled down to gnaw on the dinosaur’s tail.

“It looks like everyone’s starving.” Christie eyed Scout. “Give,” she commanded in her firmest nurse voice. The dog’s mouth slackened, the toy dropping to the floor.

“Wow.” Becca tucked her hair behind her ears. “He never listens to anyone. How did you do that?”

She grabbed the toy and sidestepped a shoe pile on her way to the kitchen. “I have a dog, too.” She turned on the hot water and washed the dinosaur in a double sink set in a black granite countertop.

It felt good to clean. Create order. There was nothing like busywork to distract her from worries. She took her first solid breath since she’d noticed John was unconscious.

“What kind of dog? Is he big like Scout?” Tommy and Becca seated themselves in beige leather stools at the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living space.

“He is actually a she and her name’s Sweet Pea.” She handed Tommy the slobber-free T. rex. Scout trotted over at the toy’s reappearance but scuttled back at her stern look. She glanced at a stainless-steel microwave over a matching cooktop. It was 8:15. How much longer until Eli called again?

“Sweet Pea.” Becca spun in her seat. “That’s such a cute name. What kind of dog is she?”

She smiled, picturing her small, white-and-tan dog. On her way to the apartment, she’d phoned Laura, who’d agreed to walk Sweet Pea. How lucky to have such an amazing roommate. She’d pick up Laura’s favorite frozen yogurt, Pinkberry’s chocolate with honey-almond granola topping, on her way home.

“She’s a Cavalier King Charles spaniel.” She thumbed to a photo of Sweet Pea on her iPhone and passed it to the kids. She headed to the fridge. “How do grilled-cheese sandwiches sound?”

“Are they the healthy kind?” Tommy’s fingers traced Sweet Pea’s long ears and their curly fur.

Christie paused on her way back to the counter, organic cheese and butter in hand. “Do you have whole-wheat bread?”

Becca grimaced. “That’s the only kind we have. Dad’s been a complete health-food nut ever since—” Her face froze and she fell silent.

Christie located the bread behind a stack of unopened mail while her mind turned over the possibilities of Becca’s unfinished sentence. Although Eli had sounded annoyed at the cancer-support-group meeting, she’d glimpsed pain, too. Was his decision to be more health conscious related to that?

“This is seriously the cutest dog ever.” Becca held up the iPhone, Sweet Pea’s tilted head and tiny snout on display.

“Is she a puppy?” Tommy got to his knees and stretched toward an overhead pot rack. “Here.” He handed her a frying pan as Becca steadied his stool.

“Thanks.” Christie hunted for a spatula and a butter knife. “Sweet Pea’s almost ten, which is old for a diabetic dog.”

Becca came around the counter, pulled open a couple of drawers and located the utensils. “Need a hand?”

“Sure. Would you turn on the cooktop while I butter the bread?”

“What’s tiabetic mean?” Tommy hopped off his stool and stood next to Christie. “I can help, too.”

“It’s diabetic, Little Man.” Becca grabbed a buttered sandwich. “It means she needs shots.” The frying pan hissed as she placed it inside. “Insulin, right?”

Christie nodded, impressed. “Twice a day, breakfast and dinner.” She handed Tommy two cheese slices, which he lined up with careful precision, tongue sticking out between his teeth. “Becca, I’ll take over the frying, okay?”

“Why do you do that?” Tommy placed the last piece of bread on top and followed her to the range. “Shots hurt.”

Becca pulled Tommy away from the hot pan and wrapped her arms around him. “Because if she didn’t, Sweet Pea would die. We learned that in health class.”

“Die?” Tommy looked stricken. He ran back to his stool and picked up the iPhone.

Christie turned from the stove and gave Tommy a reassuring look. “Not until it’s her time, Tommy. Her medicine keeps her healthy and I make sure she gets it every day.”

Tommy’s quivering lip stilled and Christie flipped the browned sandwich.

Why had Becca said that? The bluntness of teenagers. Her veterinarian had advised her to euthanize Sweet Pea years ago, saying that she’d go blind (she hadn’t) and that it would be difficult to keep up with the shots (it wasn’t). Sweet Pea’s life expectancy was shorter than other dogs, but it only made their time together more precious. She would rather have ten years with Sweet Pea than fifteen with another dog.

“My daddy got medicine so he wouldn’t die,” Tommy blurted.

Christie nearly dropped the cooked sandwich as she slid it onto a plate. Was he saying his father had been treated for a terminal illness? Her insides clenched.

“Tommy!” Becca scowled and passed him the dish. “Eat.”

“Well, it’s true.” Tommy ignored the steaming food. “And Christie understands ’cause she helps other people with cancer, like Mr. Vaccaro.”

“Yes, I do.” The spatula slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor. She bent down and rested her forehead against a lower cabinet, hiding her surprise. So it was true. Eli was recovering from cancer. Her stomach twisted in empathy for him and his children. What they must be going through, and by the look of things, without a wife or mother to help. No wonder he sounded bitter. She grabbed the utensil and rose, her face as composed as possible.

She turned off the stove and handed a scowling Becca the last grilled cheese. “Becca, eat something.”

“Dad doesn’t want people knowing.” Becca pushed the plate away. “He won’t let us talk about it with anyone. Even each other. Ever.”

Becca’s frustration touched a chord, her distant behavior toward her father suddenly making sense. Becca didn’t ignore him out of anger—she avoided him out of fear. And Christie should know; she’d done it to her own brother.

She hated thinking about that painful time in her life. But Becca’s reaction to her father’s illness reminded Christie so much of herself at that age. Confused, hurt and lost.

She waved the grilled cheese under Becca’s nose until the girl gave her a reluctant smile and grabbed the sandwich. “Please don’t worry,” she said. “Everything will work itself out.”

“So you can help Daddy!” Tommy’s blue eyes were wide and bright.

“I can’t promise you that.” She looked from a crestfallen Tommy to a narrow-eyed Becca. “But if he gives his permission, you can call me anytime to talk.”

“Anytime?” Becca looked at her intently. “Even really late?”

Her heart squeezed tight at the thought of Becca—scarcely more than a child herself—scared for her father with nowhere to turn.

“As late as you need,” she promised, hoping she wasn’t getting too involved in Eli’s personal life.

Then again, helping kids deal with cancer was her job. If only Eli could see how much his kids needed to talk through their fear, she’d be happy to help. Besides, it wasn’t as if she was getting involved with him. His handsome, anguished face came to mind. Now that was a risk she didn’t trust her heart to take.

The phone rang, breaking the silence. Becca grabbed the cordless. “Hello?” She listened for a moment then shoved the handset to Christie. “It’s Dad,” she said, her voice hollow.

“Thanks, Becca. Hello?” She clutched the phone and paced. The children’s eyes followed her.

“Ms. Bates, it’s Eli. How are the kids doing?”

“They’re great.” She grinned at Tommy as he polished off his sandwich. His gap-toothed smile was really too precious, especially with cheese squirting out of it. “They’re eating sandwiches, and then I think we’ll watch a little TV before bed.”

Becca finished her last bite and carried the dirty plates to the dishwasher. When she returned to the counter, she helped Tommy climb onto her back and carried him to the living room.

“That sounds perfect.” A feeling of lightness overcame her at the husky cadence of his voice. “But bedtime’s at nine, so not too much TV, okay?”

“Nine o’clock. Got it.” She heard cartoon voices from the living room, where Tommy and Becca sat watching a talking sponge on a flat-screen TV.

“How’s John?” She cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder and began cleaning the countertop.

“The same. Stable, but still critical. We’re waiting for some test results. How much longer can you stay?”

She eyed the snuggling siblings, grateful for the company they’d given her tonight. “As long as you need.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bates, for everything—helping with the kids, letting me stay with John.” His voice thickened. “Saving his life. I think I gave you a hard time tonight, and I’m sorry.”

Warmth rushed through her at his admission. “Don’t give it another thought. And please call me Christie. Would you let me know when John’s condition improves?”

“When or if?”

“When. Think positively.”

His laugh wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but then again, it didn’t sound bitter. “You never quit with that faith and hope stuff, do you?”

She grinned as she swiped a damp paper towel across the cooktop. “Nope.”

“Then you’ll have to hope for the both of us.”

“I can manage that. And, Eli?”

“You know. That’s the first time you’ve called me that, Christie.”

Her heart did a little flip. “Oh.”

He cleared his throat. “Sorry. What were you going to say?”

She turned her back to the living room and lowered her voice. “Take care of yourself.” A quiet moment passed. Then another. “Eli, are you still there?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s said that to me.”

Despite her best intentions, things were getting personal. “Just part of my job,” she said offhandedly, not feeling casual at all.

“Oh. Right. Of course.” His gruff voice returned. “I’ll call you soon. And, Christie?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll see you when I get home.”

For a moment, she warmed to the image. A strong, caring man coming home—to her. Then she shook off the ridiculous sentiment. After tonight, they’d never see each other again. And it was for the best.

She’d vowed to care for support-group attendees. Falling for them, however, was not an option.

* * *

ELI CLICKED OFF the phone and slumped in an upholstered chair in the Bellevue emergency-department waiting room. Beside him, a young mother jiggled a wailing toddler. A large family huddled on a nearby couch, some weeping while others paced. A young man hollered and punched a soda machine until uniformed security officers dragged him away. The air was thick and smelled of antiseptic, illness and despair.

Was it possible to feel both glad to be somewhere and wish you were anywhere else?

He watched the harried nurse at the reception desk briskly sort patients. Her calm, no-nonsense manner reminded him of Christie and the impressive way she’d managed John’s emergency.

He leaned his head against the wall and replayed his conversation with her. The way she’d said his name had loosened something balled up inside him. For a moment he’d imagined himself in another place and time, able to date a woman like her.

He strode to a glass vending machine and glimpsed his reflection.

Fool.

He was a single father recovering from cancer...not exactly the catch of the century.

Hadn’t the desertion of his ex-wife, Jacqueline, taught him anything? Cancer infected more than bodies. It destroyed relationships, too. He might be in remission now. But what if his cancer returned? To protect his children, he’d never let another woman into his life or theirs.

Eli dropped some coins in the slot and grabbed the bag of trail mix that fell to the bottom. He glanced at the clock. How long since the nurse’s last update on John? There was no lineup at her desk. Now was the perfect time to ask.

She looked up from her computer with a weary expression.

“Mr. Roberts, you’re still not allowed to go inside. Family members and caregivers only,” she repeated patiently for the umpteenth time.

“I rode in the ambulance with him.”

The nurse inclined her head, the harsh light casting shadows on her gaunt cheeks. “I’m afraid that’s not enough.”

Eli smiled politely and handed her the unopened bag of trail mix. He’d lost his appetite. “It’s all right. I understand.”

But he didn’t. In what universe did biology count more than humanity? Despite repeated calls, John’s sons hadn’t bothered to show tonight.

He crossed to the window and watched rain blur the city’s lights into a colorful kaleidoscope. Ninety minutes had passed and he needed to reassure John that he wasn’t fighting alone. But how could he get by security? He paced, each step taking him nowhere fast.

A half hour later, his cell phone buzzed.

“Eli?”

Christie. He sat in the nearest chair and gripped the phone. “Are the kids okay?”

“Fine. They went to bed like angels. Listen, I was wondering if you preferred your books alphabetized or lined up according to size?”

What? Was she organizing his apartment? He liked it the way it was. Jacqueline had never allowed Tommy’s toys or Becca’s dance gear around, the regulated order a constant reminder of how he’d never fit into her picture-perfect world. Nowadays, the chaos kept them from remembering their past.

“Christie. Please don’t touch anything.”

“Oh. Okay. Did the test results come back on John?”

He pulled out her rabbit’s foot and ran his fingers along the soft fur. “I don’t know. They won’t let me see him.”

“Who’s on the front desk?”

He peered at the nurse. “I think her name tag says Rachel Smith-something.”

“Smitherson.” Her voice rose. “I know her. Put her on and tell her it’s me.”

“You’re not related, either.”

“No. But I’m also not a defeatist.”

“Or a realist,” he said dryly.

“Please give her your cell, Eli.”

How could he say no when she said his name like that? He walked over and handed Nurse Smitherson the phone. “Christie Bates for you.”

The woman listened for a moment then smiled up at him. Was Christie making some headway?

“Of course, Christie. If I’d known, I would have kept the gentleman apprised. I’ll have him come back right now.” She handed him the phone and pointed to wooden double doors that separated the waiting area and the emergency room.

A buzzer sounded and the doors opened.

“Follow me.” She led him to a room filled with beeping machines and uniformed professionals. “Dr. Landon, when you have a moment, would you please update Mr. Roberts? He’s Mr. Vaccaro’s health proxy.”

“What’s going on?” Christie’s faint voice sounded. He brought the phone back to his ear.

“How did I become John’s health proxy?” he whispered. “And I’m not sure what’s going on. The doctor’s coming out soon.”

“You take care of John, right?”

“Right.” He dodged a gurney wheeled by a medical technician.

“Then that’s close enough. By a stretch. But we’re desperate here.”

He chuckled. “You are something.”

“I might say the same of you.”

“The doctor’s here. I’ve got to go.”

He punched off the phone and followed a middle-aged woman in a white coat to a nearby alcove.

“We’ve just gotten Mr. Vaccaro’s test results, so your timing is perfect.” The doctor opened a chart and perused its contents. After what felt like an eternity, she looked at him once more, her face grave. His fingers tightened around the rabbit’s foot.

If nothing else, it prevented him from digging holes in his own palm, right?

“I’m afraid Mr. Vaccaro has suffered a thrombotic stroke from a heart arrhythmia. It does not appear related to his cancer nor does it seem to have aggravated it. In fact, the MRI shows tumor shrinkage.”

He rubbed his eyes. Was he hearing good news?

“Although I can’t predict how completely he’ll recover from the stroke, he’s regained seventy percent of his mobility and all of his speech. As for his heart, a pacemaker will control the arrhythmia.” Dr. Landon’s mouth twitched in a wry smile. “It seems he’d like a glass of whiskey.”

He could have kissed her. John was a fighter. He would recover from the stroke, and better yet, his cancer was responding to treatment. He squeezed the rabbit’s foot, for real this time, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.

He thanked the doctor and strode to John’s room. A nurse removed a blood-pressure cuff and made space for him.

“John. It’s Eli.” He squeezed John’s hand and was relieved to feel the pressure returned. “The doctor says your tumor shrank and the stroke is under control.”

“James,” John murmured, his eyes opening and closing.

“No. It’s Eli.”

John pointed a plastic-encased finger. “Jameson.”

Eli grinned. John’s favorite whiskey. “I’ll bring it when I visit tomorrow.” He lowered John’s hand to the sheet.

“Put it in my IV.” John’s chuckle turned into a cough.

A nurse rushed in. “I’m afraid it’s time to go, sir.” She steered him out of the room.

In the hall, he spotted John’s sons and tensed. They strolled his way in no apparent hurry.

“How’s old Pop doing?” the older son, Brian, asked.

“See for yourself,” he called over his shoulder and sprinted outside. A taxi jerked to a halt at his raised hand.

He had someone much more important with whom to share this good news. And once he’d done that, he told himself sternly, he’d see Christie into a cab and out of his life.

No matter that she was the first woman to make him smile in too long to remember.

CHAPTER THREE

CHRISTIE TOSSED ANOTHER magazine on the floor and stepped back to study the effect. She dragged a hand through her hair. Still not messy enough. Eli would know she’d organized his apartment if she’d didn’t put it back to rights—or wrongs—but still. She should have listened to Becca’s warning but hadn’t believed anyone would prefer a messy house. After speaking to Eli, though, she understood she was wrong. It was his home and the way he wanted it. She respected that. In fact, there was a lot about the gruff Mr. Roberts she was starting to admire. He was a loyal friend, protective father and considerate employer.

If only he understood that shielding his children from his cancer did more harm than good. They needed to talk about their feelings, not bottle them up. Becca barely spoke to him. How much longer before Tommy followed suit?

Her gran always said, “There are no unmixed blessings in life.” Eli had regained his health but was losing his family. How could she help him understand? And was it her place to? He hadn’t asked for help, though his children had.

She tugged some books from a shelf and checked her watch—10:00. Why hadn’t Eli called? Surely he had John’s test results by now. Maybe his cell battery had quit? Or he and John were visiting? She scattered pillows on the floor. If only he’d give her a quick call and reassure her.

Without warning, the lights went out, plunging her into complete darkness. The soft hum of the refrigerator quit along with the whirring central air conditioning. She froze, a tingle of alarm running up her spine. The building was old. Had its power failed? Her claustrophobia returned with a vengeance.

Everything felt close, the heavy blackness pressing all around, dragging her down like... She clutched a pillow to her galloping heart, the remembered sound of thudding dirt on a lowered casket echoing faintly in her ears. She inhaled and exhaled slowly. No. She hadn’t had those nightmares in a long time. Why were so many memories resurfacing today? Perhaps John’s close call had shaken them loose.

Christie felt her way to the glass wall and raised the shades. Light glowed softly from covered windows across the street, the overcast sky obscuring the moon. No help there. She sank into a nearby chair and focused. Laura had taught her that if she altered her thoughts they’d change her emotions and behavior. Instead of cowering like a scared mouse, she’d find candles. Yes. Hadn’t she seen some tapers in pewter holders on the mantel? There must be more.

No sense sitting in the cloying murk. She needed to open the windows and strike some matches.

Eli’s home was overdue for some fresh air and light.

* * *

“HERE WE ARE, SIR,” the cabbie announced at the Broome Street address.

“Thanks.” Eli thrust a twenty at the driver and jumped out of the cab.

He peered up at his dark building. What a wild night. He’d attended his first cancer-support-group meeting, met a woman who both frustrated and fascinated him, helped save his best friend’s life, and now this—a building power outage. So much for the promised update to its faulty electrical system.

He shook his head. Christie probably had a fanciful saying about life having some sort of plan. But he knew better. Everything, every single thing, happened by chance without consideration for timing or convenience. Random events could be kind or cruel. And meeting someone who piqued his interest, at this point in his life, felt like a little bit of both.

He unlocked the building’s leaded glass door and shut it behind him. For once he was glad the super refused to update the antiquated entrance. A key in a lock always worked, regardless of an overtaxed electric system. The thought of his children alone in the dark made him take the stairs two at a time.

A sixth-floor penthouse was as safe as you got in a power failure. But still. His kids were all he had. And nothing bad would happen to them as long as he lived. If he lived. His chest tightened.

Exactly how long would that be? Would he teach Tommy and Becca to parallel park? Admire them in their graduation robes? Walk Becca down the aisle and shake Tommy’s hand when each of them got married...hold his grandchildren? His eyes stung at the thought.

He paused on the fourth-floor landing and rubbed his aching calf. It’d never been the same since they’d replaced his diseased fibula with titanium. In fact, nothing seemed the same. Surviving cancer felt like living in a house of cards. At any moment, everything he’d built could fall apart.

A couple of minutes later, he found his door and fumbled for the lock, the metal key scraping against the wooden panels. After several attempts, the tip of the key slipped in. He slammed through the door in an instant.

“Take one more step and it will be your last,” warned a voice in the dark.

O-kay. Not exactly the homecoming he’d looked forward to. He wasn’t used to knocking on his own door.

He peered into the dim room and saw the outline of a slender woman standing on a chair.

“Christie?”

“Eli?”

She clutched something large over her head, the chair wobbling. He lunged as the object—a hefty volume from his bookshelves, he realized—fell from her grip.

“Ouch!”

“Oh, my goodness. Did that hit your foot?”

“Yes,” he grunted, sliding off his shoe to rub his big toe. “Lucky you didn’t get my head.”

She took his offered hand and stepped lightly to the floor. “Lucky you still have my rabbit’s foot.” Her white teeth flashed in the dark.

“I would have preferred steel-toed boots.” He limped into his living room. His very tidy living room, he noticed, now that his eyes were adjusting to the dimness. Had she organized despite what he’d told her?

“How about an ice pack instead?” she called from the kitchen. He heard the freezer door open. “It’s a little melted, but still cold.”

“Sounds fine.” He looked around the candlelit room. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, meaning it, to his surprise.

She’d lined up their shoes and arranged Tommy’s action figures in dramatic poses. The sewing area resembled a tailor shop with Becca’s costume materials sorted and folded. Wow. He’d never spend another hour searching for lavender sequins again. Christie’s version of order felt homey rather than sterile. Perhaps he’d been wrong to insist on the chaos.

“Oh, about that—” She leaned close to place a cold bag across his toes. “I clean when I worry. When you asked me not to touch your things, it was too late.” She sat beside him on the couch. “But since the kids went to bed, I’ve been making it messy again.” She gestured to a few books and pillows on the floor.

This was her version of a mess? He almost laughed until he took in her apologetic expression.

“It’s fine.” He spread his hands, glad she hadn’t headed out the door as soon as he returned home. He was way too keyed up to sleep, and he couldn’t deny he just flat-out wanted to know more about her. “Actually, it’s great. Really.”

Her soft sigh whispered past his ear as she settled deeper into a corner of the sectional. “That’s a relief. How’s John?”

“Good. He’s gotten back most of his movement and all of his speech.” He inhaled her wildflower scent, the subtle aroma wreaking havoc with his senses. Stay focused. “In fact, he asked for some Jameson.”

She laughed, the jubilant sound infectious. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed sharing a laugh with a woman. Strange. He’d won back his life, but he hadn’t really been living it, he realized. There was danger in wanting things, in dreaming of a future when you couldn’t guarantee tomorrow.

“John will be asking to go to the White Horse Tavern, then.”

“Have you been there?” It was a popular neighborhood pub. Did she live in SoHo?

“My gran lives on Bleecker and I’m on Spring. I take her there every Sunday after church.”

The contradictory nature of cities, living near people you never met, surprised him anew. What would have happened had they run into each other years ago?

“Is she Irish?” he asked. A breeze from an open window blew her fragrant hair against his cheek.

“To be sure,” she said with an exaggerated inflection then laughed. “Gran immigrated when she was twenty.” She pulled her hair back and began braiding. “How did you know?”

He resisted the urge to touch the soft strands tickling his neck. “Something in your voice. And this.” He held out her lucky rabbit’s foot.

Her fingers brushed his as she took it.

“I wished I’d had it when your elevator trapped me.”

He frowned. His super would get a call tomorrow. First the power, now this. That gate was a menace. “How long were you stuck?”

Her laughter sounded again in the softly lit room. “No more than a minute. But it was enough. I’m claustrophobic. And a bit dramatic, if I’m honest. Perhaps I should have gone into acting instead of nursing—well, pediatric grief counseling now.”

“No,” he exclaimed. Her face reflected the surprise he felt at his outburst. Well, now he’d need to explain. “You’re so good at what you do. Trust me. You’d never want to go into entertainment.”

She cocked her head and toyed with the fringe on a pillow. “And why is that, I wonder?”

“I’ve photographed actors and models. It’s an artificial world and you, you’re so—” He grappled with how to finish his thought.

“It’s all right.” She looked down at her hands. “I know I’m no beauty.”

What? He studied the adorable tilt of her nose and the curve of her generous lower lip, the shadowed light enhancing her unique looks. She had occupied his thoughts the better part of the night and didn’t have a clue.

“You’re real,” he said, figuring it was safe to admit that much. “That’s the only difference.”

“Oh.” Silence stretched between them. “Don’t you like working with beautiful women every day?”

“It was a paycheck.” Makeup and hair extensions didn’t add up to beauty in his eyes.

“Was?”

“Now I run my own graphic-design business from home. But I used to work for Faire du Charme magazine.” He held up one of the glossy publications fanned on his coffee table. Where on earth had she found it? He thought he’d gotten rid of them all.

Christie leafed through the pages. “Impressive. Why did you leave?”

“My ex-wife is the assistant to the editor-in-chief...as well as his current spouse.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.” She studied a large picture on the wall beside his TV. Its simple black frame set off rows of waving corn and a red tractor beneath a hazy purple sky. “Is that what you photograph now?”

He wished. Artistic photography was a financial gamble. To provide for Jacqueline’s expensive lifestyle, he’d put aside his dream of showing his work in a gallery. Once his illness arrived, and she left, he’d lost interest in photography altogether. That was, until he’d seen Christie. Her mobile face made him itch to capture every expression.

“Haven’t taken a picture in over two years. I took that one seventeen years ago, the day I graduated high school. Working that farm paid for my ticket to New York.” He stood and walked toward the kitchen, his foot recovered. “Would you like something to drink?”

“That’s okay,” she replied. “I probably should get going.”

Eli put up a hand to forestall her rise from the couch. “Please stay. The elevator’s out and stairs are dangerous in the dark. Besides, I’m still too wired to sleep after what happened to John. I’d appreciate the company.”

She considered him for a moment then put her purse back on the coffee table. “All right. Anything that’s still cold would be great, then, thanks.”

He grabbed a couple of glasses from the cabinet and noticed that she’d arranged the kids’ artwork on the refrigerator door. Someone had drawn a picture of a blond-haired boy in a race car, and he guessed Tommy had put Christie to work on the sketch. With an effort, he swallowed down old resentments at Jacqueline’s absence from the kids’ lives.

“How does sweet tea sound?” he asked, trying to get his head back into their conversation.

“Perfect. Where was the picture taken? It reminds me of home—Kansas.”

Back in the living room, he wiped the condensation from the glass before handing it to Christie.

“I’ve been to Kansas.” He sat beside her and tried to ignore the electric sensation of her arm against his as she lifted her drink.

“Very good,” she said after a long gulp. “What part of Kansas?”

“Hutchinson. My parents travel the state-fair circuit. They’re in charge of the games on the fair’s midway.” He winced inside at the crazy sound of that. But it had been his life...well, theirs, really.

“And you?” She traced the rim of her glass and his eye was drawn to her slender fingers.

“I stayed with my grandparents in Kentucky and visited my parents during school vacations. My grandma’s the one who taught me how to make sun tea.”

“Do you use Luzianne tea bags?”

Eli lowered his glass and nodded. “They’re the best. I put the pitcher on the windowsill every morning.”

“Your grandma sounds great.”

The familiar emptiness rose. “She was. But she passed the year after Becca was born, my grandfather six months later.”

Her warm hand found his. “You miss them.”

He jerked away, unnerved by the leap of his heart at her touch. “Every day.” He stood. “Excuse me. I should check on Becca and Tommy.”

In the hall, he pressed his burning forehead against Tommy’s door, glad for the shadows. He was enjoying this time with Christie too much. As much as he wanted her to stay, he probably needed her to go before she got under his skin even more. The way she laughed, spoke, touched him...it made him forget the danger she posed. He had no business letting anyone into his life.

Tommy’s door creaked as he eased it open. Scout raised his head, ears pricked forward.

“Hey, boy,” he whispered. He tiptoed into the room, rubbed Scout’s ears and pressed a light kiss to Tommy’s forehead. The boy slept on his back, one arm flung across his eyes, the other dangling over the side of his bed. He tucked the loose arm under the covers before backing out and shutting the door.

At Becca’s door, he ignored the Keep Out sign and peeked in. Funny how much younger she looked asleep, her face free of the scowls she gave him. He advanced to her bed, gently pulled out her earbuds and placed them with her iPod beside her bed. She turned over and muttered in her sleep. After a moment her quiet breathing resumed, and he returned to the hall, his equanimity restored.

Seeing his children firmed his resolve to separate Christie from their lives. She was charming. Too charming. It’d be easy for them to get attached.

Though Becca and Tommy rarely complained, he knew their mother’s abandonment had crushed them. She rarely called and visited even less. He tried to keep up a pretense that Jacqueline cared, assuring them that her work took her to countries without reliable cell service. He even bought them Christmas and birthday presents and signed her name. But it wasn’t enough. Not even close. And he’d never let anyone hurt them like that again.

When he returned, he found Christie pacing by the window, purse in hand.

“I should be going, Eli. I really don’t mind navigating my way out.”

“A marble staircase without lights? Never a good idea.” His eyes searched hers, willing her to stay longer. He could keep a few boundaries without letting her go off just yet. “Won’t you stay until the electricity’s back?”

She nodded, the candlelight silhouetting her in gold. “If you want me to.”

“I do.” With a firm hand on her back, he guided her back to the couch. This time, he seated himself in a chair—it was safer that way.

“So tell me about Kansas.”

Her expression stilled. Strange. He imagined her life filled with homecoming parades and town picnics.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he probed.

“An older brother. William.” She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned forward. “He passed away when I turned eighteen.”

He half rose then sat back down. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it.” He wanted to offer comfort, but how much closer could he afford to get? With an effort, he remained in his seat.

She rubbed her temples. “It’s okay. He died of leukemia at the end of my senior year in high school. I moved in with Gran to attend nursing school at Columbia a few months later.”

A lot about her suddenly made sense. “Is that why you became a grief counselor?”

Christie’s head snapped up. “What? No. Maybe. It’s not something I really think about.”

“Oh,” he said, understanding more than she knew. Strange that she talked about cancer with strangers but when it came to herself, she stayed mum. He wondered if she shared her experience with her support group. Then again, her story didn’t have a happy ending—not the positive focus she wanted. Time to switch subjects.

“And your parents. Are they still in Kansas?”

“They died in a car crash during my first year in college.”

Eli rose. This time he would go to her. How had he managed to ask such horrible questions?

The lights blared on. He blinked away the spots in front of his eyes and saw Christie wipe her damp cheeks. After all she’d been through this evening, he’d made her cry. What an insensitive jerk.

As she walked to the door, he trailed in her wake. He hated to say goodbye after stirring up those painful memories. But with the power back, what excuse did he have for her to stay?

“I’m sorry I brought all of that up.”

She rummaged in her purse. “Don’t worry. I try not to dwell on it. It’s better that way.” She jabbed at an unlit cell phone.

Was it better that way? Her closed expression screamed “Drop the subject!” and with difficulty, he did.

“May I call and request a car for you? It’s late and I wouldn’t want you walking far for a cab.”

“Thank you. I was planning to splurge and call for one given the hour, but my battery died.”

He dialed the number of a nearby service and watched her withdraw a tissue. She blew her nose and straightened her narrow shoulders. When he hung up, she turned, eyes dry, lips curving upward once more.

Only now he wasn’t fooled. That smile covered deep pain. He’d been determined to keep her at arm’s length for his children’s sake. But now he understood that he needed to stay away for her sake, too. She’d suffered too much loss to spend her days with a guy who might be living on borrowed time. Too bad knowing that didn’t make it any easier to say goodbye.

“The driver will be here in five minutes.” He recalled her claustrophobia and the unreliable elevator door. “May I see you downstairs?”

Christie nodded and preceded him. “Tell the children I said goodbye.”

He pushed the elevator button. “I will. Thanks again for watching them. Oh. And I almost forgot to tell you. The doctor told me John’s brain tumor has shrunk.”

Her green eyes widened. Was there any color more beautiful? “That’s wonderful news. He’s had a tough time, but he’s a fighter.”

When the elevator dinged, he caught the flash of the rabbit’s foot disappearing into her hand. What a superstitious little soul. He definitely liked Christie Bates.

They rode the elevator in silence. He glanced her way a few times, wondering at her silently moving lips.

A black car idled by the curb when they stepped into the foyer. So soon. If only they had a few more minutes.

“Goodbye, Eli.” Her wistful voice produced an almost-physical ache in his heart. They’d been through a lot tonight. Having it end after her painful admission felt wrong.

Worse, he’d let her share that without ever admitting anything about his condition. Maybe it would be better if she knew. At least then she’d understand why this really needed to be goodbye.

“I have cancer,” he blurted. “Had, I mean.”

She touched his arm, the gentle sensation lingering long after she dropped her hand. “I’m so glad you’re in remission. Tommy told me about your illness, but only because he knows I work with cancer patients. The children respect your wish not to talk about it.”

Now, that he had not expected. Did she understand his reason for telling her? That he needed the reminder of why he shouldn’t see her again?

The town-car driver honked and she opened the foyer door and walked out. He followed, pulling the car door wide for her.

“Goodbye, Christie.” He would remember this night—remember her—for a long time. “Thanks again.”

“Take care, Eli.” Her voice sounded quiet. Tired.

He nodded, unable to say more as he watched her duck into the car. His feet stayed rooted to the stone stoop long after the taillights disappeared into the rain. If only he was the kind of man who could see her again. A man whose future didn’t blur into a question mark.

But now, as he trudged back inside the building, he told himself to focus on his kids and what they needed. If they were confiding in her that he’d put a lockdown on all cancer discussion, maybe his health issues bothered them more than he realized.

And while he might not ever subscribe to the touchy-feely brand of positive thinking that Christie did, he would make sure his kids had someone to talk to. Someone a whole lot better versed in this stuff than him.

Even though an energetic, beautiful nurse and counselor came to mind, he vowed to find someone else.

For both their sakes.

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