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Serendipity
What if you made a New Year's resolution, then were forced to keep it?
Professor Sam Pierson should be more careful about what he wishes for. He's already as unhappy as he is obnoxious. What he doesn't realize is that his life is about to reach a new low. His boss is ready to fire him and his wife to leave him. When a disturbing stranger asks for his New Year's resolutions at a party, Sam throws everyone into hysterical laughter when he blurts out, "I want the body of an athlete and I want everyone to respect me." At midnight the stranger slaps him on the back, Sam has a sharp pain in his chest, and for the entire year, he cannot do anything that violates his New Year's resolutions. Hilarity follows as family, friends, enemies and co-workers try and figure out what the world happened to Sam. And while Sam eventually figures out what his problem is, it takes him a while longer to realize exactly what he needs to do about it. |
Chapter One
Professor Sam Pierson stared at himself in the full-length mirror, realized his mouth hung open and snapped it shut. He cursed. Loudly. The tuxedo didn’t fit. Not only didn’t it fit, it clung to his body like a wet T-shirt on a co-ed, revealing every pound, bulge and lump he’d acquired in the three years since he’d last worn the suit. Great.
Grinding his teeth, he turned to pound on the master bathroom door. "Emily!" She didn’t respond and he tried the knob. Locked, of course. He pounded again. "Emily, my tux doesn’t fit. I can’t go to the party looking like this."
The hair dryer blasted full force behind the closed door and with a scowl, he jerked away, his head pounding. This was her fault. If she’d thought to rent him a tuxedo he wouldn’t be in this mess. He glanced at the glowing red numbers on the bedside clock. Seven-thirty. It was too late to rent one himself.
Walking to the closet he frowned and flipped through his clothes. He could wear a regular suit, but the New Year’s Eve party was formal and he didn’t want to stand out.
Taking a deep breath he felt the waistband of his slacks strain and he grimaced. If he couldn’t breathe, how was he supposed to socialize? Eat?
He glanced into the full length mirror again and swore. If this wasn’t his only chance to talk to his boss in a social setting he’d just stay home. But he had to be there tonight. He shot a glare at the closed door. They had to be there.
Straightening, he sucked in his gut and peered down at his stomach. Perhaps if he eliminated some clothing? He quickly kicked off his shoes, peeled off his slacks and removed his boxers. A moment later he tugged the slacks back on, and very carefully zipped them. He pulled in his gut again. Better? Maybe. If he didn’t eat or sit, he could probably make it through the evening. He slipped his shoes on without bending over.
Anyway, who would notice the tightness of his clothes in a crowded room? It would be fine. He released his breath in a rush and the waistband cut into his gut once more. It would have to be.
He jerked his arm and looked at his watch. They needed to leave. Now. He pounded on the bathroom door again. "Emily, we’re late!"
The door opened and he stepped aside, glaring as Emily moved into the bedroom. Ignoring him, she walked to the closet and withdrew a pair of spike-heeled black shoes.
The scent of her peach body lotion wafted through the air and he inhaled, his gaze still trailing her. She’d pulled her blonde hair up into one of those fancy styles, somehow pinning it into place on top of her head, leaving curls to dance invitingly around her cheeks and throat. He continued to stare as she bent over, his gaze drawn to the back of one knee revealed by the slit in the dress. He swallowed.
Finally, shoes on, she straightened, and as her blue eyes wandered over his outfit he tensed. "Well?"
Her lips smiled the fake smile. "You look nice." Her voice was bright, superficial. The voice she used with strangers when she was uncomfortable. She glanced down at her dress. "What do you think?"
She looked wonderful, as usual. The calf-length black dress showed off her slender, curvaceous figure, the stark color making her blonde hair bright, and her eyes a brilliant blue.
Ignoring her question, he buttoned his jacket. "You don’t think it looks too tight on me?"
She sighed, turned and started to rifle through her jewelry box. "Do you have anything else to wear?"
He glared at her back. "No."
She crossed to the dressing table mirror without looking at him, arched her neck to one side and slid a hoop-earring into place. "Then it’s fine, isn’t it?"
"It’ll have to be, won’t it." If he had a normal wife who took an interest in anyone other than herself, maybe he’d have something decent to wear tonight.
Lucky for her he wasn’t like his father. No yelling or...well, he was a wonderful husband and it was about time she realized it and tried being a decent wife in return.
Sam assessed her dress again, trying to ignore his reaction to the body inside as she bent over the dresser to check her make-up, ignoring him. His jaw clenched. "When you bend over like that it makes your butt look fat."
Her back stiffened and she slowly straightened and turned, her face reddening. She was angry. Incredible. Emily showing emotion.
Muscles tight, he studied her, anticipation thrumming through his body. Her fists were clenched, ready to take him apart. About time. Lifting his chin, Sam savored the eagerness coursing through him. They needed a good fight. He was angry too. She was so indifferent to him. Perhaps now he’d get some sort of reaction instead of the incessant no-one-home stare. They could relieve the tension, get their marriage back on track, and start being intimate again.
She inhaled, opened her mouth, then paused.
He tensed. Come on. Say it. Something. Anything!
She blinked, her expression smoothed, and she relaxed. The bland mask slipped back into place as her eyebrows rose. "Then I’d better not bend over."
Fingers digging into one thigh, his temples pounding, Sam held her gaze. When she turned away, he let out a harsh breath.
Couldn’t he do anything to get a reaction out of her? Say anything? What did she want from him?
Abruptly he snatched his wallet off the dresser and tried to wrestle it into his back pocket. When it wouldn’t fit he shoved it inside his jacket.
If that was how she wanted it he’d go along with her.
For now. They didn’t have time to fight anyway. But eventually they needed to have it out. He glanced at the bed they used for sleeping. He couldn’t go on like this for much longer. Something had to change.
He noticed the time on the bedside clock. Seven-forty. They’d never make it on time. "Come on. We need to leave. I told you I wanted to be there by eight o’clock."
She picked up a long rectangular bottle from off the dresser. "Why the big hurry? I thought the party didn’t even start until eight."
He watched as she sprayed perfume on her neck and wrists, and breathed in deeply, smelling the light, enticing fragrance. She’d worn this scent ever since he’d known her, and for some reason, right now, it reminded him of better times. Of when she’d loved him. When she used to tell him she loved him.
He pushed the thought away. Everyone went through bad patches in their marriage. At present, he needed to focus his energy on getting tenure at the University. Emily needed to feel secure. Then life would be better. He hesitated, slipped his fingers into his front pockets, then pulled them out again when he realized it made the tuxedo look worse.
Maybe she wouldn’t be so cold toward him if she understood what was at stake tonight. He cleared his throat. "I want a chance to talk to Jeff Johansen alone."
He watched her. No reaction. Couldn’t she at least face him when he spoke to her? If she understood what he was trying to do for her...he sighed. "Emily, I didn’t tell you this, but two weeks ago I gave Jeff my new history text book to read. I’m hoping to get a chance to talk to him alone."
He glanced up at her, but she still didn’t look at him. "I’m hoping he’ll put in a good word about me to the board members." He shrugged. "Perhaps it’ll influence the board’s decision about my application for tenure."
When she lifted her head to stare at him, he shrugged. "You know how standoffish Jeff is. I figured, possibly, if I asked him for a recommendation in a social setting instead of at the University...then maybe he’d say yes." He shrugged again and cleared his throat. "Anyway, it’s worth a shot."
Face blank, she nodded, then moved to walk out of the room.
Mouth falling open, Sam watched her go. He spills his soul, tells her his plans and...nothing! "Hello!" Sam’s fists clenched. "Did you hear what I said? You do want to stay in Utah, don’t you? You do want to continue to live near your mother, don’t you?"
She stopped in the doorway to glance back at him. "Did you want to talk about something?"
He made a sound of disgust. "Never mind. I just thought you’d be a bit more excited about my getting tenure."
"That would be very nice for you."
Nice for him? He watched as she headed toward Jared’s room. Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth, then followed.
Didn’t she care about anything anymore? This was their future he was discussing. Emily was the one who wanted to live in Salt Lake City forever, and Emily was the one who wanted to stay in this house, and Emily was the one with a mother in the same city. Was it too much to ask for a little enthusiasm? He brushed a hand over his face. What he wouldn’t give for ten extra minutes and a cigarette.
Following her down the hall, he heard her talking softly to Jared. "Sweetheart, I know you don’t need a baby-sitter, but we probably won’t be home until one o’clock or so. I’ll feel better knowing you aren’t alone in the house, all right?"
"But Mom, I’m almost twelve. It’s so dumb. If my friends knew I had to have someone over to baby-sit--"
Sam stepped into the room. The kid had no right to complain. Not after what he’d done. "And whose fault is that young man? If you could act like a responsible person rather than a hooligan then you wouldn’t need a babysitter, would you? After what happened, you’re lucky a babysitter and forty hours of community service are all you have coming."
Sam rubbed one hand over his face. "Come on Emily, we don’t have time for this." He started to leave the room, but when he caught sight of Jared’s blue eyes, so like his mother’s, glaring at him, it set him off again. He’d get respect from his own child if from no one else.
"Do you know how humiliating it was for me to be called down to the police station? To be told my son had been throwing snowballs at cars? To find out you’d broken a car window like some common vandal? If that’s what you do for fun over your Christmas vacation then you deserve to be watched twenty-four hours a day." Sam realized he was pointing his finger to emphasize each word and, inhaling, lowered his hand.
"Like you were a saint when you were a kid, Dad." Jared turned his back to sit at his desk, blond head bent, shoulders hunched.
Sam stepped closer to glare down at Jared. "Well, if I wasn’t, at least I was smart enough not to get caught."
Emily stepped between them. "Sam--"
He spoke over her shoulder. "And I still want to know who you were with. Why you think you have to protect someone who gladly let you take the rap for the broken window is beyond me."
"Sam, just drop it." Emily glared at him, her arms crossed and her face tight.
Like mother, like son. Sam was the bad guy as usual. "I’m just trying to discipline our son. You’re too easy on him. He needs to learn there are consequences to bad behavior, and you need to stop interfering."
"Sam. I said drop it."
Frowning, he glanced from Emily’s set face to Jared’s bent head, then ran a hand through his hair. "What do you two want from me?"
Jared turned in his chair, his eyes condemning. When had Jared started looking at him like that? What had happened to the little boy who used to worship him? Perhaps Jared was just turning into a teenager a bit early. Emily really needed to spend more time with him. Keep him out of trouble. Sam rubbed his throbbing temples. As soon as he got tenure, maybe he’d have to do it himself.
The doorbell rang and Sam let out an exasperated sigh.
"That must be your mother." He glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes until eight. "And she’s late. Come on, we need to go." He grabbed Emily’s elbow and gave a tug. When she resisted, he scowled at her, then turned and left the bedroom.
He hurried down the stairs to open the front door, wincing as frigid air blew into the entryway. Alice, his elegantly clad mother-in-law stood on the porch, which explained the drop in temperature. She didn’t resemble anyone’s idea of a baby-sitter. Or a grandmother either, for that matter. His lip curled. After two divorces and one husband buried, she wasn’t hurting financially. She could afford to look as if she’d just stepped out of a salon.
Her make-up was perfectly applied, as usual. Short red hair, slightly curled, swept away from her face, emphasizing the chilling stare she fixed on him. As always, she surveyed him like he was a bug in need of squashing.
"Hi, Mom." Her eyes flickered, and he smirked. She hated him calling her that. He stepped aside and gestured with a hand. "Please, come in."
"Thank you." Raising her chin, she eyed him coldly. "Your tuxedo is too tight."
Witch. As she swept past, her clean, slightly tropical scent, floated by. "Mm. Nice perfume, have you got a hot date later?" He hit his forehead with his palm. "Oh, no, I remember now. You were free to baby-sit because you had nothing to do on New Year’s Eve." He bared his teeth in a mock smile. "If you’d like, I could set you up with one of the professors at the University." He winked. "We have a couple of old timers without spouses."
Her eyes narrowed. "I hope they don’t have anything good to eat at the party, Sam." She slowly smiled. "It looks as if your outfit might explode if you take even one bite of food."
Emily came down and shot him a glare before hugging Alice. Sam’s jaw tightened. Now what did he do? "Can we leave?" Emily and her mother both ignored him as they moved up the stairs.
Sam waited about thirty seconds. "Emily! Time to go! What are you doing? It’s not like Jared and his grandma have never met. Let’s go!"
No response. Muttering under his breath, Sam stomped back up the stairs and into Jared’s room. Predictably Jared’s grandmother was fussing over him, one hand on his slim shoulder, as she praised a drawing she held in the other. His mouth tightened. Jared hadn’t shown him the picture.
"Emily, now would be nice." Stalking forward, he gave her arm a sharp jerk.
She winced. "Sam, that hurt!"
His breath stilled in his chest as sudden nausea clogged his throat. He swallowed, then sucked in air. He’d never hurt her before. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the three glares burning into his face stopped him and he closed his mouth tightly.
Why should he apologize? If she hadn’t disappeared up the stairs, he wouldn’t have come after her and it wouldn’t have happened. As she frowned at him and rubbed her arm, he glowered right back, willing his queasy stomach to settle. Not his fault. He would not apologize.
Tapping his watch with one finger, he scowled at Emily. "It’s now five minutes until eight. In this weather it’ll take twenty minutes to get to my boss’s house. The party starts at eight which means we’re late."
Alice sniffed and he shot the interfering hag a glare, which she returned. He jerked back to Emily. "For reasons I have already explained to you, I want the chance to talk to my boss alone." He jerked his thumb toward the door. "If you could please move your butt out to the car, maybe we could get there before the party ends."
He heard his mother-in-law gasp, but before she could say anything, Jared lunged forward, fists clenched. "Leave her alone!"
An unwanted flash of memory assaulted Sam and he recalled the protective defense he’d felt toward his own mother when he was a boy. He shoved the memory away. He didn’t have time for this.
Emily held up both hands to stop anyone from saying anything else. "We’re leaving now." She leaned forward and kissed Jared’s cheek. "Love you, Baby. Be good for Grandma."
Straightening, she walked past Sam, not even glancing in his direction. As he moved into the hall he tried to take her elbow, but she jerked away, hurried down the stairs, grabbed her coat and raced out the front door.
With a sigh, Sam followed, moving more slowly. Jerking her arm had been a mistake. But why couldn’t he ever get any cooperation around here? Why was everything always his fault?
Buttoning his long overcoat he closed the door and caught up with Emily, stopping beside her on the sidewalk. She pulled up the hood on her coat to block the lightly falling snow, but otherwise, didn’t move.
"What are you waiting for?" He followed her gaze to where an unfamiliar car was parked in the driveway. Parked directly behind his car in the garage, blocking them in. He inhaled cold air and gestured toward the car. "What is this?"
When she didn’t answer, he stepped forward and threw both hands in the air. "What is this?"
Jerking his head to the side, he spotted Alice’s BMW across the street, sitting under a blazing street light, snow already dusting its frame. He scanned the road and his mouth fell open. There were cars lining both sides of the street. He turned back to Emily. "Who’s car is this?"
Emily crossed her arms and said nothing.
He heard voices and strode forward, in front of the car and past the garage until he could see the neighbor’s front porch. The neighbor’s dog barked wildly through the six-foot wood fence, and startled, Sam jumped, then smacked the wood. Someone needed to put that dog out of its misery. He watched as their neighbor, Kendra Wakely, greeted a young couple on their well-lit porch.
Emily came up beside him. "I told Matt and Kendra their guests could park here." She glanced at him and shrugged. "I thought we’d be gone before they arrived. Let’s just take my car."
He looked at her car, covered in snow, parked off to the side of the driveway, and snorted. "I don’t want to show up at my boss’s fancy house in your piece-of-crap Plymouth."
"Fine," she said, her voice tight. "Let’s just stay home then, okay? That would be fine with me, because with the way you’re acting tonight, I don’t feel like going to a party anyway."
"The way I’m acting?" The dog barked again, and Sam glowered at the fence, then pulled Emily back toward the house. "You’re the one slowing us down, making us late."
She jerked her arm away from him. Again. His head pounded viciously. He pointed to the car in the driveway. "You’re the one letting people park in our driveway, and I get the blame for acting badly?" Sam blew out a harsh breath and tried to calm down. "Anyway, it’s not like we can miss it."
Emily brushed snow off her coat sleeves. "Perhaps you should go without me."
His lips tightened as he glared at the insidious car parked in his driveway. He would love to leave her home. But Jeff really liked Emily, and Sam needed her in his corner tonight. Besides, Jeff would want to know why he’d come alone, and the last thing Sam wanted was give the impression things were bad at home. Not with tenure on the line.
He turned back to her. She was giving him the blank stare again and his lip twisted. Maybe they should stay home. Going might be a sure way to prove to his boss that things were bad at home. But then he’d lose his big chance to talk to Jeff with a drink in his hand.
"So, shall I stay home?"
"No. I need you to come with me."
"Fine." She blew out a breath and the cold air changed to mist between them. "Do we need to ask someone to move their car?" She gestured toward the Wakely’s house. "If so, I want to make one thing clear. Just leave Matt alone, okay?"
His mouth dropped open. "Leave Matt alone? Why don’t you ever worry about Matt leaving me alone? How about a little wifely support?"
She crossed her arms, pursed her lips and stared fixedly at the streetlight two houses down.
Sam gritted his teeth. They’d never get out of here at this rate. Shoving his hands into his overcoat, he glared toward the neighbor’s house. If he asked Matt to have the car moved, their big-mouth neighbor would no doubt start an argument, and that would take too much time. Besides, Sam would get the blame for it. He grimaced. Some day he needed to kick Matt’s skinny butt, once and for all.
But not at this moment. He considered his mother-in-law’s BMW across the street. He could have Emily ask her mom if they could take her car. It was even nicer than his. But he didn’t want to go back inside.
He sighed. "Have you got your keys?" At her nod, he grimaced. "All right, let’s just go." He’d deal with Matt Wakely later.
Sam yanked the frozen passenger door open and Emily climbed inside the car. After he’d cleared snow off the piece of junk, he eased his tightly clothed body behind the steering wheel and glanced at Emily. She sat stiffly, eyes forward, arms crossed. He needed to talk her into a better mood, sweeten her up before they arrived.
He cranked the ignition and the engine turned over a few times before the car finally started. He flipped on the defrost and the windshield wipers. What did she want to hear?
"Look, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings or anything, okay?" He watched her closely. No reaction. Forcing a smile, he leaned over as much as his clothing allowed and tried to hug her stiff body. "I’m sorry."
She drew away. "Look, fine, whatever. If we’re going, let’s just go."
Pulling back, he studied her in the dark interior. Fine. As long as she acted like a loving wife once they got there, she could act however she wanted now. After turning on the headlights, he backed the car out of the driveway and onto the freshly plowed road. Tonight needed to be perfect for him, and she’d better not mess it up. He let out a pent up breath. What he wouldn’t do for a cigarette.
***
Arms crossed, Sam watched from his position against the wall as Carl Thurman veered to grab a glass of champagne before pushing through the crowd and making his way over. At thirty-eight they were the same age, and at six feet the same height, but the similarities ended there.
Sam noticed Carl’s scalp through his thin blond fuzz and ran a hand through his own dark hair, thanking good genes for its thickness. No baldness in his family. On the other hand, Carl had a reed-thin body that owed nothing to counting calories or exercise.
Carl reached him, took a huge gulp of champagne, then turned to survey the room. "What’s wrong with Emily tonight?"
Sam searched the crowd, finally catching a glimpse of his wife before she turned the corner in the L-shaped recreation room. She’d ditched him the minute they’d arrived, and he’d hardly seen her all evening. Not that he was surprised. Lately, she’d been acting as if he carried a contagious disease. As soon as the tenure thing worked out, he’d have to spend a little time making up with her.
He sighed. With Jared, too. When he had tenure, then they could all be happy. He picked up his soda from the side table, and shrugged. "Who knows? All I ever get from her anymore is blank stares or attitude."
"You’re married. What do you expect?" Carl’s avid gaze continued to search the room. "Ouch, look at that."
A long-haired, twenty-something blonde in a red miniskirt flirted with the man beside her. Then the crowd shifted, hiding her from sight.
Carl sighed. "I want one of those."
"You’d better watch it. Never say things like that with your wife in the same room."
Carl grinned. "Are you kidding? That just makes it more fun. So, have you had a chance to chat with Jeff?"
"Not yet. But I will." Sam glanced around the crowded room. "What did they do, invite everyone they know?" The party was being held in the basement, but people were also touring the huge house, so a constant flow of people continued up and down the stairs.
Sam appraised the tastefully decorated room, with its leather furniture, plush carpet, artwork and toys. A crowd stood watching two men shoot baskets on an electronic machine. Others were playing ping-pong or shooting pool, while others stood in groups or gathered at the buffet table at the far end of the room. "Being head of the History Department must pay more than I thought."
Carl shrugged. "Jeff’s wife has a lot of success selling art in her gallery."
"Hmm." Sam took a sip of soda. He looked at all the arty, flaky types with their long hair, wild jewelry and heavy make-up. Even some of the men wore make-up. "What was Jeff thinking to get these two groups of people together?"
Carl grinned. "Be careful who you chat with. I had one of them hit me up to buy a painting."
Sam snorted. "Don’t worry. I don’t know them and I don’t want to know them."
Carl glanced at Sam’s drink. "Are you drinking soda? Come on, this is New Year’s Eve. Live a little. Let me get you a glass of champagne. It’ll give you courage."
Sam glared at him. "I have plenty of courage."
"Maybe it’ll loosen you up a bit."
"No, thanks."
Carl smirked. "So, do you think Jeff liked your book?"
At his expression Sam sighed. Why did he hang around with Carl? Did he like to be abused? "I don’t see why he wouldn’t."
"Are you still sending it to that publisher in New York?"
Sam shifted his feet. He’d told everyone he had a publisher interested. The truth was, he hadn’t actually talked to an editor. A secretary told him to send it. She had said they’d take a look. He met Carl’s gaze and smiled. "When Jeff hears about it, he’ll probably beg me to accept tenure." Carl grinned. "Right." He tilted his head. "It’s guys like Randall that get offered tenure. Not guys like us."
Sam skimmed the crowd until he found Randall Barton. With his short hair slicked forward and his trendy square glasses glinting in the light, he actually looked like he fit in better with the artists than the professors. "Brown-nosers, you mean."
Carl snickered. "You’ve got to admit, he shows a certain talent for butt kissing."
Sam shrugged. "The two books and five articles he’s published in the last three years haven’t hurt."
"Well, you’ve planned conferences."
"So has Randall. Do you realize he’s only thirty-four? That’s four years younger than me."
"Is that why you wrote your text book? To compete with Randall?"
Sam made a sound of disgust. "Of course not." As he continued to stare, he watched as the elusive Jeff walked up and clapped Randall on the back. Randall spoke, and Jeff’s sandy, graying head tilted back as he laughed. Sam’s stomach clenched and he straightened. "Do you see that? They look cozy don’t they?" His lips tightened. "Don’t you hate office politics? If you’re not best friends with the boss, you can forget about getting anywhere."
Carl shrugged. "You’re headed in the right direction. You’ve written a new history text. Jeff has to respect that." He drained his glass then set it on the side table. "By this time next year maybe you’ll even have tenure."
Sam continued to watch Jeff and Randall, his insides twisting. "Respect. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?" He glanced at Carl. "When I got here tonight Jeff patted my stomach and said ‘hey Sam, only bears need to store up for hibernation.’" Sam glared at Randall. "Randall runs the St. George marathon every year. I’ll bet Jeff respects that."
Carl laughed. "I have to admit I’ve been wondering why you wore a tux that’s too small." He reached out and tugged the lapels together. "Why didn’t you rent one that fit?"
Sam jerked away. "Just shut up, okay?" He grimaced at Randall and Jeff. "What burns my butt is that this is the third university I’ve worked for. I like Utah and I want to stay here. Emily wants to stay here." He turned his glower onto Carl. "But if you don’t perfect the fine art of butt kissing you’re never offered tenure. And if you don’t have tenure, you don’t have job security." He gestured in a circle with his drink, almost spilling it. "So what am I supposed to do?"
"Pucker up?" Carl laughed and when Sam scowled at him, held up his hands in self-defense. "Come on, you’re getting too serious." He pointed over at a group of professors. "Let’s go mingle."
"No."
"Come on. You’re not going to get any chances standing over here by yourself."
Carl was right. Sighing, Sam set down his drink. "Okay." He looked around for Emily, didn’t see her, then vaulted away from the wall. "Let’s go."
As they approached, laughter exploded within the circle of men, and even Randall’s simultaneous arrival didn’t stop the smile tugging at Sam’s lips. He could ignore Golden Boy. Hopefully socializing would take his mind off his problems for a while. "What’s so funny?"
Dr. Mark Friedman, a large man in his late forties with a shock of faded red hair and a booming voice stepped back, widening the circle so they could join in. He lifted one enormous paw to Sam’s shoulder. When Sam smelled alcohol on his breath, he tried not to recoil.
"Sam, Carl, Randall, come here, you’ll like this." Glancing down at Sam’s tuxedo, Mark raised a brow but didn’t comment. He gestured with his drink to a man Sam didn’t recognize. "This is Pete Saunders. He’s collecting New Year’s resolutions and we’ve all been sharing ours."
Pete was about the same height, age and coloring as Sam, but the similarities ended there. His slightly hooked nose, sharp, almost black eyes, and shoulder length hair gave him a harsh appearance. A gold earring glinted on his left ear, and his lean, tuxedo-clad frame looked almost dangerous. He appeared successful, sophisticated, and intense. He definitely seemed out of place among professors.
Suddenly, Sam realized Pete was assessing him just as throughly and something uncomfortable prickled at the back of his neck. His eyelids flickered and he swallowed, then shook the hand Pete held out. Sam cleared his throat. "Are you from around here? I don’t believe we’ve met."
Pete held onto his hand, squeezing. Startled, Sam met his gaze squarely, and only then did Pete let go. He smiled. "Actually, no. I’m just passing through Salt Lake City. I was lucky to be invited to the party." His voice was deep and rasping, his smile amused.
Sam’s spine straightened. Was Pete laughing at him? His mouth tightened. He wasn’t going to let some weirdo intimidate him. His lip twisted as realization dawned. Pete was one of the artist weirdos. "So, you’re an artist?"
"No."
Sam lifted his chin. "Then what do you do?"
Mark interrupted, slurring his words slightly, "He collects New Year’s Resolutions." He leaned forward. "Gary, tell Sam yours."
Shaking his chubby, bearded head, Gary smiled. "Jeeze Mark, I don’t know why you thought it was so funny." Glancing at the newcomers, he shrugged. "I have two. I want to get an article published in University Press, and exercise for as much time as I spend eating." He patted his huge middle, laughing along with the group.
Forcing a smile, Sam sucked in his stomach. He knew what was coming, and didn’t have long to wait before Carl spoke. "Sam you ought to make the same resolution." He reached over, patted Sam’s stomach and set everyone off again.
Bunch of drunks. "Ha, ha." Sam glared at Carl briefly before turning to the others. Everyone was smiling except Pete. "For your information, I don’t need any help making New Year’s resolutions. I already have a few of my own." He glanced at Randall, then away, before staring straight into Pete’s eyes. His intense, animated gaze startled Sam. What was with the guy?
Phillip Moseley leaned forward, his bald head gleaming in the light. "Well, what are they?"
Sam eyed his co-workers. "Tell me yours first."
Phillip smiled. "You already know Gary’s. I’m thinking about reading a book this year. Mark wants to take his wife to Hawaii. Roger wants to try river rafting, and Pete wants to accomplish goals without any outside influence." He grinned at Pete. "Whatever that means."
Sam studied Pete. Was the guy on drugs? An alcoholic? Maybe he wasn’t as successful as he appeared. And why was he so interested in everyone’s resolutions? Pete’s head swivelled, his piercing gaze moving to Sam again. Sam turned away. Definitely drugs.
Phillip grinned at Randall. "What are yours?"
Randall’s full, girly lips tilted into a cheesy smile. Mr. Smooth with his slicked forward hair, and his tuxedo that fit to perfection. Dork.
"I want to run the St. George Marathon again, finish the text book I’m writing and begin rereading Shakespeare."
Sam rolled his eyes.
Pete looked interested. "You’ve run the St. George Marathon before?"
Randall’s overlarge head nodded in a supposedly modest way. Smug jerk.
"Have you ever written a book?"
"Yes, several."
Pete nodded, then moved his attention to Carl. Everyone followed his gaze. "What about you?"
Carl shifted his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. "Hmm, I’ve already mastered female anatomy so I guess that’s out." His grin widened when everyone laughed. "I don’t know, I could probably eat better. My wife keeps nagging me about my high cholesterol, so maybe I’ll watch my eating habits this year. It’ll make her happy, anyway."
Pete folded his arms, his eyes drilling into Carl’s. "What would make you happy?"
Carl shrugged and Sam had the impression Pete was frustrated. Obviously the guy took this seriously. Or maybe he just needed a fix.
"I don’t know." Carl smiled self-consciously. "Maybe that’s my problem."
When Pete turned his gaze to Sam, his chest tightened. This whole conversation felt way too deep. "What about you? If you could have anything you wanted during the next year, what would it be?"
Sam tried not to squirm. He tried to think of a flippant response, but was suddenly overpowered by bitter self-hatred. Anything he wanted? Yeah, right. His life was half over, he had nothing to show for it, and he knew it.
His brows pulled together. But if he could have anything he really wanted? He glanced at Randall, then beyond him, spying Jeff talking to a group of ladies, then down to his straining tux. His gaze turned to his co-workers, none of whom ever took him seriously or gave him the credit he deserved. Fierce, all-consuming desire gripped him. He lifted his head, gazed directly into Pete’s eyes, and opened his mouth. "I want everyone to respect me and I want the body of an athlete."
Silence. A horrible dead silence. Then huge gulps of air, and laughter, hard and uncontrolled. Carl slapped Sam on the shoulder and Sam fell against Mark. Mark spilled his drink, Gary held his stomach, and Phillip threw back his head and howled while Roger clung to his arm. Laughter and more laughter. Even Randall, Mr. calm and controlled, tried to bite back a smile. Sam didn’t look at Pete. Couldn’t.
Heat crept into his face, swift and unrelenting, but Sam smiled tightly. They thought he was joking. Fine. Why had he said anything? And what had made him say that? Why tell these bozos anything, let alone his innermost desires?
Finally, he turned to Pete. He wasn’t laughing. If anything, his expression was more alive, more vivid. Pete smiled, nodded as if in approval and leaned forward to speak.
Carl slapped Sam on the back again, Sam blinked, and the moment was gone. "Good one, Sam." Carl pointed across the room. "Look who’s talking to our wives." Sam’s head shot up to see Jeff with Emily and Cheryl. Carl bent to whisper. "Come on. This might be your chance."
As they left the group, Sam followed Carl through the crowd. Glancing back he saw Pete staring after him and a chill ran up his spine. What an oddball. He turned away, and tried to concentrate on what he’d say to Jeff.
Reaching Emily, he slipped his arm around her waist and she stiffened. He kissed her cheek. "It’s just me, Honey." Did she want to blow this for him?
Sam glanced at Carl, who took the hint and wrapped an arm around his wife, pulling her away. "We’ll see you two later." He winked, then whispered to Cheryl as they made their way through the crowd.
Facing Jeff, Sam took a deep breath. "Hi Jeff. Great party."
Jeff clasped both hands behind his reed-thin body in his customary position. His sandy-gray head tilted back and he smiled, causing his eyes to nearly disappear behind his half- glasses. "Are you having a good time?"
"Yeah, sure, uh...great party." Sam cleared his throat. "I’ve been wondering what you thought of my book? Did you get the chance to read it?" He smiled and tried not to seem anxious.
Jeff glanced at Emily and then back to Sam. "Don’t you think we should talk about this after school starts?"
Sam’s stomach clenched. "Well sure, but I just thought you could give me your initial impression of the manuscript. What did you think?"
Jeff’s eyes flickered to Emily once more, then he sighed. "Well, to tell you the truth, Sam, the book is pretty much like a lot of other Civil War texts already out. I think it could really benefit from some changes. Spice it up. Make it more original. Why don’t you do that, then let me see it again?"
Sam’s throat tightened and heat crawled up his chest and into his neck and face. His stomach twisted and he inhaled. "But I’ve already talked to an editor about it. He wants to see it." His voice was thin, reedy. He coughed.
Jeff smiled. "Well, if they want it now, they’ll want it after you’ve made improvements." He glanced at Sam’s tuxedo. "Better watch those brownies. Or take up running like me." He patted his own lean stomach. Someone called Jeff’s name and he looked up, smiled and nodded. "Will you excuse me? Enjoy the party." He strode off.
Sam closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing his fists to unclench. Rewrite it? After all the time and effort he’d put into writing the book? When it was practically perfect?
Emily lightly touched his arm. "I’m sorry, Sam."
Sam looked into her eyes and saw compassion there. Compassion he didn’t want or need. Why hadn’t he waited until school started to question Jeff? Now his wife thought he was a loser.
"Thanks," he said tersely. "Come on, let’s get something to eat." He placed his hand on the small of her back and led her through the crowd toward the buffet table.
She stopped. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He inhaled. "About what? The fact that I hate my job, my boss, my life? No, I don’t." He ignored the way her face tightened and pushed against her slender back. "Come on."
As they approached the table, a voice shouted out, "Ten more minutes!" In ten minutes the New Year started. Whoopee. Another year to slog through.
Carl and Cheryl were at the table filling plates and Sam willed his face to relax. No need to advertise the fact that his life was a disaster.
"Sam," Carl shouted against the growing noise. "What did he say?"
"I’ll tell you later," Sam shouted back.
Regardless of the lateness of the hour the buffet still had plenty of food and Sam hadn’t eaten anything. He piled food on his plate. Deliberately took two brownies. Screw Jeff. He made himself a turkey sandwich, grabbed a few pickles and a handful of chips. Then looked at the food and set the plate on the table with a disgusted shake of his head. He wasn’t hungry. Even if he were, he shouldn’t eat anything while wearing clothes three sizes too small.
What did Jeff mean, spice it up? How could he spice up a history text book? What was the big deal if it was like a lot of other books out there? That was a given. History was history and it didn’t change. What did Jeff want, a corrupted version?
He lifted his head and immediately noticed Randall Barton. Talking, laughing, carefree and happy. Sam’s mouth twisted. No doubt Randall was happy. He was the boss’s Golden Boy. His work was always considered original. And he ran marathons every year. Same hobby as the boss. Tenure for him was just a matter of time.
Sam’s mouth set. He needed this book published if he was to get tenure this year. Publish or perish, an academic fact of life. It had been too long since Sam had raked up any credits, and he didn’t have time to rewrite.
His eyes narrowed. Showing his manuscript to Jeff had been a courtesy, nothing more. Come January second, he’d send his book to the publisher. As is. If the board members were impressed with publication credits then he could certainly impress them without any help from Jeff.
He scanned the room, spotted Pete Saunders and remembered the resolution. To have everyone’s respect and the body of an athlete. Yeah, right. Either you had respect or you didn’t. And Sam didn’t. Had Randall turned in the same manuscript, Jeff would have drooled all over it.
Emily placed her hand on his shoulder. "Just two minutes until midnight. Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?"
He turned. Her eyes were soft. Again. She always did have a thing for the underdog. For losers. A sure way to deflate her anger toward anyone was to point out what failures they were. Her expression said it all. Sam was a major loser. She’d been ice cold for weeks, and now she watched him with soft, caring eyes? He didn’t want or need her pity.
He shrugged her hand off his shoulder as the crowd started the countdown. Fifty-nine! Fifty-eight! Fifty-seven!... "Yes, I made a few New Year’s resolutions. Did you?"
Anger chased across her features, as he knew it would. But even anger was better than pity. Fifty-one! Fifty! Forty-nine! Forty-eight!...The noise grew as more voices joined the chanting, the artist crowd getting even the stodgy professors and their spouses fired up and excited. He leaned down so she could talk into his ear and still she had to shout. "Yes, I’ve decided to take up art again!"
He moved back to gaze into her face, lifting a brow. Forty-two! Forty-one! Forty!... "I thought you’d given up that nonsense." He glanced around. "Do you want to end up like these flakes?"
The noise continued to swirl around them as her features tightened, contorted. Fury blazed in her eyes, then slowly, very slowly, her expression changed, leaving only sadness behind. Leaving Sam unsettled. She leaned closer. "What about you? What are your New Year’s resolutions?" Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight! Twenty-seven!...
He bent his head to inform her his resolution was to get his wife to buy him a new tuxedo but was distracted by her sadness. They were in a room full of people, they were communicating by shouting and she was really looking at him. Seeing him. Acting as if his answer truly mattered to her. His stomach clenched. The least he could give was honesty. He studied her a moment longer, then leaned down. Nine! Eight! Seven!... "I want everyone to respect me and I want the body of an athlete."
Wanting to see her face, Sam started to pull back. He needed to see if she understood, if she grasped how important this actually was to him. But before he had the chance, someone slapped his back. Hard.
Sam stumbled and turned his head. Pete Saunders was there, impaling him with that piercing black stare. Their gazes locked. Sam’s brows pulled together and he tried to turn away. Couldn’t. He needed air. His heart thumped in his chest. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out noise from the crowd. Pete’s fingers tightened, gripped his shoulder in a hold so tight Sam couldn’t have broken it if he’d tried.
He sensed Emily’s confusion. Tried to wrench his gaze from Pete’s. Tried to reassure her. Couldn’t move. Three! Two! One!...The crowd exploded. Horns blasted, streamers flew, confetti fluttered, and laugher erupted. But even the noise didn’t stop Sam from clearly hearing Pete’s deep, rasping voice, speaking as if directly to his soul. "Happy New Year, Sam Pierson." Then, almost silence but for his heartbeat. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump.
Pete smiled. A smile of such affinity, compassion, and love, that Sam’s eyes widened. His face relaxed, his mouth parted and he started to smile back, really smile, when his chest clenched in pain.
Grinding his teeth, he turned to pound on the master bathroom door. "Emily!" She didn’t respond and he tried the knob. Locked, of course. He pounded again. "Emily, my tux doesn’t fit. I can’t go to the party looking like this."
The hair dryer blasted full force behind the closed door and with a scowl, he jerked away, his head pounding. This was her fault. If she’d thought to rent him a tuxedo he wouldn’t be in this mess. He glanced at the glowing red numbers on the bedside clock. Seven-thirty. It was too late to rent one himself.
Walking to the closet he frowned and flipped through his clothes. He could wear a regular suit, but the New Year’s Eve party was formal and he didn’t want to stand out.
Taking a deep breath he felt the waistband of his slacks strain and he grimaced. If he couldn’t breathe, how was he supposed to socialize? Eat?
He glanced into the full length mirror again and swore. If this wasn’t his only chance to talk to his boss in a social setting he’d just stay home. But he had to be there tonight. He shot a glare at the closed door. They had to be there.
Straightening, he sucked in his gut and peered down at his stomach. Perhaps if he eliminated some clothing? He quickly kicked off his shoes, peeled off his slacks and removed his boxers. A moment later he tugged the slacks back on, and very carefully zipped them. He pulled in his gut again. Better? Maybe. If he didn’t eat or sit, he could probably make it through the evening. He slipped his shoes on without bending over.
Anyway, who would notice the tightness of his clothes in a crowded room? It would be fine. He released his breath in a rush and the waistband cut into his gut once more. It would have to be.
He jerked his arm and looked at his watch. They needed to leave. Now. He pounded on the bathroom door again. "Emily, we’re late!"
The door opened and he stepped aside, glaring as Emily moved into the bedroom. Ignoring him, she walked to the closet and withdrew a pair of spike-heeled black shoes.
The scent of her peach body lotion wafted through the air and he inhaled, his gaze still trailing her. She’d pulled her blonde hair up into one of those fancy styles, somehow pinning it into place on top of her head, leaving curls to dance invitingly around her cheeks and throat. He continued to stare as she bent over, his gaze drawn to the back of one knee revealed by the slit in the dress. He swallowed.
Finally, shoes on, she straightened, and as her blue eyes wandered over his outfit he tensed. "Well?"
Her lips smiled the fake smile. "You look nice." Her voice was bright, superficial. The voice she used with strangers when she was uncomfortable. She glanced down at her dress. "What do you think?"
She looked wonderful, as usual. The calf-length black dress showed off her slender, curvaceous figure, the stark color making her blonde hair bright, and her eyes a brilliant blue.
Ignoring her question, he buttoned his jacket. "You don’t think it looks too tight on me?"
She sighed, turned and started to rifle through her jewelry box. "Do you have anything else to wear?"
He glared at her back. "No."
She crossed to the dressing table mirror without looking at him, arched her neck to one side and slid a hoop-earring into place. "Then it’s fine, isn’t it?"
"It’ll have to be, won’t it." If he had a normal wife who took an interest in anyone other than herself, maybe he’d have something decent to wear tonight.
Lucky for her he wasn’t like his father. No yelling or...well, he was a wonderful husband and it was about time she realized it and tried being a decent wife in return.
Sam assessed her dress again, trying to ignore his reaction to the body inside as she bent over the dresser to check her make-up, ignoring him. His jaw clenched. "When you bend over like that it makes your butt look fat."
Her back stiffened and she slowly straightened and turned, her face reddening. She was angry. Incredible. Emily showing emotion.
Muscles tight, he studied her, anticipation thrumming through his body. Her fists were clenched, ready to take him apart. About time. Lifting his chin, Sam savored the eagerness coursing through him. They needed a good fight. He was angry too. She was so indifferent to him. Perhaps now he’d get some sort of reaction instead of the incessant no-one-home stare. They could relieve the tension, get their marriage back on track, and start being intimate again.
She inhaled, opened her mouth, then paused.
He tensed. Come on. Say it. Something. Anything!
She blinked, her expression smoothed, and she relaxed. The bland mask slipped back into place as her eyebrows rose. "Then I’d better not bend over."
Fingers digging into one thigh, his temples pounding, Sam held her gaze. When she turned away, he let out a harsh breath.
Couldn’t he do anything to get a reaction out of her? Say anything? What did she want from him?
Abruptly he snatched his wallet off the dresser and tried to wrestle it into his back pocket. When it wouldn’t fit he shoved it inside his jacket.
If that was how she wanted it he’d go along with her.
For now. They didn’t have time to fight anyway. But eventually they needed to have it out. He glanced at the bed they used for sleeping. He couldn’t go on like this for much longer. Something had to change.
He noticed the time on the bedside clock. Seven-forty. They’d never make it on time. "Come on. We need to leave. I told you I wanted to be there by eight o’clock."
She picked up a long rectangular bottle from off the dresser. "Why the big hurry? I thought the party didn’t even start until eight."
He watched as she sprayed perfume on her neck and wrists, and breathed in deeply, smelling the light, enticing fragrance. She’d worn this scent ever since he’d known her, and for some reason, right now, it reminded him of better times. Of when she’d loved him. When she used to tell him she loved him.
He pushed the thought away. Everyone went through bad patches in their marriage. At present, he needed to focus his energy on getting tenure at the University. Emily needed to feel secure. Then life would be better. He hesitated, slipped his fingers into his front pockets, then pulled them out again when he realized it made the tuxedo look worse.
Maybe she wouldn’t be so cold toward him if she understood what was at stake tonight. He cleared his throat. "I want a chance to talk to Jeff Johansen alone."
He watched her. No reaction. Couldn’t she at least face him when he spoke to her? If she understood what he was trying to do for her...he sighed. "Emily, I didn’t tell you this, but two weeks ago I gave Jeff my new history text book to read. I’m hoping to get a chance to talk to him alone."
He glanced up at her, but she still didn’t look at him. "I’m hoping he’ll put in a good word about me to the board members." He shrugged. "Perhaps it’ll influence the board’s decision about my application for tenure."
When she lifted her head to stare at him, he shrugged. "You know how standoffish Jeff is. I figured, possibly, if I asked him for a recommendation in a social setting instead of at the University...then maybe he’d say yes." He shrugged again and cleared his throat. "Anyway, it’s worth a shot."
Face blank, she nodded, then moved to walk out of the room.
Mouth falling open, Sam watched her go. He spills his soul, tells her his plans and...nothing! "Hello!" Sam’s fists clenched. "Did you hear what I said? You do want to stay in Utah, don’t you? You do want to continue to live near your mother, don’t you?"
She stopped in the doorway to glance back at him. "Did you want to talk about something?"
He made a sound of disgust. "Never mind. I just thought you’d be a bit more excited about my getting tenure."
"That would be very nice for you."
Nice for him? He watched as she headed toward Jared’s room. Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth, then followed.
Didn’t she care about anything anymore? This was their future he was discussing. Emily was the one who wanted to live in Salt Lake City forever, and Emily was the one who wanted to stay in this house, and Emily was the one with a mother in the same city. Was it too much to ask for a little enthusiasm? He brushed a hand over his face. What he wouldn’t give for ten extra minutes and a cigarette.
Following her down the hall, he heard her talking softly to Jared. "Sweetheart, I know you don’t need a baby-sitter, but we probably won’t be home until one o’clock or so. I’ll feel better knowing you aren’t alone in the house, all right?"
"But Mom, I’m almost twelve. It’s so dumb. If my friends knew I had to have someone over to baby-sit--"
Sam stepped into the room. The kid had no right to complain. Not after what he’d done. "And whose fault is that young man? If you could act like a responsible person rather than a hooligan then you wouldn’t need a babysitter, would you? After what happened, you’re lucky a babysitter and forty hours of community service are all you have coming."
Sam rubbed one hand over his face. "Come on Emily, we don’t have time for this." He started to leave the room, but when he caught sight of Jared’s blue eyes, so like his mother’s, glaring at him, it set him off again. He’d get respect from his own child if from no one else.
"Do you know how humiliating it was for me to be called down to the police station? To be told my son had been throwing snowballs at cars? To find out you’d broken a car window like some common vandal? If that’s what you do for fun over your Christmas vacation then you deserve to be watched twenty-four hours a day." Sam realized he was pointing his finger to emphasize each word and, inhaling, lowered his hand.
"Like you were a saint when you were a kid, Dad." Jared turned his back to sit at his desk, blond head bent, shoulders hunched.
Sam stepped closer to glare down at Jared. "Well, if I wasn’t, at least I was smart enough not to get caught."
Emily stepped between them. "Sam--"
He spoke over her shoulder. "And I still want to know who you were with. Why you think you have to protect someone who gladly let you take the rap for the broken window is beyond me."
"Sam, just drop it." Emily glared at him, her arms crossed and her face tight.
Like mother, like son. Sam was the bad guy as usual. "I’m just trying to discipline our son. You’re too easy on him. He needs to learn there are consequences to bad behavior, and you need to stop interfering."
"Sam. I said drop it."
Frowning, he glanced from Emily’s set face to Jared’s bent head, then ran a hand through his hair. "What do you two want from me?"
Jared turned in his chair, his eyes condemning. When had Jared started looking at him like that? What had happened to the little boy who used to worship him? Perhaps Jared was just turning into a teenager a bit early. Emily really needed to spend more time with him. Keep him out of trouble. Sam rubbed his throbbing temples. As soon as he got tenure, maybe he’d have to do it himself.
The doorbell rang and Sam let out an exasperated sigh.
"That must be your mother." He glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes until eight. "And she’s late. Come on, we need to go." He grabbed Emily’s elbow and gave a tug. When she resisted, he scowled at her, then turned and left the bedroom.
He hurried down the stairs to open the front door, wincing as frigid air blew into the entryway. Alice, his elegantly clad mother-in-law stood on the porch, which explained the drop in temperature. She didn’t resemble anyone’s idea of a baby-sitter. Or a grandmother either, for that matter. His lip curled. After two divorces and one husband buried, she wasn’t hurting financially. She could afford to look as if she’d just stepped out of a salon.
Her make-up was perfectly applied, as usual. Short red hair, slightly curled, swept away from her face, emphasizing the chilling stare she fixed on him. As always, she surveyed him like he was a bug in need of squashing.
"Hi, Mom." Her eyes flickered, and he smirked. She hated him calling her that. He stepped aside and gestured with a hand. "Please, come in."
"Thank you." Raising her chin, she eyed him coldly. "Your tuxedo is too tight."
Witch. As she swept past, her clean, slightly tropical scent, floated by. "Mm. Nice perfume, have you got a hot date later?" He hit his forehead with his palm. "Oh, no, I remember now. You were free to baby-sit because you had nothing to do on New Year’s Eve." He bared his teeth in a mock smile. "If you’d like, I could set you up with one of the professors at the University." He winked. "We have a couple of old timers without spouses."
Her eyes narrowed. "I hope they don’t have anything good to eat at the party, Sam." She slowly smiled. "It looks as if your outfit might explode if you take even one bite of food."
Emily came down and shot him a glare before hugging Alice. Sam’s jaw tightened. Now what did he do? "Can we leave?" Emily and her mother both ignored him as they moved up the stairs.
Sam waited about thirty seconds. "Emily! Time to go! What are you doing? It’s not like Jared and his grandma have never met. Let’s go!"
No response. Muttering under his breath, Sam stomped back up the stairs and into Jared’s room. Predictably Jared’s grandmother was fussing over him, one hand on his slim shoulder, as she praised a drawing she held in the other. His mouth tightened. Jared hadn’t shown him the picture.
"Emily, now would be nice." Stalking forward, he gave her arm a sharp jerk.
She winced. "Sam, that hurt!"
His breath stilled in his chest as sudden nausea clogged his throat. He swallowed, then sucked in air. He’d never hurt her before. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the three glares burning into his face stopped him and he closed his mouth tightly.
Why should he apologize? If she hadn’t disappeared up the stairs, he wouldn’t have come after her and it wouldn’t have happened. As she frowned at him and rubbed her arm, he glowered right back, willing his queasy stomach to settle. Not his fault. He would not apologize.
Tapping his watch with one finger, he scowled at Emily. "It’s now five minutes until eight. In this weather it’ll take twenty minutes to get to my boss’s house. The party starts at eight which means we’re late."
Alice sniffed and he shot the interfering hag a glare, which she returned. He jerked back to Emily. "For reasons I have already explained to you, I want the chance to talk to my boss alone." He jerked his thumb toward the door. "If you could please move your butt out to the car, maybe we could get there before the party ends."
He heard his mother-in-law gasp, but before she could say anything, Jared lunged forward, fists clenched. "Leave her alone!"
An unwanted flash of memory assaulted Sam and he recalled the protective defense he’d felt toward his own mother when he was a boy. He shoved the memory away. He didn’t have time for this.
Emily held up both hands to stop anyone from saying anything else. "We’re leaving now." She leaned forward and kissed Jared’s cheek. "Love you, Baby. Be good for Grandma."
Straightening, she walked past Sam, not even glancing in his direction. As he moved into the hall he tried to take her elbow, but she jerked away, hurried down the stairs, grabbed her coat and raced out the front door.
With a sigh, Sam followed, moving more slowly. Jerking her arm had been a mistake. But why couldn’t he ever get any cooperation around here? Why was everything always his fault?
Buttoning his long overcoat he closed the door and caught up with Emily, stopping beside her on the sidewalk. She pulled up the hood on her coat to block the lightly falling snow, but otherwise, didn’t move.
"What are you waiting for?" He followed her gaze to where an unfamiliar car was parked in the driveway. Parked directly behind his car in the garage, blocking them in. He inhaled cold air and gestured toward the car. "What is this?"
When she didn’t answer, he stepped forward and threw both hands in the air. "What is this?"
Jerking his head to the side, he spotted Alice’s BMW across the street, sitting under a blazing street light, snow already dusting its frame. He scanned the road and his mouth fell open. There were cars lining both sides of the street. He turned back to Emily. "Who’s car is this?"
Emily crossed her arms and said nothing.
He heard voices and strode forward, in front of the car and past the garage until he could see the neighbor’s front porch. The neighbor’s dog barked wildly through the six-foot wood fence, and startled, Sam jumped, then smacked the wood. Someone needed to put that dog out of its misery. He watched as their neighbor, Kendra Wakely, greeted a young couple on their well-lit porch.
Emily came up beside him. "I told Matt and Kendra their guests could park here." She glanced at him and shrugged. "I thought we’d be gone before they arrived. Let’s just take my car."
He looked at her car, covered in snow, parked off to the side of the driveway, and snorted. "I don’t want to show up at my boss’s fancy house in your piece-of-crap Plymouth."
"Fine," she said, her voice tight. "Let’s just stay home then, okay? That would be fine with me, because with the way you’re acting tonight, I don’t feel like going to a party anyway."
"The way I’m acting?" The dog barked again, and Sam glowered at the fence, then pulled Emily back toward the house. "You’re the one slowing us down, making us late."
She jerked her arm away from him. Again. His head pounded viciously. He pointed to the car in the driveway. "You’re the one letting people park in our driveway, and I get the blame for acting badly?" Sam blew out a harsh breath and tried to calm down. "Anyway, it’s not like we can miss it."
Emily brushed snow off her coat sleeves. "Perhaps you should go without me."
His lips tightened as he glared at the insidious car parked in his driveway. He would love to leave her home. But Jeff really liked Emily, and Sam needed her in his corner tonight. Besides, Jeff would want to know why he’d come alone, and the last thing Sam wanted was give the impression things were bad at home. Not with tenure on the line.
He turned back to her. She was giving him the blank stare again and his lip twisted. Maybe they should stay home. Going might be a sure way to prove to his boss that things were bad at home. But then he’d lose his big chance to talk to Jeff with a drink in his hand.
"So, shall I stay home?"
"No. I need you to come with me."
"Fine." She blew out a breath and the cold air changed to mist between them. "Do we need to ask someone to move their car?" She gestured toward the Wakely’s house. "If so, I want to make one thing clear. Just leave Matt alone, okay?"
His mouth dropped open. "Leave Matt alone? Why don’t you ever worry about Matt leaving me alone? How about a little wifely support?"
She crossed her arms, pursed her lips and stared fixedly at the streetlight two houses down.
Sam gritted his teeth. They’d never get out of here at this rate. Shoving his hands into his overcoat, he glared toward the neighbor’s house. If he asked Matt to have the car moved, their big-mouth neighbor would no doubt start an argument, and that would take too much time. Besides, Sam would get the blame for it. He grimaced. Some day he needed to kick Matt’s skinny butt, once and for all.
But not at this moment. He considered his mother-in-law’s BMW across the street. He could have Emily ask her mom if they could take her car. It was even nicer than his. But he didn’t want to go back inside.
He sighed. "Have you got your keys?" At her nod, he grimaced. "All right, let’s just go." He’d deal with Matt Wakely later.
Sam yanked the frozen passenger door open and Emily climbed inside the car. After he’d cleared snow off the piece of junk, he eased his tightly clothed body behind the steering wheel and glanced at Emily. She sat stiffly, eyes forward, arms crossed. He needed to talk her into a better mood, sweeten her up before they arrived.
He cranked the ignition and the engine turned over a few times before the car finally started. He flipped on the defrost and the windshield wipers. What did she want to hear?
"Look, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings or anything, okay?" He watched her closely. No reaction. Forcing a smile, he leaned over as much as his clothing allowed and tried to hug her stiff body. "I’m sorry."
She drew away. "Look, fine, whatever. If we’re going, let’s just go."
Pulling back, he studied her in the dark interior. Fine. As long as she acted like a loving wife once they got there, she could act however she wanted now. After turning on the headlights, he backed the car out of the driveway and onto the freshly plowed road. Tonight needed to be perfect for him, and she’d better not mess it up. He let out a pent up breath. What he wouldn’t do for a cigarette.
***
Arms crossed, Sam watched from his position against the wall as Carl Thurman veered to grab a glass of champagne before pushing through the crowd and making his way over. At thirty-eight they were the same age, and at six feet the same height, but the similarities ended there.
Sam noticed Carl’s scalp through his thin blond fuzz and ran a hand through his own dark hair, thanking good genes for its thickness. No baldness in his family. On the other hand, Carl had a reed-thin body that owed nothing to counting calories or exercise.
Carl reached him, took a huge gulp of champagne, then turned to survey the room. "What’s wrong with Emily tonight?"
Sam searched the crowd, finally catching a glimpse of his wife before she turned the corner in the L-shaped recreation room. She’d ditched him the minute they’d arrived, and he’d hardly seen her all evening. Not that he was surprised. Lately, she’d been acting as if he carried a contagious disease. As soon as the tenure thing worked out, he’d have to spend a little time making up with her.
He sighed. With Jared, too. When he had tenure, then they could all be happy. He picked up his soda from the side table, and shrugged. "Who knows? All I ever get from her anymore is blank stares or attitude."
"You’re married. What do you expect?" Carl’s avid gaze continued to search the room. "Ouch, look at that."
A long-haired, twenty-something blonde in a red miniskirt flirted with the man beside her. Then the crowd shifted, hiding her from sight.
Carl sighed. "I want one of those."
"You’d better watch it. Never say things like that with your wife in the same room."
Carl grinned. "Are you kidding? That just makes it more fun. So, have you had a chance to chat with Jeff?"
"Not yet. But I will." Sam glanced around the crowded room. "What did they do, invite everyone they know?" The party was being held in the basement, but people were also touring the huge house, so a constant flow of people continued up and down the stairs.
Sam appraised the tastefully decorated room, with its leather furniture, plush carpet, artwork and toys. A crowd stood watching two men shoot baskets on an electronic machine. Others were playing ping-pong or shooting pool, while others stood in groups or gathered at the buffet table at the far end of the room. "Being head of the History Department must pay more than I thought."
Carl shrugged. "Jeff’s wife has a lot of success selling art in her gallery."
"Hmm." Sam took a sip of soda. He looked at all the arty, flaky types with their long hair, wild jewelry and heavy make-up. Even some of the men wore make-up. "What was Jeff thinking to get these two groups of people together?"
Carl grinned. "Be careful who you chat with. I had one of them hit me up to buy a painting."
Sam snorted. "Don’t worry. I don’t know them and I don’t want to know them."
Carl glanced at Sam’s drink. "Are you drinking soda? Come on, this is New Year’s Eve. Live a little. Let me get you a glass of champagne. It’ll give you courage."
Sam glared at him. "I have plenty of courage."
"Maybe it’ll loosen you up a bit."
"No, thanks."
Carl smirked. "So, do you think Jeff liked your book?"
At his expression Sam sighed. Why did he hang around with Carl? Did he like to be abused? "I don’t see why he wouldn’t."
"Are you still sending it to that publisher in New York?"
Sam shifted his feet. He’d told everyone he had a publisher interested. The truth was, he hadn’t actually talked to an editor. A secretary told him to send it. She had said they’d take a look. He met Carl’s gaze and smiled. "When Jeff hears about it, he’ll probably beg me to accept tenure." Carl grinned. "Right." He tilted his head. "It’s guys like Randall that get offered tenure. Not guys like us."
Sam skimmed the crowd until he found Randall Barton. With his short hair slicked forward and his trendy square glasses glinting in the light, he actually looked like he fit in better with the artists than the professors. "Brown-nosers, you mean."
Carl snickered. "You’ve got to admit, he shows a certain talent for butt kissing."
Sam shrugged. "The two books and five articles he’s published in the last three years haven’t hurt."
"Well, you’ve planned conferences."
"So has Randall. Do you realize he’s only thirty-four? That’s four years younger than me."
"Is that why you wrote your text book? To compete with Randall?"
Sam made a sound of disgust. "Of course not." As he continued to stare, he watched as the elusive Jeff walked up and clapped Randall on the back. Randall spoke, and Jeff’s sandy, graying head tilted back as he laughed. Sam’s stomach clenched and he straightened. "Do you see that? They look cozy don’t they?" His lips tightened. "Don’t you hate office politics? If you’re not best friends with the boss, you can forget about getting anywhere."
Carl shrugged. "You’re headed in the right direction. You’ve written a new history text. Jeff has to respect that." He drained his glass then set it on the side table. "By this time next year maybe you’ll even have tenure."
Sam continued to watch Jeff and Randall, his insides twisting. "Respect. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?" He glanced at Carl. "When I got here tonight Jeff patted my stomach and said ‘hey Sam, only bears need to store up for hibernation.’" Sam glared at Randall. "Randall runs the St. George marathon every year. I’ll bet Jeff respects that."
Carl laughed. "I have to admit I’ve been wondering why you wore a tux that’s too small." He reached out and tugged the lapels together. "Why didn’t you rent one that fit?"
Sam jerked away. "Just shut up, okay?" He grimaced at Randall and Jeff. "What burns my butt is that this is the third university I’ve worked for. I like Utah and I want to stay here. Emily wants to stay here." He turned his glower onto Carl. "But if you don’t perfect the fine art of butt kissing you’re never offered tenure. And if you don’t have tenure, you don’t have job security." He gestured in a circle with his drink, almost spilling it. "So what am I supposed to do?"
"Pucker up?" Carl laughed and when Sam scowled at him, held up his hands in self-defense. "Come on, you’re getting too serious." He pointed over at a group of professors. "Let’s go mingle."
"No."
"Come on. You’re not going to get any chances standing over here by yourself."
Carl was right. Sighing, Sam set down his drink. "Okay." He looked around for Emily, didn’t see her, then vaulted away from the wall. "Let’s go."
As they approached, laughter exploded within the circle of men, and even Randall’s simultaneous arrival didn’t stop the smile tugging at Sam’s lips. He could ignore Golden Boy. Hopefully socializing would take his mind off his problems for a while. "What’s so funny?"
Dr. Mark Friedman, a large man in his late forties with a shock of faded red hair and a booming voice stepped back, widening the circle so they could join in. He lifted one enormous paw to Sam’s shoulder. When Sam smelled alcohol on his breath, he tried not to recoil.
"Sam, Carl, Randall, come here, you’ll like this." Glancing down at Sam’s tuxedo, Mark raised a brow but didn’t comment. He gestured with his drink to a man Sam didn’t recognize. "This is Pete Saunders. He’s collecting New Year’s resolutions and we’ve all been sharing ours."
Pete was about the same height, age and coloring as Sam, but the similarities ended there. His slightly hooked nose, sharp, almost black eyes, and shoulder length hair gave him a harsh appearance. A gold earring glinted on his left ear, and his lean, tuxedo-clad frame looked almost dangerous. He appeared successful, sophisticated, and intense. He definitely seemed out of place among professors.
Suddenly, Sam realized Pete was assessing him just as throughly and something uncomfortable prickled at the back of his neck. His eyelids flickered and he swallowed, then shook the hand Pete held out. Sam cleared his throat. "Are you from around here? I don’t believe we’ve met."
Pete held onto his hand, squeezing. Startled, Sam met his gaze squarely, and only then did Pete let go. He smiled. "Actually, no. I’m just passing through Salt Lake City. I was lucky to be invited to the party." His voice was deep and rasping, his smile amused.
Sam’s spine straightened. Was Pete laughing at him? His mouth tightened. He wasn’t going to let some weirdo intimidate him. His lip twisted as realization dawned. Pete was one of the artist weirdos. "So, you’re an artist?"
"No."
Sam lifted his chin. "Then what do you do?"
Mark interrupted, slurring his words slightly, "He collects New Year’s Resolutions." He leaned forward. "Gary, tell Sam yours."
Shaking his chubby, bearded head, Gary smiled. "Jeeze Mark, I don’t know why you thought it was so funny." Glancing at the newcomers, he shrugged. "I have two. I want to get an article published in University Press, and exercise for as much time as I spend eating." He patted his huge middle, laughing along with the group.
Forcing a smile, Sam sucked in his stomach. He knew what was coming, and didn’t have long to wait before Carl spoke. "Sam you ought to make the same resolution." He reached over, patted Sam’s stomach and set everyone off again.
Bunch of drunks. "Ha, ha." Sam glared at Carl briefly before turning to the others. Everyone was smiling except Pete. "For your information, I don’t need any help making New Year’s resolutions. I already have a few of my own." He glanced at Randall, then away, before staring straight into Pete’s eyes. His intense, animated gaze startled Sam. What was with the guy?
Phillip Moseley leaned forward, his bald head gleaming in the light. "Well, what are they?"
Sam eyed his co-workers. "Tell me yours first."
Phillip smiled. "You already know Gary’s. I’m thinking about reading a book this year. Mark wants to take his wife to Hawaii. Roger wants to try river rafting, and Pete wants to accomplish goals without any outside influence." He grinned at Pete. "Whatever that means."
Sam studied Pete. Was the guy on drugs? An alcoholic? Maybe he wasn’t as successful as he appeared. And why was he so interested in everyone’s resolutions? Pete’s head swivelled, his piercing gaze moving to Sam again. Sam turned away. Definitely drugs.
Phillip grinned at Randall. "What are yours?"
Randall’s full, girly lips tilted into a cheesy smile. Mr. Smooth with his slicked forward hair, and his tuxedo that fit to perfection. Dork.
"I want to run the St. George Marathon again, finish the text book I’m writing and begin rereading Shakespeare."
Sam rolled his eyes.
Pete looked interested. "You’ve run the St. George Marathon before?"
Randall’s overlarge head nodded in a supposedly modest way. Smug jerk.
"Have you ever written a book?"
"Yes, several."
Pete nodded, then moved his attention to Carl. Everyone followed his gaze. "What about you?"
Carl shifted his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. "Hmm, I’ve already mastered female anatomy so I guess that’s out." His grin widened when everyone laughed. "I don’t know, I could probably eat better. My wife keeps nagging me about my high cholesterol, so maybe I’ll watch my eating habits this year. It’ll make her happy, anyway."
Pete folded his arms, his eyes drilling into Carl’s. "What would make you happy?"
Carl shrugged and Sam had the impression Pete was frustrated. Obviously the guy took this seriously. Or maybe he just needed a fix.
"I don’t know." Carl smiled self-consciously. "Maybe that’s my problem."
When Pete turned his gaze to Sam, his chest tightened. This whole conversation felt way too deep. "What about you? If you could have anything you wanted during the next year, what would it be?"
Sam tried not to squirm. He tried to think of a flippant response, but was suddenly overpowered by bitter self-hatred. Anything he wanted? Yeah, right. His life was half over, he had nothing to show for it, and he knew it.
His brows pulled together. But if he could have anything he really wanted? He glanced at Randall, then beyond him, spying Jeff talking to a group of ladies, then down to his straining tux. His gaze turned to his co-workers, none of whom ever took him seriously or gave him the credit he deserved. Fierce, all-consuming desire gripped him. He lifted his head, gazed directly into Pete’s eyes, and opened his mouth. "I want everyone to respect me and I want the body of an athlete."
Silence. A horrible dead silence. Then huge gulps of air, and laughter, hard and uncontrolled. Carl slapped Sam on the shoulder and Sam fell against Mark. Mark spilled his drink, Gary held his stomach, and Phillip threw back his head and howled while Roger clung to his arm. Laughter and more laughter. Even Randall, Mr. calm and controlled, tried to bite back a smile. Sam didn’t look at Pete. Couldn’t.
Heat crept into his face, swift and unrelenting, but Sam smiled tightly. They thought he was joking. Fine. Why had he said anything? And what had made him say that? Why tell these bozos anything, let alone his innermost desires?
Finally, he turned to Pete. He wasn’t laughing. If anything, his expression was more alive, more vivid. Pete smiled, nodded as if in approval and leaned forward to speak.
Carl slapped Sam on the back again, Sam blinked, and the moment was gone. "Good one, Sam." Carl pointed across the room. "Look who’s talking to our wives." Sam’s head shot up to see Jeff with Emily and Cheryl. Carl bent to whisper. "Come on. This might be your chance."
As they left the group, Sam followed Carl through the crowd. Glancing back he saw Pete staring after him and a chill ran up his spine. What an oddball. He turned away, and tried to concentrate on what he’d say to Jeff.
Reaching Emily, he slipped his arm around her waist and she stiffened. He kissed her cheek. "It’s just me, Honey." Did she want to blow this for him?
Sam glanced at Carl, who took the hint and wrapped an arm around his wife, pulling her away. "We’ll see you two later." He winked, then whispered to Cheryl as they made their way through the crowd.
Facing Jeff, Sam took a deep breath. "Hi Jeff. Great party."
Jeff clasped both hands behind his reed-thin body in his customary position. His sandy-gray head tilted back and he smiled, causing his eyes to nearly disappear behind his half- glasses. "Are you having a good time?"
"Yeah, sure, uh...great party." Sam cleared his throat. "I’ve been wondering what you thought of my book? Did you get the chance to read it?" He smiled and tried not to seem anxious.
Jeff glanced at Emily and then back to Sam. "Don’t you think we should talk about this after school starts?"
Sam’s stomach clenched. "Well sure, but I just thought you could give me your initial impression of the manuscript. What did you think?"
Jeff’s eyes flickered to Emily once more, then he sighed. "Well, to tell you the truth, Sam, the book is pretty much like a lot of other Civil War texts already out. I think it could really benefit from some changes. Spice it up. Make it more original. Why don’t you do that, then let me see it again?"
Sam’s throat tightened and heat crawled up his chest and into his neck and face. His stomach twisted and he inhaled. "But I’ve already talked to an editor about it. He wants to see it." His voice was thin, reedy. He coughed.
Jeff smiled. "Well, if they want it now, they’ll want it after you’ve made improvements." He glanced at Sam’s tuxedo. "Better watch those brownies. Or take up running like me." He patted his own lean stomach. Someone called Jeff’s name and he looked up, smiled and nodded. "Will you excuse me? Enjoy the party." He strode off.
Sam closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing his fists to unclench. Rewrite it? After all the time and effort he’d put into writing the book? When it was practically perfect?
Emily lightly touched his arm. "I’m sorry, Sam."
Sam looked into her eyes and saw compassion there. Compassion he didn’t want or need. Why hadn’t he waited until school started to question Jeff? Now his wife thought he was a loser.
"Thanks," he said tersely. "Come on, let’s get something to eat." He placed his hand on the small of her back and led her through the crowd toward the buffet table.
She stopped. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He inhaled. "About what? The fact that I hate my job, my boss, my life? No, I don’t." He ignored the way her face tightened and pushed against her slender back. "Come on."
As they approached the table, a voice shouted out, "Ten more minutes!" In ten minutes the New Year started. Whoopee. Another year to slog through.
Carl and Cheryl were at the table filling plates and Sam willed his face to relax. No need to advertise the fact that his life was a disaster.
"Sam," Carl shouted against the growing noise. "What did he say?"
"I’ll tell you later," Sam shouted back.
Regardless of the lateness of the hour the buffet still had plenty of food and Sam hadn’t eaten anything. He piled food on his plate. Deliberately took two brownies. Screw Jeff. He made himself a turkey sandwich, grabbed a few pickles and a handful of chips. Then looked at the food and set the plate on the table with a disgusted shake of his head. He wasn’t hungry. Even if he were, he shouldn’t eat anything while wearing clothes three sizes too small.
What did Jeff mean, spice it up? How could he spice up a history text book? What was the big deal if it was like a lot of other books out there? That was a given. History was history and it didn’t change. What did Jeff want, a corrupted version?
He lifted his head and immediately noticed Randall Barton. Talking, laughing, carefree and happy. Sam’s mouth twisted. No doubt Randall was happy. He was the boss’s Golden Boy. His work was always considered original. And he ran marathons every year. Same hobby as the boss. Tenure for him was just a matter of time.
Sam’s mouth set. He needed this book published if he was to get tenure this year. Publish or perish, an academic fact of life. It had been too long since Sam had raked up any credits, and he didn’t have time to rewrite.
His eyes narrowed. Showing his manuscript to Jeff had been a courtesy, nothing more. Come January second, he’d send his book to the publisher. As is. If the board members were impressed with publication credits then he could certainly impress them without any help from Jeff.
He scanned the room, spotted Pete Saunders and remembered the resolution. To have everyone’s respect and the body of an athlete. Yeah, right. Either you had respect or you didn’t. And Sam didn’t. Had Randall turned in the same manuscript, Jeff would have drooled all over it.
Emily placed her hand on his shoulder. "Just two minutes until midnight. Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?"
He turned. Her eyes were soft. Again. She always did have a thing for the underdog. For losers. A sure way to deflate her anger toward anyone was to point out what failures they were. Her expression said it all. Sam was a major loser. She’d been ice cold for weeks, and now she watched him with soft, caring eyes? He didn’t want or need her pity.
He shrugged her hand off his shoulder as the crowd started the countdown. Fifty-nine! Fifty-eight! Fifty-seven!... "Yes, I made a few New Year’s resolutions. Did you?"
Anger chased across her features, as he knew it would. But even anger was better than pity. Fifty-one! Fifty! Forty-nine! Forty-eight!...The noise grew as more voices joined the chanting, the artist crowd getting even the stodgy professors and their spouses fired up and excited. He leaned down so she could talk into his ear and still she had to shout. "Yes, I’ve decided to take up art again!"
He moved back to gaze into her face, lifting a brow. Forty-two! Forty-one! Forty!... "I thought you’d given up that nonsense." He glanced around. "Do you want to end up like these flakes?"
The noise continued to swirl around them as her features tightened, contorted. Fury blazed in her eyes, then slowly, very slowly, her expression changed, leaving only sadness behind. Leaving Sam unsettled. She leaned closer. "What about you? What are your New Year’s resolutions?" Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight! Twenty-seven!...
He bent his head to inform her his resolution was to get his wife to buy him a new tuxedo but was distracted by her sadness. They were in a room full of people, they were communicating by shouting and she was really looking at him. Seeing him. Acting as if his answer truly mattered to her. His stomach clenched. The least he could give was honesty. He studied her a moment longer, then leaned down. Nine! Eight! Seven!... "I want everyone to respect me and I want the body of an athlete."
Wanting to see her face, Sam started to pull back. He needed to see if she understood, if she grasped how important this actually was to him. But before he had the chance, someone slapped his back. Hard.
Sam stumbled and turned his head. Pete Saunders was there, impaling him with that piercing black stare. Their gazes locked. Sam’s brows pulled together and he tried to turn away. Couldn’t. He needed air. His heart thumped in his chest. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out noise from the crowd. Pete’s fingers tightened, gripped his shoulder in a hold so tight Sam couldn’t have broken it if he’d tried.
He sensed Emily’s confusion. Tried to wrench his gaze from Pete’s. Tried to reassure her. Couldn’t move. Three! Two! One!...The crowd exploded. Horns blasted, streamers flew, confetti fluttered, and laugher erupted. But even the noise didn’t stop Sam from clearly hearing Pete’s deep, rasping voice, speaking as if directly to his soul. "Happy New Year, Sam Pierson." Then, almost silence but for his heartbeat. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump.
Pete smiled. A smile of such affinity, compassion, and love, that Sam’s eyes widened. His face relaxed, his mouth parted and he started to smile back, really smile, when his chest clenched in pain.
Chapter Two
Sam fell to his knees and pressed both palms against his chest as his face twisted in agony. Pain surged through his upper body and he continued to fall, face first to the floor before rolling onto his back. Immediately the pain in his chest began to weaken, then fade altogether.
Gasping, he greedily sucked in air, and as his hands fell slackly to his sides he was immediately aware of three facts. His tight slacks were much looser now that the back had split out of them. He wasn’t wearing underwear. And absolutely nothing in the world could make him stand up in front of the twenty or so artists starting to gather around him.
This was bad. Carpet poked into his bare butt as heat surged into his face. This absolutely could not be happening. He pressed his legs together and cautiously ran both hands up the sides of his slacks, then to his crotch. He closed his eyes in relief. Everything vital seemed to be covered.
The rest of the gathering continued to celebrate and the strains of Auld Lang Syne rose in volume as people around the room joined in the singing.
"Sam! What happened?"
He opened his eyes. Emily, down on her knees, searched his face. Concern etched her features and as her hands reached out to grip his arm, cold anger surged through him. If she’d been concerned about him earlier, she would have rented him a tuxedo, he could have worn underwear, and he wouldn’t be in this situation.
She shook his arm. "Sam! Are you all right?"
"I’m fine." He angled his head toward the buffet table with its long white tablecloth and wondered if anyone would notice if he scooted underneath. Turning back, he discovered the crowd around him growing and he grimaced. They’d notice.
Emily’s hand drifted across his chest. "Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?"
The singing, cheering, whistling and kissing continued, but more people were starting to realize something was wrong and the crowd slowly quieted. He closed his eyes. He needed to get out of there before everyone in the entire room knew what was happening, but there was no way he was moving from this spot with his butt hanging out.
Emily shook him again. "Sam, you need to tell me what happened."
"I’m fine." What had happened? He rubbed his chest, but there was absolutely no pain anymore. A trickle of dread raced down his spine. Had he suffered a heart attack? Immediately the fear receded and peace drifted through him. The pain had been intense, but for some reason Sam knew his heart was fine. It must have been heartburn. Other than his slacks, there was no reason he couldn’t stand.
Emily gazed at him anxiously. "Sam, are you in pain?" She turned tear-filled eyes upward. "Someone call an ambulance. Please hurry."
Several cellular phones appeared and Sam quickly held up a hand. "Wait. I’m all right. I had some pain for a moment, but it’s completely gone now. It must have been heartburn. I just need to lie here for a moment."
A man, if he could be called that, with his long peroxide- blond hair, offered Emily his opinion. "Like, maybe someone should do mouth-to-mouth on him."
Sam narrowed his eyes, and bunched his fists. "I’m okay." If anyone tried--
"Maybe he needs an aspirin to thin his blood."
Sam turned his head to the dark-haired woman who’d spoken. She wasn’t even looking at him. She was talking to her companions. What was this? A discussion group?
"He’s just drunk," a redheaded woman said.
Another offered his opinion. "Maybe someone should unbutton his slacks. They look like they might be cutting off circulation."
Sam closed his eyes. This was getting crazy. Luckily, Emily ignored everyone as she tugged at his arm. "Can you sit up? Does your chest hurt?"
Sam rubbed the chest in question. The pain was gone. He felt normal. His gaze flittered through the crowd of curious faces. How was he going to get out of there?
Emily’s grip on his arm tightened. "Sam, I think you need to go to the hospital."
He felt like a fool. Maybe he should let an ambulance come and get him. They could lift him off the floor and place him on a gurney and perhaps no one would see his backside hanging out.
Suddenly Jeff pushed his way through the crowd, and his eyes widened when he saw Sam lying on the floor.
Sam’s hands clenched and he bit off a four-letter word. The last thing he needed was Jeff thinking he was sickly. Who would want to give tenure to someone who wouldn’t be around long?
"Everyone stand back." Jeff knelt beside him. "Sam, what happened? Are you all right?"
Sam forced a smile as his face heated again. Did he get up and look like a fool, or did he lay here and look like a corpse? Too bad he wasn’t wearing one of those tuxedo coats with the long tails, then he could just--
His coat. If he could get his coat, he could slip it around his shoulders and when he stood it would fall to the back of his thighs. He smiled at Jeff. "I’m fine. I just need my coat, then I’ll be all right."
Jeff gaze was blank. "Your coat?"
One of the artists spoke. "Did you hear that? He’s in shock, he needs his coat to keep warm!"
Sam closed his eyes. What did they think he was? The entertainment?
Jeff clasped one of Sam’s wrists for a moment, then looked at Emily. "His pulse seems normal."
"I’m fine. If you could just get my coat?"
Whispers drifted through the group. Is he having a heart attack? Is he going to die? I’ve never seen anyone die before. Briefly, Sam stared up at the ceiling. Did they think he couldn’t hear them?
Turning his head he noticed Emily’s worried expression. Perhaps he should risk embarrassment and stand up before she did call an ambulance. He looked around at the curious faces hovering above him. They were studying him as if he were an insect on a pin. He grimaced. How many of them painted nudes? If he stood, the next thing he knew he’d have his hairy butt plastered across canvases all over Salt Lake City. Maybe even in galleries. On buses. He’d be a joke. He wasn’t standing up.
Emily touched his shoulder. "I’m going to call for an ambulance."
"Emily, please don’t. Just get my coat."
Once more the genuine concern in her face surprised him. It was nice to know she still cared. He gritted his teeth. Of course, if she really cared about him she would have rented him a tuxedo and he’d be able to stand up. Angry again, he jerked his arm out of her grasp. "I’m fine. I had some pain, but it’s gone now. Could you please get my coat?"
He tensed. Something was wrong. Realizing Emily’s hand still clutched his arm, he jerked his arm away again. His arm didn’t move. The skin on his back tingled. He jerked again. Her hand relaxed, still resting on his arm. Sam focused at her hand, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. He couldn’t move his arm! What was happening?
Emily’s other hand came up to rest on his forehead, and he flinched. "Well, I think we need to get you to the hospital, anyway. Just to make sure. All right?"
Don’t touch me! The words rang loud and clear in his head, but the words didn’t come out of his mouth. Instead he said, "Really, Honey, I’m fine. But if it will make you feel better, I’ll go. But we’ll drive, all right?"
Sam’s insides froze and the room above him started to spin. He hadn’t said that! Someone was controlling his mind! He gaped at Emily in horror. At least he tried to, but could feel his face smiling. What was happening? He tried to communicate to her with his eyes that something was really wrong, but she just continued to stare down at him for a moment, before turning to ask Jeff for some water.
Emily, something is wrong! "Thanks, Honey." What was the matter with him? With his voice? Was he paralyzed? Physically, he felt fine, but maybe he’d really had a heart attack. Or a brain aneurysm. Or a stroke. Or worse. He tried to sit up, all thoughts of embarrassment gone from his mind, but he didn’t budge, just continued to lie on the floor, unmoving. He tried again. Nothing. His breath came in short pants. He closed his eyes and tried to think. Perhaps he was drunk. Perhaps his punch had been spiked. He quickly latched onto the idea. Yes, that had to be it. Teetotalers could have bad reactions to alcohol if they were suddenly exposed. Couldn’t they?
Carl pushed to the front of the crowd. "Hey buddy, what are you doing on the floor?"
Sam turned a wild face toward Carl. Only it wasn’t wild.
He could feel himself smiling again. Carl! Help me! Something’s wrong! "I’m not sure. I had some pain in my chest, probably heartburn, but I feel fine now." Who said that?
Randall appeared next to Carl. "Could you have suffered a heart attack?"
Sam glared up at Randall and tried to concentrate on his dislike of him, tried to focus his attention away from what was happening. He forced himself to breathe. If he could just go home and sleep it off, everything would be all right. If he could just get someone to get his coat and help him to his feet, he’d be fine. He felt himself smile at Randall. He didn’t mean to smile, it just happened, and Sam felt panic rising into his chest again. But when he spoke his tone was normal. "I don’t think I did. In fact, I’m sure I didn’t. Carl, get my coat, will you?"
The blond artist spoke again, this time to Carl. "He’s in shock."
Carl looked back at Sam. "What?"
"Everything is all right. My coat, please?"
Another artist spoke to Carl. "They always think they’re okay until it’s too late."
"I’m fine."
Carl seemed undecided. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, just get my coat." The panic clawing at his chest receded as he was able to speak normally.
Randall leaned down. "If anything happens, I know CPR."
Sam rolled his eyes. Or tried to. They didn’t move. What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he control his body or his words? He closed his eyes tightly. He just wanted his stupid coat! He wanted to go home! He wanted to forget this nightmare of an evening ever happened! Why wouldn’t anyone listen to him?
He opened his eyes, and immediately focused on Pete who was standing in the crowd, watching. Just seeing him filled Sam with an enormous sense of relief. "Pete?"
He moved forward. "Are you okay, Sam?"
Sam nodded. No, I’m not! Pete, listen to me! "Yes, I’m fine. I just need my coat."
Pete studied him. "Are you cold?"
"No."
He leaned close to Sam. "Why do you need your coat?"
"Let’s just put it this way," Sam whispered. "If anyone succeeds in getting me to the hospital, I won’t need one of those gowns with the opening in back. My backside is already hanging out." Sam pressed his lips together. He did not just say that.
Pete grinned, then nodded. "Emily, could you run and get Sam’s coat?"
Emily hurried away, and relieved, Sam nodded to Pete. "Thanks."
Pete looked like he was about to say something, then he shook his head. "Don’t worry Sam. You’re going to be fine."
A moment later Emily pushed her way through the oglers and Pete took the coat from her. A few of Sam’s business cards fell out of a pocket. "May I?" Pete’s brows rose as he took one of the cards.
"Help yourself."
Pete pocketed the card, then helped Sam sit up and settled the coat around his shoulders without anyone seeing the condition of his slacks.
With Pete pulling, Sam easily stood, and as the crowd started clapping he could feel his face burning again. He grimaced at Pete. "Thanks."
Pete smiled briefly, then clapped him on the back. "Perhaps I’ll see you next year. You can thank me then." And with that odd statement, he grinned, then made his way through the crowd.
***
Emily hung up the phone, then sighed. One worry off her mind, anyway. Jared was in bed, and her mother wouldn’t expect them home anytime soon.
Turning away, she straightened her shoulders and, high heels clicking, started down the hall toward the Emergency Room. It had been such a shock to see Sam lying on the floor. She’d really thought he was dying. Tears welled in her eyes, and she lifted her chin, willing them to recede. She must be more tired than she’d realized.
Sam said he felt fine, and really, he did seem all right. Or did she just want to believe that? Was she trying to fool herself? She shook her head. He did look all right. But he was acting a little strange. At least for Sam.
Emily rubbed her forehead. It wasn’t as if this changed her plans. It didn’t. Tomorrow she’d tell Sam she wanted a divorce. Sighing, she let her hand drop. Probably.
She nodded as the receptionist behind the front desk caught her eye, then glanced at the clock on the wall as she passed. One-fifteen in the morning. No wonder she was tired.
She passed a worried-looking, middle-aged couple in the waiting room, slowed, then stopped in front of the double doors leading to the Emergency Room. He was healthy. He had to be.
Pushing through the doors she made her way into the huge room, her high heels clicking loudly on the tile floor. As she walked by the nurse’s station she smiled at the nurse on duty then made her way over to Sam’s bed.
When she pushed the white curtain aside, Sam looked up and smiled. She tensed. Sam never smiled at her. Or he hadn’t in a long time, anyway. He was definitely acting weird.
"Everything okay?"
She sat on the stool beside his bed. "Yes, everything’s fine. Jared’s asleep, and I told Mom not to expect us until she sees us." Suddenly uncomfortable at being alone with him, she glanced around the half-opened curtain. "What happened to the doctor?"
He reached out and took her hand. "He’ll be back in a minute."
Reluctantly, she let her hand relax in his. What was he trying to do, put on a show for the nurse? She tried to remember the last time they’d held hands and couldn’t. Her brows drew together. Could he be afraid?
"You’ve really been great tonight, Emily. Thanks."
He grinned at her again, and she tried to smile back, then rose from the stool, forcing him to drop her hand. Walking to the bottom of the bed, she smoothed the hospital blanket.
Her glance slid up the bed, then away from his smiling face. Why was he acting so odd? Could his chest pain have frightened him and he wasn’t telling? She studied him. He’d sounded so positive about it not being a heart attack. She’d believed him. Wanted to believe him. But now she wasn’t so sure. "You said you felt all right?"
"I’m fine. I know I am. It’ll be all right, Honey."
She glanced guiltily away. Her words probably did make her seem worried. But she’d really believed him when he’d told her it wasn’t a heart attack. Once he’d stood up at the party, he’d acted fine. But she wanted to be sure. Needed to be sure.
Crossing her arms, she walked out of the small curtained cubicle and acknowledged the ugly truth. She’d wanted him to be checked out because she needed to know he was healthy when she asked him for a divorce. It was as simple as that. And now here she was feeling guilty about it.
She straightened her shoulders. She didn’t need to feel bad. There was nothing left between them. Hadn’t been in years. He didn’t love her, and she certainly didn’t love him anymore.
Why couldn’t he be his usual nasty self? Why act so different? She stared at the ground and rubbed her bare arms. He must be afraid, and now, so was she. Perhaps she should put off the divorce?
Emily tapped her foot nervously. She couldn’t very well tell him she was divorcing him if he’d just suffered a heart attack. She wouldn’t. Lifting a hand to her neck, she tried to massage the tension away. This was pointless. He was fine. Healthy. He had to be.
"Emily, are you all right?"
She turned toward Sam and smiled tightly. He never asked questions like that. "Yes, fine. I’m just keeping an eye out for the doctor."
She glanced back as she heard footsteps approaching, and some of her tension eased. "Here he comes now."
Dr. Adams, sandy-haired, slender, and boyish, almost seemed too young to be a full-fledged doctor. But the fast, clipped way he’d spoken to them earlier had made him seem older, more authoritative and in charge, somehow.
He pulled the curtain all the way around the bed and out of the way, then grabbed a stool from beside the unused bed next to them and settled onto it. He focused on the medical tablet he’d brought with him, studying it quickly before glancing up.
"Well, Mr. Pierson, nothing showed up on the EKG and your vitals and blood work are normal so, for now, I’m simply going to recommend no stress. In two weeks I want you to see your family physician and have him give you another thorough exam. He’ll probably do a stress test, and may or may not recommend you see a cardiologist. If you have any more chest pains, call 911. But in the meantime, no stress." He glanced at Emily. "Understand?"
Was it her imagination, or did he emphasize the last word when he’d looked at her?
Feeling slightly sick, she nodded, and her dismay must have shown in her face because his intense expression relaxed slightly, and his voice slowed a fraction.
"Just watch him closely, Mrs. Pierson. If it were really serious, something would have shown up." He glanced at Sam. "You also might want to lose a few pounds. So eat nutritiously, maybe take up walking, and cut out as much stress as you can." He looked at the chart again. "It says here that you smoke, Mr. Pierson?"
"Yes."
"Stop smoking."
The doctor stood, shook Sam’s hand, then hers and the urge to giggle welled uncontrollably in her throat and she held her breath to suppress it. Would telling my husband I’m divorcing him constitute stress?
After the doctor left, Sam took her hand again. "See, Honey? I told you I was fine." He rubbed her hand in both of his. "Relax."
She nodded, and barely managed a smile. Was he fine? She wanted him out of her life, but she certainly didn’t want him dead. Jared needed a father, and she was hoping Sam would be a better one once he didn’t get to spend every day with his son.
She removed her hand from Sam’s and circled away. Now what? Obviously she couldn’t tell Sam she wanted a divorce tomorrow without viewing herself as an unfeeling witch. A murderous, cold-hearted, unfeeling witch.
Emily closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her fingers. In two weeks she’d personally take Sam to see their family doctor. When Sam checked out, she’d get her life back on track. This was just a minor glitch.
She watched as a nurse came over to remove the IV from Sam’s arm. When she’d finished, Sam slid off the bed and reached for his clothes. Emily turned and walked toward the waiting room. He’d be fine. And if she could just get that annoying smile off his face, she’d be fine too.
***
Sam woke with a start and lay staring at the ceiling in the semi-darkness, blankets tucked securely around his neck. Something felt wrong. Turning his head toward the night-stand, he glanced at the glowing numbers of the digital clock. Five a.m. He’d only been asleep for about three hours, so why was he awake?
And not only awake, wide awake. None of that drowsy, lethargic, how-could-he-ever-unglue-his-eyes-so-he wouldn’t-fall-on-his-way-to-the-bathroom stuff. His eyes were wide open and he was alert. Clearheaded.
Turning onto his side, he wrapped his arm around Emily’s waist and pressed close to her back. She didn’t move. He closed his eyes and tried to fall back to sleep.
A moment later he rolled to his other side, and shifted to try and get comfortable. After about five minutes he pushed back the covers and sat on the side of the bed. It was no use. He wasn’t just awake, he was completely, one hundred percent conscious. A thrumming energy vibrated through his body, and he felt like a kid who’d just woken up and realized it was Christmas morning. It was impossible to sleep.
Standing, he walked toward the bathroom and thoughts of the night before flashed through his mind. The party. The pain in his chest. Laying on the floor like an idiot. The ER. The feeling of being controlled. Breathing in deeply, he tried to clear his mind. He didn’t want to think about it.
Feeling a bit shaky, he realized it had been way too long since his last cigarette, and a sharp craving flooded his body. He needed some nicotine.
Glancing at Emily’s sleeping form, barely discernible in the darkness, he smiled. It was a good thing he’d woken early. After what the doctor said last night, he’d better not let Emily catch him smoking. And he didn’t want to argue with her about it.
Walking into the bathroom, he shut the door quietly, blinking as he flipped on the light. This was the first time in a long while he wasn’t stumbling around like a drunk in the morning. He felt different. Squinting at himself in the mirror, he rubbed his chest. Definitely no pain. Everything was fine.
He used the toilet, then tugged open the cabinet under the sink, reaching for his hidden carton of cigarettes. Emily knew it was there, but never said anything about it. He wasn’t supposed to smoke in the house, but this was something they’d silently compromised on. He’d open the window, and she’d pretend she didn’t know.
Pulling up the latch, he jerked the window, but it didn’t open. It was frozen shut, with ice and snow built up on the outside. He jerked it a few more times, but it didn’t budge. He reached for Emily’s hair dryer to defrost it, then stopped, afraid the noise might wake her. He didn’t need a lecture at five in the morning. What did it matter if the doctor had warned him against smoking? It was his life, and no one was going to tell him how to live it. Anyway, by the time Emily woke up, the smoke would be long gone.
Extracting an opened pack of cigarettes from the carton, he tapped the box and slid one out. Nothing better first thing in the morning. He slipped it between his lips, savoring the slight taste of tobacco, then searched the cabinet until he found the lighter. He flicked it with his thumb, bent his head toward the flame in anticipation, and inhaled deeply. Immediately, he started choking. Hard.
Sputtering the smoke out of his lungs, he grabbed wildly at the counter with his free hand, and fought to breathe in oxygen. His eyes watered as his throat and lungs burned horribly. When the coughing subsided, he glared at the smoldering cigarette still clutched between his fingers. What had just happened? He ran his tongue around his teeth, tasting the horrible aftertaste. Disgusting.
With an angry jerk he threw the cigarette into the toilet. It must have been a faulty one. He didn’t need this first thing in the morning and he ought to sue the stupid company. He’d been smoking their cigarettes since he was sixteen. Been loyal to them for twenty-two years. But if they were shipping out inferior products then maybe he’d better think about switching brands.
Reaching for the pack, he tapped another out, then stopped, his throat aching. What if the whole package was faulty? He didn’t want to go through that again.
Setting the pack on the sink, he opened the carton. They were half gone. Five packs left. The first five had been fine until this one. He reached in and extracted a new package, the one at the back.
Frowning, he unwrapped the cellophane. These had better be good or someone would be looking for a new job. Fingers shaking, he tapped one out and reached for the lighter. He needed this cigarette. Lighting it, he inhaled slowly and immediately the burn started down his throat. He tried to hold back the hacking, but couldn’t. Deep wrenching coughs seized his body and his stomach clenched painfully. He cursed. It felt like he was trying to expel his lungs.
When the coughing subsided, he brushed away the tears in his eyes, and again, threw the cigarette in the toilet, flushing it down. He rubbed his tongue against his teeth and grimaced at the awful flavor. They didn’t even taste like cigarettes. The coughing started again, and he bent over and held onto the counter. He was definitely suing the company.
There was a tap on the door. "Sam, are you all right?"
Sam waved his hands around to get rid of the smoke, then realized there wasn’t any.
He breathed in a huge gulp of air. "I’m okay." His voice came out raspy and hoarse. "I’ll be right out. Go back to bed."
He picked up the pack. With his throat aching so badly, and the horrible taste of the cigarette still in his mouth, he had no desire to smoke now. Reaching for the carton, he put the two opened packages inside, then stuffed the cigarettes under the sink.
After brushing his teeth, Sam flipped off the light switch and went into the bedroom. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, and he made out Emily’s form in bed. He listened to her easy breathing and rolled his eyes. So much for being worried about him. Hands on hips he glancing around the shadowy room. Why did he feel so restless? With a sigh he turned away from the bed. Since he couldn’t sleep or smoke, he might as well get something to eat.
As he wandered downstairs in the darkness, the events of the night before once again crowded his mind. What a disaster. How would he ever be able to face his boss and co-workers again? He’d looked like a fool, and it wasn’t something they’d be likely to forget in a hurry.
He entered the kitchen, flipped on the stove light and opened a few cupboards at random. What sounded good? Maybe he should wake Emily and get her to make him something to eat. After all, she was the one who dragged him to the hospital last night, acting like he was an invalid. And he’d been so nice about it too. Shouldn’t he get special treatment today?
He still wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to go to the hospital, or why he’d acted so strange. He grabbed a box of cereal and pushed the disturbing thoughts aside.
Tilting the box toward the light, he smiled. Coco Puffs. A good chocolate fix was exactly what he needed to get his day started. He smirked. What had the ER doctor said? Eat nutritiously? Well, nothing better than a sugar rush to get the old heart pumping in the morning.
He set the box on the table, retrieved a spoon, bowl and a gallon of milk, grimacing at the one-percent sticker. What he needed was the real stuff. Whole milk. Why couldn’t Emily ever get what he liked?
Lifting the box he poured cereal into a bowl, covered it with milk, then scooped a huge spoonful into his mouth. Chewing, he waited for the taste of chocolate to rush over his taste buds.
Seconds later he exploded from his chair, rushed to the sink, spit out the Cocoa Puffs, cupped his hand and slurped in water. He swished water forcefully in his mouth, then spit it out before repeating the procedure twice more. Going to the wall, he flipped on the fluorescent lights, then advanced toward his bowl. They looked like Cocoa Puffs. Leaning over, he sniffed suspiciously. They even smelled like Cocoa Puffs. He ran his tongue over his teeth and shuddered. They hadn’t tasted like Cocoa Puffs. They tasted like, well, they tasted like...like...rancid meat!
Grabbing the bowl of cereal, he dumped the contents into the sink then turned on the water and garbage disposal, watching as the cereal washed down.
Turning away from the sink, he sank onto his chair and looked at the floor. His brows drew together. Something was happening with him. First the cigarettes, and now the cereal? He also needed to face the fact that he’d acted really strange last night. Could he actually be sick? He doubted it. If something had been critically wrong, the doctor would have caught it at the hospital.
He straightened. Of course. Last night at the hospital. They must have given him some medication in his IV and it was affecting him. Altering his taste buds. Blowing out a breath, he relaxed. He still wasn’t tired, but he should go back to bed. It would probably be wise to try and sleep off the medication.
He started for the door, then turned back to the table, put the milk away and grabbed the box of Cocoa Puffs. He dropped it into the garbage beside the refrigerator on his way out. There was probably nothing wrong with the cereal. He rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, almost gagging at the taste still lingering there. But why risk it?
Gasping, he greedily sucked in air, and as his hands fell slackly to his sides he was immediately aware of three facts. His tight slacks were much looser now that the back had split out of them. He wasn’t wearing underwear. And absolutely nothing in the world could make him stand up in front of the twenty or so artists starting to gather around him.
This was bad. Carpet poked into his bare butt as heat surged into his face. This absolutely could not be happening. He pressed his legs together and cautiously ran both hands up the sides of his slacks, then to his crotch. He closed his eyes in relief. Everything vital seemed to be covered.
The rest of the gathering continued to celebrate and the strains of Auld Lang Syne rose in volume as people around the room joined in the singing.
"Sam! What happened?"
He opened his eyes. Emily, down on her knees, searched his face. Concern etched her features and as her hands reached out to grip his arm, cold anger surged through him. If she’d been concerned about him earlier, she would have rented him a tuxedo, he could have worn underwear, and he wouldn’t be in this situation.
She shook his arm. "Sam! Are you all right?"
"I’m fine." He angled his head toward the buffet table with its long white tablecloth and wondered if anyone would notice if he scooted underneath. Turning back, he discovered the crowd around him growing and he grimaced. They’d notice.
Emily’s hand drifted across his chest. "Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?"
The singing, cheering, whistling and kissing continued, but more people were starting to realize something was wrong and the crowd slowly quieted. He closed his eyes. He needed to get out of there before everyone in the entire room knew what was happening, but there was no way he was moving from this spot with his butt hanging out.
Emily shook him again. "Sam, you need to tell me what happened."
"I’m fine." What had happened? He rubbed his chest, but there was absolutely no pain anymore. A trickle of dread raced down his spine. Had he suffered a heart attack? Immediately the fear receded and peace drifted through him. The pain had been intense, but for some reason Sam knew his heart was fine. It must have been heartburn. Other than his slacks, there was no reason he couldn’t stand.
Emily gazed at him anxiously. "Sam, are you in pain?" She turned tear-filled eyes upward. "Someone call an ambulance. Please hurry."
Several cellular phones appeared and Sam quickly held up a hand. "Wait. I’m all right. I had some pain for a moment, but it’s completely gone now. It must have been heartburn. I just need to lie here for a moment."
A man, if he could be called that, with his long peroxide- blond hair, offered Emily his opinion. "Like, maybe someone should do mouth-to-mouth on him."
Sam narrowed his eyes, and bunched his fists. "I’m okay." If anyone tried--
"Maybe he needs an aspirin to thin his blood."
Sam turned his head to the dark-haired woman who’d spoken. She wasn’t even looking at him. She was talking to her companions. What was this? A discussion group?
"He’s just drunk," a redheaded woman said.
Another offered his opinion. "Maybe someone should unbutton his slacks. They look like they might be cutting off circulation."
Sam closed his eyes. This was getting crazy. Luckily, Emily ignored everyone as she tugged at his arm. "Can you sit up? Does your chest hurt?"
Sam rubbed the chest in question. The pain was gone. He felt normal. His gaze flittered through the crowd of curious faces. How was he going to get out of there?
Emily’s grip on his arm tightened. "Sam, I think you need to go to the hospital."
He felt like a fool. Maybe he should let an ambulance come and get him. They could lift him off the floor and place him on a gurney and perhaps no one would see his backside hanging out.
Suddenly Jeff pushed his way through the crowd, and his eyes widened when he saw Sam lying on the floor.
Sam’s hands clenched and he bit off a four-letter word. The last thing he needed was Jeff thinking he was sickly. Who would want to give tenure to someone who wouldn’t be around long?
"Everyone stand back." Jeff knelt beside him. "Sam, what happened? Are you all right?"
Sam forced a smile as his face heated again. Did he get up and look like a fool, or did he lay here and look like a corpse? Too bad he wasn’t wearing one of those tuxedo coats with the long tails, then he could just--
His coat. If he could get his coat, he could slip it around his shoulders and when he stood it would fall to the back of his thighs. He smiled at Jeff. "I’m fine. I just need my coat, then I’ll be all right."
Jeff gaze was blank. "Your coat?"
One of the artists spoke. "Did you hear that? He’s in shock, he needs his coat to keep warm!"
Sam closed his eyes. What did they think he was? The entertainment?
Jeff clasped one of Sam’s wrists for a moment, then looked at Emily. "His pulse seems normal."
"I’m fine. If you could just get my coat?"
Whispers drifted through the group. Is he having a heart attack? Is he going to die? I’ve never seen anyone die before. Briefly, Sam stared up at the ceiling. Did they think he couldn’t hear them?
Turning his head he noticed Emily’s worried expression. Perhaps he should risk embarrassment and stand up before she did call an ambulance. He looked around at the curious faces hovering above him. They were studying him as if he were an insect on a pin. He grimaced. How many of them painted nudes? If he stood, the next thing he knew he’d have his hairy butt plastered across canvases all over Salt Lake City. Maybe even in galleries. On buses. He’d be a joke. He wasn’t standing up.
Emily touched his shoulder. "I’m going to call for an ambulance."
"Emily, please don’t. Just get my coat."
Once more the genuine concern in her face surprised him. It was nice to know she still cared. He gritted his teeth. Of course, if she really cared about him she would have rented him a tuxedo and he’d be able to stand up. Angry again, he jerked his arm out of her grasp. "I’m fine. I had some pain, but it’s gone now. Could you please get my coat?"
He tensed. Something was wrong. Realizing Emily’s hand still clutched his arm, he jerked his arm away again. His arm didn’t move. The skin on his back tingled. He jerked again. Her hand relaxed, still resting on his arm. Sam focused at her hand, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. He couldn’t move his arm! What was happening?
Emily’s other hand came up to rest on his forehead, and he flinched. "Well, I think we need to get you to the hospital, anyway. Just to make sure. All right?"
Don’t touch me! The words rang loud and clear in his head, but the words didn’t come out of his mouth. Instead he said, "Really, Honey, I’m fine. But if it will make you feel better, I’ll go. But we’ll drive, all right?"
Sam’s insides froze and the room above him started to spin. He hadn’t said that! Someone was controlling his mind! He gaped at Emily in horror. At least he tried to, but could feel his face smiling. What was happening? He tried to communicate to her with his eyes that something was really wrong, but she just continued to stare down at him for a moment, before turning to ask Jeff for some water.
Emily, something is wrong! "Thanks, Honey." What was the matter with him? With his voice? Was he paralyzed? Physically, he felt fine, but maybe he’d really had a heart attack. Or a brain aneurysm. Or a stroke. Or worse. He tried to sit up, all thoughts of embarrassment gone from his mind, but he didn’t budge, just continued to lie on the floor, unmoving. He tried again. Nothing. His breath came in short pants. He closed his eyes and tried to think. Perhaps he was drunk. Perhaps his punch had been spiked. He quickly latched onto the idea. Yes, that had to be it. Teetotalers could have bad reactions to alcohol if they were suddenly exposed. Couldn’t they?
Carl pushed to the front of the crowd. "Hey buddy, what are you doing on the floor?"
Sam turned a wild face toward Carl. Only it wasn’t wild.
He could feel himself smiling again. Carl! Help me! Something’s wrong! "I’m not sure. I had some pain in my chest, probably heartburn, but I feel fine now." Who said that?
Randall appeared next to Carl. "Could you have suffered a heart attack?"
Sam glared up at Randall and tried to concentrate on his dislike of him, tried to focus his attention away from what was happening. He forced himself to breathe. If he could just go home and sleep it off, everything would be all right. If he could just get someone to get his coat and help him to his feet, he’d be fine. He felt himself smile at Randall. He didn’t mean to smile, it just happened, and Sam felt panic rising into his chest again. But when he spoke his tone was normal. "I don’t think I did. In fact, I’m sure I didn’t. Carl, get my coat, will you?"
The blond artist spoke again, this time to Carl. "He’s in shock."
Carl looked back at Sam. "What?"
"Everything is all right. My coat, please?"
Another artist spoke to Carl. "They always think they’re okay until it’s too late."
"I’m fine."
Carl seemed undecided. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, just get my coat." The panic clawing at his chest receded as he was able to speak normally.
Randall leaned down. "If anything happens, I know CPR."
Sam rolled his eyes. Or tried to. They didn’t move. What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he control his body or his words? He closed his eyes tightly. He just wanted his stupid coat! He wanted to go home! He wanted to forget this nightmare of an evening ever happened! Why wouldn’t anyone listen to him?
He opened his eyes, and immediately focused on Pete who was standing in the crowd, watching. Just seeing him filled Sam with an enormous sense of relief. "Pete?"
He moved forward. "Are you okay, Sam?"
Sam nodded. No, I’m not! Pete, listen to me! "Yes, I’m fine. I just need my coat."
Pete studied him. "Are you cold?"
"No."
He leaned close to Sam. "Why do you need your coat?"
"Let’s just put it this way," Sam whispered. "If anyone succeeds in getting me to the hospital, I won’t need one of those gowns with the opening in back. My backside is already hanging out." Sam pressed his lips together. He did not just say that.
Pete grinned, then nodded. "Emily, could you run and get Sam’s coat?"
Emily hurried away, and relieved, Sam nodded to Pete. "Thanks."
Pete looked like he was about to say something, then he shook his head. "Don’t worry Sam. You’re going to be fine."
A moment later Emily pushed her way through the oglers and Pete took the coat from her. A few of Sam’s business cards fell out of a pocket. "May I?" Pete’s brows rose as he took one of the cards.
"Help yourself."
Pete pocketed the card, then helped Sam sit up and settled the coat around his shoulders without anyone seeing the condition of his slacks.
With Pete pulling, Sam easily stood, and as the crowd started clapping he could feel his face burning again. He grimaced at Pete. "Thanks."
Pete smiled briefly, then clapped him on the back. "Perhaps I’ll see you next year. You can thank me then." And with that odd statement, he grinned, then made his way through the crowd.
***
Emily hung up the phone, then sighed. One worry off her mind, anyway. Jared was in bed, and her mother wouldn’t expect them home anytime soon.
Turning away, she straightened her shoulders and, high heels clicking, started down the hall toward the Emergency Room. It had been such a shock to see Sam lying on the floor. She’d really thought he was dying. Tears welled in her eyes, and she lifted her chin, willing them to recede. She must be more tired than she’d realized.
Sam said he felt fine, and really, he did seem all right. Or did she just want to believe that? Was she trying to fool herself? She shook her head. He did look all right. But he was acting a little strange. At least for Sam.
Emily rubbed her forehead. It wasn’t as if this changed her plans. It didn’t. Tomorrow she’d tell Sam she wanted a divorce. Sighing, she let her hand drop. Probably.
She nodded as the receptionist behind the front desk caught her eye, then glanced at the clock on the wall as she passed. One-fifteen in the morning. No wonder she was tired.
She passed a worried-looking, middle-aged couple in the waiting room, slowed, then stopped in front of the double doors leading to the Emergency Room. He was healthy. He had to be.
Pushing through the doors she made her way into the huge room, her high heels clicking loudly on the tile floor. As she walked by the nurse’s station she smiled at the nurse on duty then made her way over to Sam’s bed.
When she pushed the white curtain aside, Sam looked up and smiled. She tensed. Sam never smiled at her. Or he hadn’t in a long time, anyway. He was definitely acting weird.
"Everything okay?"
She sat on the stool beside his bed. "Yes, everything’s fine. Jared’s asleep, and I told Mom not to expect us until she sees us." Suddenly uncomfortable at being alone with him, she glanced around the half-opened curtain. "What happened to the doctor?"
He reached out and took her hand. "He’ll be back in a minute."
Reluctantly, she let her hand relax in his. What was he trying to do, put on a show for the nurse? She tried to remember the last time they’d held hands and couldn’t. Her brows drew together. Could he be afraid?
"You’ve really been great tonight, Emily. Thanks."
He grinned at her again, and she tried to smile back, then rose from the stool, forcing him to drop her hand. Walking to the bottom of the bed, she smoothed the hospital blanket.
Her glance slid up the bed, then away from his smiling face. Why was he acting so odd? Could his chest pain have frightened him and he wasn’t telling? She studied him. He’d sounded so positive about it not being a heart attack. She’d believed him. Wanted to believe him. But now she wasn’t so sure. "You said you felt all right?"
"I’m fine. I know I am. It’ll be all right, Honey."
She glanced guiltily away. Her words probably did make her seem worried. But she’d really believed him when he’d told her it wasn’t a heart attack. Once he’d stood up at the party, he’d acted fine. But she wanted to be sure. Needed to be sure.
Crossing her arms, she walked out of the small curtained cubicle and acknowledged the ugly truth. She’d wanted him to be checked out because she needed to know he was healthy when she asked him for a divorce. It was as simple as that. And now here she was feeling guilty about it.
She straightened her shoulders. She didn’t need to feel bad. There was nothing left between them. Hadn’t been in years. He didn’t love her, and she certainly didn’t love him anymore.
Why couldn’t he be his usual nasty self? Why act so different? She stared at the ground and rubbed her bare arms. He must be afraid, and now, so was she. Perhaps she should put off the divorce?
Emily tapped her foot nervously. She couldn’t very well tell him she was divorcing him if he’d just suffered a heart attack. She wouldn’t. Lifting a hand to her neck, she tried to massage the tension away. This was pointless. He was fine. Healthy. He had to be.
"Emily, are you all right?"
She turned toward Sam and smiled tightly. He never asked questions like that. "Yes, fine. I’m just keeping an eye out for the doctor."
She glanced back as she heard footsteps approaching, and some of her tension eased. "Here he comes now."
Dr. Adams, sandy-haired, slender, and boyish, almost seemed too young to be a full-fledged doctor. But the fast, clipped way he’d spoken to them earlier had made him seem older, more authoritative and in charge, somehow.
He pulled the curtain all the way around the bed and out of the way, then grabbed a stool from beside the unused bed next to them and settled onto it. He focused on the medical tablet he’d brought with him, studying it quickly before glancing up.
"Well, Mr. Pierson, nothing showed up on the EKG and your vitals and blood work are normal so, for now, I’m simply going to recommend no stress. In two weeks I want you to see your family physician and have him give you another thorough exam. He’ll probably do a stress test, and may or may not recommend you see a cardiologist. If you have any more chest pains, call 911. But in the meantime, no stress." He glanced at Emily. "Understand?"
Was it her imagination, or did he emphasize the last word when he’d looked at her?
Feeling slightly sick, she nodded, and her dismay must have shown in her face because his intense expression relaxed slightly, and his voice slowed a fraction.
"Just watch him closely, Mrs. Pierson. If it were really serious, something would have shown up." He glanced at Sam. "You also might want to lose a few pounds. So eat nutritiously, maybe take up walking, and cut out as much stress as you can." He looked at the chart again. "It says here that you smoke, Mr. Pierson?"
"Yes."
"Stop smoking."
The doctor stood, shook Sam’s hand, then hers and the urge to giggle welled uncontrollably in her throat and she held her breath to suppress it. Would telling my husband I’m divorcing him constitute stress?
After the doctor left, Sam took her hand again. "See, Honey? I told you I was fine." He rubbed her hand in both of his. "Relax."
She nodded, and barely managed a smile. Was he fine? She wanted him out of her life, but she certainly didn’t want him dead. Jared needed a father, and she was hoping Sam would be a better one once he didn’t get to spend every day with his son.
She removed her hand from Sam’s and circled away. Now what? Obviously she couldn’t tell Sam she wanted a divorce tomorrow without viewing herself as an unfeeling witch. A murderous, cold-hearted, unfeeling witch.
Emily closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her fingers. In two weeks she’d personally take Sam to see their family doctor. When Sam checked out, she’d get her life back on track. This was just a minor glitch.
She watched as a nurse came over to remove the IV from Sam’s arm. When she’d finished, Sam slid off the bed and reached for his clothes. Emily turned and walked toward the waiting room. He’d be fine. And if she could just get that annoying smile off his face, she’d be fine too.
***
Sam woke with a start and lay staring at the ceiling in the semi-darkness, blankets tucked securely around his neck. Something felt wrong. Turning his head toward the night-stand, he glanced at the glowing numbers of the digital clock. Five a.m. He’d only been asleep for about three hours, so why was he awake?
And not only awake, wide awake. None of that drowsy, lethargic, how-could-he-ever-unglue-his-eyes-so-he wouldn’t-fall-on-his-way-to-the-bathroom stuff. His eyes were wide open and he was alert. Clearheaded.
Turning onto his side, he wrapped his arm around Emily’s waist and pressed close to her back. She didn’t move. He closed his eyes and tried to fall back to sleep.
A moment later he rolled to his other side, and shifted to try and get comfortable. After about five minutes he pushed back the covers and sat on the side of the bed. It was no use. He wasn’t just awake, he was completely, one hundred percent conscious. A thrumming energy vibrated through his body, and he felt like a kid who’d just woken up and realized it was Christmas morning. It was impossible to sleep.
Standing, he walked toward the bathroom and thoughts of the night before flashed through his mind. The party. The pain in his chest. Laying on the floor like an idiot. The ER. The feeling of being controlled. Breathing in deeply, he tried to clear his mind. He didn’t want to think about it.
Feeling a bit shaky, he realized it had been way too long since his last cigarette, and a sharp craving flooded his body. He needed some nicotine.
Glancing at Emily’s sleeping form, barely discernible in the darkness, he smiled. It was a good thing he’d woken early. After what the doctor said last night, he’d better not let Emily catch him smoking. And he didn’t want to argue with her about it.
Walking into the bathroom, he shut the door quietly, blinking as he flipped on the light. This was the first time in a long while he wasn’t stumbling around like a drunk in the morning. He felt different. Squinting at himself in the mirror, he rubbed his chest. Definitely no pain. Everything was fine.
He used the toilet, then tugged open the cabinet under the sink, reaching for his hidden carton of cigarettes. Emily knew it was there, but never said anything about it. He wasn’t supposed to smoke in the house, but this was something they’d silently compromised on. He’d open the window, and she’d pretend she didn’t know.
Pulling up the latch, he jerked the window, but it didn’t open. It was frozen shut, with ice and snow built up on the outside. He jerked it a few more times, but it didn’t budge. He reached for Emily’s hair dryer to defrost it, then stopped, afraid the noise might wake her. He didn’t need a lecture at five in the morning. What did it matter if the doctor had warned him against smoking? It was his life, and no one was going to tell him how to live it. Anyway, by the time Emily woke up, the smoke would be long gone.
Extracting an opened pack of cigarettes from the carton, he tapped the box and slid one out. Nothing better first thing in the morning. He slipped it between his lips, savoring the slight taste of tobacco, then searched the cabinet until he found the lighter. He flicked it with his thumb, bent his head toward the flame in anticipation, and inhaled deeply. Immediately, he started choking. Hard.
Sputtering the smoke out of his lungs, he grabbed wildly at the counter with his free hand, and fought to breathe in oxygen. His eyes watered as his throat and lungs burned horribly. When the coughing subsided, he glared at the smoldering cigarette still clutched between his fingers. What had just happened? He ran his tongue around his teeth, tasting the horrible aftertaste. Disgusting.
With an angry jerk he threw the cigarette into the toilet. It must have been a faulty one. He didn’t need this first thing in the morning and he ought to sue the stupid company. He’d been smoking their cigarettes since he was sixteen. Been loyal to them for twenty-two years. But if they were shipping out inferior products then maybe he’d better think about switching brands.
Reaching for the pack, he tapped another out, then stopped, his throat aching. What if the whole package was faulty? He didn’t want to go through that again.
Setting the pack on the sink, he opened the carton. They were half gone. Five packs left. The first five had been fine until this one. He reached in and extracted a new package, the one at the back.
Frowning, he unwrapped the cellophane. These had better be good or someone would be looking for a new job. Fingers shaking, he tapped one out and reached for the lighter. He needed this cigarette. Lighting it, he inhaled slowly and immediately the burn started down his throat. He tried to hold back the hacking, but couldn’t. Deep wrenching coughs seized his body and his stomach clenched painfully. He cursed. It felt like he was trying to expel his lungs.
When the coughing subsided, he brushed away the tears in his eyes, and again, threw the cigarette in the toilet, flushing it down. He rubbed his tongue against his teeth and grimaced at the awful flavor. They didn’t even taste like cigarettes. The coughing started again, and he bent over and held onto the counter. He was definitely suing the company.
There was a tap on the door. "Sam, are you all right?"
Sam waved his hands around to get rid of the smoke, then realized there wasn’t any.
He breathed in a huge gulp of air. "I’m okay." His voice came out raspy and hoarse. "I’ll be right out. Go back to bed."
He picked up the pack. With his throat aching so badly, and the horrible taste of the cigarette still in his mouth, he had no desire to smoke now. Reaching for the carton, he put the two opened packages inside, then stuffed the cigarettes under the sink.
After brushing his teeth, Sam flipped off the light switch and went into the bedroom. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, and he made out Emily’s form in bed. He listened to her easy breathing and rolled his eyes. So much for being worried about him. Hands on hips he glancing around the shadowy room. Why did he feel so restless? With a sigh he turned away from the bed. Since he couldn’t sleep or smoke, he might as well get something to eat.
As he wandered downstairs in the darkness, the events of the night before once again crowded his mind. What a disaster. How would he ever be able to face his boss and co-workers again? He’d looked like a fool, and it wasn’t something they’d be likely to forget in a hurry.
He entered the kitchen, flipped on the stove light and opened a few cupboards at random. What sounded good? Maybe he should wake Emily and get her to make him something to eat. After all, she was the one who dragged him to the hospital last night, acting like he was an invalid. And he’d been so nice about it too. Shouldn’t he get special treatment today?
He still wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to go to the hospital, or why he’d acted so strange. He grabbed a box of cereal and pushed the disturbing thoughts aside.
Tilting the box toward the light, he smiled. Coco Puffs. A good chocolate fix was exactly what he needed to get his day started. He smirked. What had the ER doctor said? Eat nutritiously? Well, nothing better than a sugar rush to get the old heart pumping in the morning.
He set the box on the table, retrieved a spoon, bowl and a gallon of milk, grimacing at the one-percent sticker. What he needed was the real stuff. Whole milk. Why couldn’t Emily ever get what he liked?
Lifting the box he poured cereal into a bowl, covered it with milk, then scooped a huge spoonful into his mouth. Chewing, he waited for the taste of chocolate to rush over his taste buds.
Seconds later he exploded from his chair, rushed to the sink, spit out the Cocoa Puffs, cupped his hand and slurped in water. He swished water forcefully in his mouth, then spit it out before repeating the procedure twice more. Going to the wall, he flipped on the fluorescent lights, then advanced toward his bowl. They looked like Cocoa Puffs. Leaning over, he sniffed suspiciously. They even smelled like Cocoa Puffs. He ran his tongue over his teeth and shuddered. They hadn’t tasted like Cocoa Puffs. They tasted like, well, they tasted like...like...rancid meat!
Grabbing the bowl of cereal, he dumped the contents into the sink then turned on the water and garbage disposal, watching as the cereal washed down.
Turning away from the sink, he sank onto his chair and looked at the floor. His brows drew together. Something was happening with him. First the cigarettes, and now the cereal? He also needed to face the fact that he’d acted really strange last night. Could he actually be sick? He doubted it. If something had been critically wrong, the doctor would have caught it at the hospital.
He straightened. Of course. Last night at the hospital. They must have given him some medication in his IV and it was affecting him. Altering his taste buds. Blowing out a breath, he relaxed. He still wasn’t tired, but he should go back to bed. It would probably be wise to try and sleep off the medication.
He started for the door, then turned back to the table, put the milk away and grabbed the box of Cocoa Puffs. He dropped it into the garbage beside the refrigerator on his way out. There was probably nothing wrong with the cereal. He rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, almost gagging at the taste still lingering there. But why risk it?
Chapter Three
Sam gripped the phone tightly. "Fine, but as soon as the doctor gets there, have him call me." He hung up and cursed silently as he stood in the hallway. It was only ten in the morning, and nothing was going his way so far. After going back to bed, he hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d laid awake for three hours, tossing and turning before finally getting up to walk around the block a few times in the freezing weather.
Not that Emily had noticed. She’d slept soundly. He could have died in his sleep for all she cared. He could have really had a heart attack and she would have just slept like a baby beside him, never even discovering his cold clammy corpse until she’d finally woken up. Then she’d have been sorry she’d slept while he’d been in misery.
Sighing, he placed the portable phone back in its cradle.
Obviously the doctor had given him something really strong through the IV. Some sort of medication that specifically caused sleeplessness and affected his sense of taste. It would have been nice if they’d told him about it. What right did they have to medicate him without his permission, anyway?
And then those incompetents at the hospital had the nerve to tell him that he hadn’t been given anything? Ha! And to top it off, now he couldn’t get in touch with the witless doctor to ask when the effects would wear off, because the doctor had gone home to sleep.
Hearing something, he glanced up from his position in the hallway to see Emily coming downstairs. She looked refreshed. Well, she should look refreshed. She’d slept soundly enough. He should know.
"Well, well, sleepy head, it’s about time you got up." Sam stood very still. He hadn’t said that. Well, he had but the soft, almost teasing tone wasn’t how he’d said it. In his head he’d said it sarcastically. Cuttingly. He cleared his throat, ignoring the chills chasing up his back.
Emily smiled. A soft, almost surprised smile, and his eyes narrowed. Was she expecting him to be nasty? Was she shocked when he wasn’t? Well, he now had even more proof he’d been medicated. Why else would he be so easy-going? Obviously the drug made him mellow.
Unexpectedly, a part of him was relieved. Maybe this meant he was nothing like his father. If drugs didn’t make him mean, perhaps alcohol wouldn’t either. Possibly he would be a nice drunk. Perhaps he never needed to worry about knocking his family around if he had a drink once in a while.
Sam shook his head slightly. He didn’t even want to go there. He realized Emily had been talking. "What?"
She shot him an irritated glance and moved past him, her pink, short-sleeved, satin robe rustling as it brushed against him. "Nothing."
Before realizing he meant to, he captured Emily’s bare arm gently. "I’m sorry. I was thinking about something unpleasant. What did you say?"
Her blue eyes met his warily and they stood there, unmoving, watching each other. Uncomfortable, he tried to tear his gaze away, but found he couldn’t. Stupid medication. Her expression changed to one of surprise, then she dropped her gaze to his T-shirt.
"I only asked if you’d like some breakfast." Her eyebrows lifted, drawing his gaze to the delicacy of her features. He rubbed her arm, noticing the softness. It had been so long since he’d really looked at her, touched her. There were fine lines around her eyes that didn’t used to be there. They didn’t detract from her beauty, but he wondered if they bothered her, and was surprised he didn’t know. Breathing in deeply, he smelling the barest trace of her perfume.
She glanced up, caught him staring, then placed a palm against his forehead. "Are you all right?"
Her gesture reminded him of how she worried over Jared whenever he was sick. He pulled her hand down to his lips and kissed her palm before smiling at her.
"Emily, you’re beautiful." He watched the shock and alarm in her eyes and it was like looking in a mirror. He hadn’t meant to say that. Do that.
Emily jerked her hand away, giving him a cold look. "Maybe you’d better go back to bed." She started toward the kitchen, then turned. "Alone."
Alone? Oh, please, big surprise. When did he ever go to bed in that sense with her, anymore? Sam watched her go, the sarcastic words stuck in his throat. He stood there a moment, then his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten. He followed her. If she was offering food, he might as well go for it. It was all he was likely to get.
In the process of getting bacon and eggs out of the refrigerator, Emily stopped, glanced at him, then began putting everything back. "You can’t have any of this. How does oatmeal sound?"
Awful. He opened his mouth to tell her what he thought of oatmeal. "Aaarrol," He croaked. Cleared his throat. Awful. "Aaaarrrol." He groaned. What was the matter with him?
"Very funny." Emily bent to retrieve a pot, measured some water, set the pot on the stove, then pulled the oatmeal container out of the cupboard. "Who were you calling on the phone just now?"
"The ER doctor." The words slipped out just fine.
Emily turned to stare at him, her brow wrinkled. "Aren’t you feeling well?"
It was about time she worried about him. "I was just calling about the medicine they gave me at the hospital." He shrugged. "I was wondering when it would wear off."
Her eyebrows pulled together. "I don’t remember them giving you anything."
He shrugged. "Must have been when you went to call home."
She walked over, pushed him onto a chair and placed her palm against his forehead once more. "What symptoms are you referring to?"
He shrugged again. "I don’t know. I’m feeling kind of mellow, and I couldn’t stay asleep."
Alice walked into the room, breaking Emily’s worried gaze, and Sam grimaced inwardly. The day had already started off badly and the last thing he needed was his mother-in-law around. Hopefully she’d go home now that they didn’t need her anymore.
"Good morning. I see you’re still with us today, Sam." Alice seated herself at the table, her hair, make-up and clothes annoyingly perfect.
What did she do, carry a fully stocked cauldron around with her?
She opened the newspaper she’d brought in. "How do you feel?"
As if she really cared. "I’m fine. Thank you for asking."The medication interfered again and his tone didn’t come out caustic as he’d intended. But when she looked surprised, he was glad. It was nice to see the smug smile wiped from her face for a change.
"Well, it certainly is an unusual way to start off the New Year." She set the paper down, and studied him. "How old are you now? Thirty-eight?"
"Yes."
"A lot of men die in their thirties now. A man in my neighborhood dropped dead while playing basketball. He was only thirty-four." She gazed at him, her penciled brows raised. "When they did the autopsy on him, they said he had the insides of a sixty-year-old." She gazed at Sam’s waistline. "That’s what comes from no exercise and an unhealthy diet."
"Thank you for your concern." Again his words sounded relaxed and lacked sarcasm. When Alice’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, he almost grinned. He felt as if he’d finally won an argument with her without quite knowing how.
Sam sat in silence for a while, watching as Emily made toast, put out orange juice and set the table. Every once in a while she studied him closely and he was hard pressed not to smile. Let her be confused. Why should he be the only one?
When the oatmeal was ready, Emily set a bowl before him and he considered it, wondering if it would taste all right. "Thank you."
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Emily and Alice exchange a glance. Did they think him incapable of manners? Without meaning to, he started eating the disgusting, creamy concoction. Chills raced up his arms. He felt out of control. He ignored the feeling and continued to eat. At least the oatmeal tasted like it was supposed to, and his taste buds weren’t playing tricks on him anymore. He couldn’t wait until this medication wore off completely.
Jared walked in, playing with the electronic game he’d received for Christmas. He wore baggy jeans and an oversized shirt and his blonde hair was still uncombed. He sat at the table without acknowledging anyone, the toy beeping an irritating tattoo of noises as he pushed the buttons.
Emily set a bowl of oatmeal in front of him and he stopped what he was doing to grimace at the cereal. "Yuck. I’m not eating that." He went back to his game.
Heat rose in Sam’s chest. Kids these days had no respect for anyone. "Are you insulting your mother’s cooking?" Again the medication changed his meaning, and it came out almost humorous rather than angry. Without meaning to, he even smiled. Jared searched his face for a moment, then ducked his head and, thumbs moving fast, continued the game.
Sam glanced at the clock, wondering what time would the doctor would call. It would be nice to get some answers.
He tried again. Jared needed to understand he couldn’t get away with his sullen behavior. "After all the effort I expend into putting food on this table, you’d better eat it, young man." When Jared met his gaze, Sam rolled his eyes.
Jared gave a small laugh. "Yeah Dad, like you hunt our food or something."
Sam deliberately ignored the new eye-rolling symptom. He had a sudden image of himself hunting oats for the table, and returned Jared’s now vanished smile.
"You have no idea how hard it is to sneak up on an unsuspecting oat, do you?" Sam glanced around the table, eyeing everyone seriously. The wary looks on their faces made him want to laugh out loud. He wouldn’t want his reaction to the medication to last forever, but it was amusing in some ways. "Did you know they travel in packs?"
Jared shook his head and lowered the game. Sam sighed heavily and nodded. "Yep. They do that so while some of them are grazing, the others can watch their backs. Makes it hard on us oat hunters, I can tell you that."
Jared let out a breath of disgust. "Right, Dad."
Sam stared at Emily, eyes wide. "Tell him."
Emily smiled slightly, a bemused look softening her face. Alice, unsmiling, lowered her chin and gave Sam a hard-eyed stare over the rims of her glasses.
Amused, Sam turned back to Jared. "So eat up. I know you can’t really appreciate oats until you’ve moved in for the kill yourself, but try. I’ll take you with me sometime. Maybe with two of us there, we can come up with some sort of strategy." Sam wiggled his eyebrows. "You can cause a distraction, while I chop down their stems. Afterwards, I’ll even let you pick off the individual bodies and put them in the special container." He paused a moment, and Jared didn’t disappoint.
"What special container?"
Sam smiled. "You know, the one with the picture of the Puritan on the front."
Jared’s lips quirked and he pulled his cereal in close to him. "Is there any blood?"
"Not with oats." Sam leaned in closer so he could whisper. "But Lucky Charms are another story. Those leprechauns are fighters."
Alice choked on her orange juice, splattering droplets on the table. Emily pounded on her back for a moment, but Alice waved her away, wiping her mouth with a napkin. Sam politely looked away and went back to eating his cereal, which somehow didn’t taste as bad anymore.
Jared took a few bites. "It’s kind of gross, Dad."
Sam looked at Emily. "Remember when Jared was a baby? You used to spoon the cereal into his mouth while making airplane noises." He winked at her. "Maybe you should try that again."
"Yeah right." Jared sounded annoyed, but the corners of his mouth turned up.
Emily and Alice kept looking at him oddly. Sam knew he wasn’t acting like his usual self, but before too long the medication would wear off, and he’d be fine again. Then they could go back to scowling at him.
Emily stood and reached for Sam’s now empty bowl. "Jared, your father was at the hospital last night."
He glanced at his mom, then Sam. "Why?"
"He had chest pain."
Jared’s eyes widened.
"Don’t worry, I’m fine. I think it was heartburn."
Jared gazed at him a moment longer, then shrugged and bent his head, but not before Sam saw the fear in his eyes. Sam’s chest tightened. Maybe the kid cared after all.
In the sudden silence, the neighbor’s dog started barking wildly. Sam scowled, or at least he tried to, but his mellow attitude wouldn’t allow it.
Jared glanced at the back door. "So, Dad." He hesitated a moment, then stuck out his chin. "Maybe we need a hunting dog to go with us." He glanced at Sam, then, seeming to lose courage, ducked his head. "You know, hunting for oats."
Immediately the fun went out of the morning. "You know how I feel about dogs. I don’t like the mess." He nodded toward the back door. "Or the noise." He spoke softly, none of the irritation he felt showing in his voice.
"But Dad..."
"I’m sorry, but no. The reason is--"
"Forget it." Giving Sam a furious glare, Jared got up from the table, grabbed his game and left the room.
Sam watched him go. Emily avoided his gaze, eating her breakfast, while Alice glared at him.
He looked at Emily. "He doesn’t understand. They’re messy, noisy and a lot of upkeep. They’re expensive." Sam turned his gaze to the ice-crusted window for a moment. "And sometimes they die," he said faintly.
"Sam?" Emily spoke softly.
He focused on her worried face, watching her exchange another glance with her mother. He quickly stood. What was wrong with him today? "I think I’ll go watch the game. Thanks for breakfast." Emily nodded, and he could feel her eyes on him as he left.
He drifted into the family room and shoved his hands into his pockets. Why couldn’t Jared just listen to him? He knew what was best for his own kid. Besides, Jared knew how much he hated dogs. After the many times he’d called the police on the neighbors about the barking, Jared should know better than to ask. One thing was for sure. The kid had good instincts. The minute Sam mellowed, Jared sensed it and moved in for the kill.
Sam sat in his favorite maroon recliner, picked up the remote and clicked on the TV. He flipped stations until he found the one he wanted. It was ten minutes until the pre-game show started. He retrieved the crossword puzzle he’d been working on earlier and settled more deeply into his chair. A moment later, Sam looked up as he heard Alice come into the room.
She held out the portable phone. "It’s for you."
"Thanks." He gave her a smile, which had her shaking her head as she left. He lowered the volume the TV. "Hello?"
"Sam Pierson?"
"Yes."
"This is Dr. Adams. I examined you last night. I
understand you wanted me to contact you. Is there a problem?"
The quick, precise voice brought a picture of the young doctor to Sam’s mind. He sounded a lot older on the phone than he appeared in person.
"Yes. I was wondering when the medication you gave me last night would wear off?"
"Medication? I don’t believe you had anything other than an IV, Mr. Pierson. Are you saying you received some sort of medication last night?"
Sam stood up and paced across the room. "Well, no, I just assumed there was something in the IV"
"No. Nothing. Are you experiencing symptoms of some sort? Are you in pain?"
"No." Sam thought about the cigarettes. The Cocoa Puffs. The relaxed way he’d acted with everyone. Fear lanced its way through his body. Something was wrong with him.
"Mr. Pierson?"
Sam realized he was still holding the phone. "I’m here." He took a deep, shuddering breath. Symptoms? What was he supposed to say? I’m being too nice to my family? "The cigarettes and Cocoa Puffs."
"What?"
Sam realized he’d spoken out loud. "The cigarettes and Cocoa Puffs tasted funny. I choked. Something was wrong with them." He wasn’t making any sense.
"Mr. Pierson. Are you telling me that after I specifically warned you against smoking, and after I told you to eat a healthy diet, you made both smoking and sugar cereal part of your intake?"
Sam started to laugh, and he tried to ignore the hysterical edge he heard. He was being chewed out by a doctor who looked fourteen, for something he’d tried to do, but couldn’t. And what he was really worried about he couldn’t figure out how to put into words.
"Mr. Pierson, it’s your health. If you think it’s funny to take risks with it then there is nothing I can do for you. I suggest you follow my recommendations. Eat right, exercise, and stop smoking. You’ll live longer. Is there anything else?"
Sam’s humor dried up, leaving dread in its place. His hand clenched tightly on the phone. "Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your time. I didn’t actually eat the cereal or smoke. I had oatmeal for breakfast. It’s just that I tried to, then didn’t. You’re sure I wasn’t given any medication?"
"Positive. So, you started to smoke and eat sugar cereal, then didn’t?" Dr. Adams sounded confused.
"Yes."
"Well, I don’t think anything is wrong with you. It sounds like your common sense kicked in."
"I also woke up at five this morning."
"And?"
"I never wake up that early. And I had a very late night last night."
"Everyone suffers from insomnia on occasion. It’s nothing unusual. If it persists, see your regular doctor. Anything else?"
"You’re sure I didn’t have any medication?"
"Yes, I’m certain. You are most likely experiencing fear over your physical condition. It’s a perfectly normal reaction. Stress shows itself in a variety of ways."
"Okay. Thanks for calling me back." He pushed the off button on the phone and set it on the end table, then sank onto his chair. No medication. So what was happening to him?
Emily looked into the room. "Is everything all right?"
He smiled at her. "Fine."
She smiled uncertainly. "Okay. Do you want a drink or anything?"
"Sure, thanks. Just water." He picked up the remote control. "Could you please tell Jared the Rose Bowl pre-game is about to start?"
"I’ll tell him."
Seconds later he could hear her soft tread on the stairs. He turned up the television and stared without seeing anything.
What was happening to him? Could it be as simple as stress? He’d just finished writing his history text a couple of weeks ago. It had taken a lot out of him. And last night hadn’t helped. Most likely it was just lack of sleep.
He sighed. He’d probably be fine tomorrow. A good eight hours of sleep and then he’d be back to normal. After the game, he’d take a nap.
Turning his head, he watched as Jared came reluctantly into the room, Emily pushing him slightly from behind.
Sam tensed. The last thing he needed was to watch a football game with a spoiled kid who didn’t even value his good fortune in having a dad who would take the time to watch a game with him. If Jared couldn’t appreciate it, he could just go and sulk in his room. Sam opened his mouth to tell him to do just that. "Come here, Jared, this will be great."
Sam stopped breathing. What was wrong with him?
Not that Emily had noticed. She’d slept soundly. He could have died in his sleep for all she cared. He could have really had a heart attack and she would have just slept like a baby beside him, never even discovering his cold clammy corpse until she’d finally woken up. Then she’d have been sorry she’d slept while he’d been in misery.
Sighing, he placed the portable phone back in its cradle.
Obviously the doctor had given him something really strong through the IV. Some sort of medication that specifically caused sleeplessness and affected his sense of taste. It would have been nice if they’d told him about it. What right did they have to medicate him without his permission, anyway?
And then those incompetents at the hospital had the nerve to tell him that he hadn’t been given anything? Ha! And to top it off, now he couldn’t get in touch with the witless doctor to ask when the effects would wear off, because the doctor had gone home to sleep.
Hearing something, he glanced up from his position in the hallway to see Emily coming downstairs. She looked refreshed. Well, she should look refreshed. She’d slept soundly enough. He should know.
"Well, well, sleepy head, it’s about time you got up." Sam stood very still. He hadn’t said that. Well, he had but the soft, almost teasing tone wasn’t how he’d said it. In his head he’d said it sarcastically. Cuttingly. He cleared his throat, ignoring the chills chasing up his back.
Emily smiled. A soft, almost surprised smile, and his eyes narrowed. Was she expecting him to be nasty? Was she shocked when he wasn’t? Well, he now had even more proof he’d been medicated. Why else would he be so easy-going? Obviously the drug made him mellow.
Unexpectedly, a part of him was relieved. Maybe this meant he was nothing like his father. If drugs didn’t make him mean, perhaps alcohol wouldn’t either. Possibly he would be a nice drunk. Perhaps he never needed to worry about knocking his family around if he had a drink once in a while.
Sam shook his head slightly. He didn’t even want to go there. He realized Emily had been talking. "What?"
She shot him an irritated glance and moved past him, her pink, short-sleeved, satin robe rustling as it brushed against him. "Nothing."
Before realizing he meant to, he captured Emily’s bare arm gently. "I’m sorry. I was thinking about something unpleasant. What did you say?"
Her blue eyes met his warily and they stood there, unmoving, watching each other. Uncomfortable, he tried to tear his gaze away, but found he couldn’t. Stupid medication. Her expression changed to one of surprise, then she dropped her gaze to his T-shirt.
"I only asked if you’d like some breakfast." Her eyebrows lifted, drawing his gaze to the delicacy of her features. He rubbed her arm, noticing the softness. It had been so long since he’d really looked at her, touched her. There were fine lines around her eyes that didn’t used to be there. They didn’t detract from her beauty, but he wondered if they bothered her, and was surprised he didn’t know. Breathing in deeply, he smelling the barest trace of her perfume.
She glanced up, caught him staring, then placed a palm against his forehead. "Are you all right?"
Her gesture reminded him of how she worried over Jared whenever he was sick. He pulled her hand down to his lips and kissed her palm before smiling at her.
"Emily, you’re beautiful." He watched the shock and alarm in her eyes and it was like looking in a mirror. He hadn’t meant to say that. Do that.
Emily jerked her hand away, giving him a cold look. "Maybe you’d better go back to bed." She started toward the kitchen, then turned. "Alone."
Alone? Oh, please, big surprise. When did he ever go to bed in that sense with her, anymore? Sam watched her go, the sarcastic words stuck in his throat. He stood there a moment, then his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten. He followed her. If she was offering food, he might as well go for it. It was all he was likely to get.
In the process of getting bacon and eggs out of the refrigerator, Emily stopped, glanced at him, then began putting everything back. "You can’t have any of this. How does oatmeal sound?"
Awful. He opened his mouth to tell her what he thought of oatmeal. "Aaarrol," He croaked. Cleared his throat. Awful. "Aaaarrrol." He groaned. What was the matter with him?
"Very funny." Emily bent to retrieve a pot, measured some water, set the pot on the stove, then pulled the oatmeal container out of the cupboard. "Who were you calling on the phone just now?"
"The ER doctor." The words slipped out just fine.
Emily turned to stare at him, her brow wrinkled. "Aren’t you feeling well?"
It was about time she worried about him. "I was just calling about the medicine they gave me at the hospital." He shrugged. "I was wondering when it would wear off."
Her eyebrows pulled together. "I don’t remember them giving you anything."
He shrugged. "Must have been when you went to call home."
She walked over, pushed him onto a chair and placed her palm against his forehead once more. "What symptoms are you referring to?"
He shrugged again. "I don’t know. I’m feeling kind of mellow, and I couldn’t stay asleep."
Alice walked into the room, breaking Emily’s worried gaze, and Sam grimaced inwardly. The day had already started off badly and the last thing he needed was his mother-in-law around. Hopefully she’d go home now that they didn’t need her anymore.
"Good morning. I see you’re still with us today, Sam." Alice seated herself at the table, her hair, make-up and clothes annoyingly perfect.
What did she do, carry a fully stocked cauldron around with her?
She opened the newspaper she’d brought in. "How do you feel?"
As if she really cared. "I’m fine. Thank you for asking."The medication interfered again and his tone didn’t come out caustic as he’d intended. But when she looked surprised, he was glad. It was nice to see the smug smile wiped from her face for a change.
"Well, it certainly is an unusual way to start off the New Year." She set the paper down, and studied him. "How old are you now? Thirty-eight?"
"Yes."
"A lot of men die in their thirties now. A man in my neighborhood dropped dead while playing basketball. He was only thirty-four." She gazed at him, her penciled brows raised. "When they did the autopsy on him, they said he had the insides of a sixty-year-old." She gazed at Sam’s waistline. "That’s what comes from no exercise and an unhealthy diet."
"Thank you for your concern." Again his words sounded relaxed and lacked sarcasm. When Alice’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, he almost grinned. He felt as if he’d finally won an argument with her without quite knowing how.
Sam sat in silence for a while, watching as Emily made toast, put out orange juice and set the table. Every once in a while she studied him closely and he was hard pressed not to smile. Let her be confused. Why should he be the only one?
When the oatmeal was ready, Emily set a bowl before him and he considered it, wondering if it would taste all right. "Thank you."
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Emily and Alice exchange a glance. Did they think him incapable of manners? Without meaning to, he started eating the disgusting, creamy concoction. Chills raced up his arms. He felt out of control. He ignored the feeling and continued to eat. At least the oatmeal tasted like it was supposed to, and his taste buds weren’t playing tricks on him anymore. He couldn’t wait until this medication wore off completely.
Jared walked in, playing with the electronic game he’d received for Christmas. He wore baggy jeans and an oversized shirt and his blonde hair was still uncombed. He sat at the table without acknowledging anyone, the toy beeping an irritating tattoo of noises as he pushed the buttons.
Emily set a bowl of oatmeal in front of him and he stopped what he was doing to grimace at the cereal. "Yuck. I’m not eating that." He went back to his game.
Heat rose in Sam’s chest. Kids these days had no respect for anyone. "Are you insulting your mother’s cooking?" Again the medication changed his meaning, and it came out almost humorous rather than angry. Without meaning to, he even smiled. Jared searched his face for a moment, then ducked his head and, thumbs moving fast, continued the game.
Sam glanced at the clock, wondering what time would the doctor would call. It would be nice to get some answers.
He tried again. Jared needed to understand he couldn’t get away with his sullen behavior. "After all the effort I expend into putting food on this table, you’d better eat it, young man." When Jared met his gaze, Sam rolled his eyes.
Jared gave a small laugh. "Yeah Dad, like you hunt our food or something."
Sam deliberately ignored the new eye-rolling symptom. He had a sudden image of himself hunting oats for the table, and returned Jared’s now vanished smile.
"You have no idea how hard it is to sneak up on an unsuspecting oat, do you?" Sam glanced around the table, eyeing everyone seriously. The wary looks on their faces made him want to laugh out loud. He wouldn’t want his reaction to the medication to last forever, but it was amusing in some ways. "Did you know they travel in packs?"
Jared shook his head and lowered the game. Sam sighed heavily and nodded. "Yep. They do that so while some of them are grazing, the others can watch their backs. Makes it hard on us oat hunters, I can tell you that."
Jared let out a breath of disgust. "Right, Dad."
Sam stared at Emily, eyes wide. "Tell him."
Emily smiled slightly, a bemused look softening her face. Alice, unsmiling, lowered her chin and gave Sam a hard-eyed stare over the rims of her glasses.
Amused, Sam turned back to Jared. "So eat up. I know you can’t really appreciate oats until you’ve moved in for the kill yourself, but try. I’ll take you with me sometime. Maybe with two of us there, we can come up with some sort of strategy." Sam wiggled his eyebrows. "You can cause a distraction, while I chop down their stems. Afterwards, I’ll even let you pick off the individual bodies and put them in the special container." He paused a moment, and Jared didn’t disappoint.
"What special container?"
Sam smiled. "You know, the one with the picture of the Puritan on the front."
Jared’s lips quirked and he pulled his cereal in close to him. "Is there any blood?"
"Not with oats." Sam leaned in closer so he could whisper. "But Lucky Charms are another story. Those leprechauns are fighters."
Alice choked on her orange juice, splattering droplets on the table. Emily pounded on her back for a moment, but Alice waved her away, wiping her mouth with a napkin. Sam politely looked away and went back to eating his cereal, which somehow didn’t taste as bad anymore.
Jared took a few bites. "It’s kind of gross, Dad."
Sam looked at Emily. "Remember when Jared was a baby? You used to spoon the cereal into his mouth while making airplane noises." He winked at her. "Maybe you should try that again."
"Yeah right." Jared sounded annoyed, but the corners of his mouth turned up.
Emily and Alice kept looking at him oddly. Sam knew he wasn’t acting like his usual self, but before too long the medication would wear off, and he’d be fine again. Then they could go back to scowling at him.
Emily stood and reached for Sam’s now empty bowl. "Jared, your father was at the hospital last night."
He glanced at his mom, then Sam. "Why?"
"He had chest pain."
Jared’s eyes widened.
"Don’t worry, I’m fine. I think it was heartburn."
Jared gazed at him a moment longer, then shrugged and bent his head, but not before Sam saw the fear in his eyes. Sam’s chest tightened. Maybe the kid cared after all.
In the sudden silence, the neighbor’s dog started barking wildly. Sam scowled, or at least he tried to, but his mellow attitude wouldn’t allow it.
Jared glanced at the back door. "So, Dad." He hesitated a moment, then stuck out his chin. "Maybe we need a hunting dog to go with us." He glanced at Sam, then, seeming to lose courage, ducked his head. "You know, hunting for oats."
Immediately the fun went out of the morning. "You know how I feel about dogs. I don’t like the mess." He nodded toward the back door. "Or the noise." He spoke softly, none of the irritation he felt showing in his voice.
"But Dad..."
"I’m sorry, but no. The reason is--"
"Forget it." Giving Sam a furious glare, Jared got up from the table, grabbed his game and left the room.
Sam watched him go. Emily avoided his gaze, eating her breakfast, while Alice glared at him.
He looked at Emily. "He doesn’t understand. They’re messy, noisy and a lot of upkeep. They’re expensive." Sam turned his gaze to the ice-crusted window for a moment. "And sometimes they die," he said faintly.
"Sam?" Emily spoke softly.
He focused on her worried face, watching her exchange another glance with her mother. He quickly stood. What was wrong with him today? "I think I’ll go watch the game. Thanks for breakfast." Emily nodded, and he could feel her eyes on him as he left.
He drifted into the family room and shoved his hands into his pockets. Why couldn’t Jared just listen to him? He knew what was best for his own kid. Besides, Jared knew how much he hated dogs. After the many times he’d called the police on the neighbors about the barking, Jared should know better than to ask. One thing was for sure. The kid had good instincts. The minute Sam mellowed, Jared sensed it and moved in for the kill.
Sam sat in his favorite maroon recliner, picked up the remote and clicked on the TV. He flipped stations until he found the one he wanted. It was ten minutes until the pre-game show started. He retrieved the crossword puzzle he’d been working on earlier and settled more deeply into his chair. A moment later, Sam looked up as he heard Alice come into the room.
She held out the portable phone. "It’s for you."
"Thanks." He gave her a smile, which had her shaking her head as she left. He lowered the volume the TV. "Hello?"
"Sam Pierson?"
"Yes."
"This is Dr. Adams. I examined you last night. I
understand you wanted me to contact you. Is there a problem?"
The quick, precise voice brought a picture of the young doctor to Sam’s mind. He sounded a lot older on the phone than he appeared in person.
"Yes. I was wondering when the medication you gave me last night would wear off?"
"Medication? I don’t believe you had anything other than an IV, Mr. Pierson. Are you saying you received some sort of medication last night?"
Sam stood up and paced across the room. "Well, no, I just assumed there was something in the IV"
"No. Nothing. Are you experiencing symptoms of some sort? Are you in pain?"
"No." Sam thought about the cigarettes. The Cocoa Puffs. The relaxed way he’d acted with everyone. Fear lanced its way through his body. Something was wrong with him.
"Mr. Pierson?"
Sam realized he was still holding the phone. "I’m here." He took a deep, shuddering breath. Symptoms? What was he supposed to say? I’m being too nice to my family? "The cigarettes and Cocoa Puffs."
"What?"
Sam realized he’d spoken out loud. "The cigarettes and Cocoa Puffs tasted funny. I choked. Something was wrong with them." He wasn’t making any sense.
"Mr. Pierson. Are you telling me that after I specifically warned you against smoking, and after I told you to eat a healthy diet, you made both smoking and sugar cereal part of your intake?"
Sam started to laugh, and he tried to ignore the hysterical edge he heard. He was being chewed out by a doctor who looked fourteen, for something he’d tried to do, but couldn’t. And what he was really worried about he couldn’t figure out how to put into words.
"Mr. Pierson, it’s your health. If you think it’s funny to take risks with it then there is nothing I can do for you. I suggest you follow my recommendations. Eat right, exercise, and stop smoking. You’ll live longer. Is there anything else?"
Sam’s humor dried up, leaving dread in its place. His hand clenched tightly on the phone. "Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your time. I didn’t actually eat the cereal or smoke. I had oatmeal for breakfast. It’s just that I tried to, then didn’t. You’re sure I wasn’t given any medication?"
"Positive. So, you started to smoke and eat sugar cereal, then didn’t?" Dr. Adams sounded confused.
"Yes."
"Well, I don’t think anything is wrong with you. It sounds like your common sense kicked in."
"I also woke up at five this morning."
"And?"
"I never wake up that early. And I had a very late night last night."
"Everyone suffers from insomnia on occasion. It’s nothing unusual. If it persists, see your regular doctor. Anything else?"
"You’re sure I didn’t have any medication?"
"Yes, I’m certain. You are most likely experiencing fear over your physical condition. It’s a perfectly normal reaction. Stress shows itself in a variety of ways."
"Okay. Thanks for calling me back." He pushed the off button on the phone and set it on the end table, then sank onto his chair. No medication. So what was happening to him?
Emily looked into the room. "Is everything all right?"
He smiled at her. "Fine."
She smiled uncertainly. "Okay. Do you want a drink or anything?"
"Sure, thanks. Just water." He picked up the remote control. "Could you please tell Jared the Rose Bowl pre-game is about to start?"
"I’ll tell him."
Seconds later he could hear her soft tread on the stairs. He turned up the television and stared without seeing anything.
What was happening to him? Could it be as simple as stress? He’d just finished writing his history text a couple of weeks ago. It had taken a lot out of him. And last night hadn’t helped. Most likely it was just lack of sleep.
He sighed. He’d probably be fine tomorrow. A good eight hours of sleep and then he’d be back to normal. After the game, he’d take a nap.
Turning his head, he watched as Jared came reluctantly into the room, Emily pushing him slightly from behind.
Sam tensed. The last thing he needed was to watch a football game with a spoiled kid who didn’t even value his good fortune in having a dad who would take the time to watch a game with him. If Jared couldn’t appreciate it, he could just go and sulk in his room. Sam opened his mouth to tell him to do just that. "Come here, Jared, this will be great."
Sam stopped breathing. What was wrong with him?
