Juan shoved his bulk onto the seat beside Patrice. “Four years ago,” he continued, slinging an arm over her shoulders, “I was a telephone repairman. I was high on a pole when the ol’ ticker gave out. Thank the good Lord for safety harnesses!”
Normally, the Gomezes teased Wade about his exploits. He couldn’t remember a time when either of them had mentioned Juan’s surgery. “Juan,” he began, “Patrice, here has to get back because—”
“Patrice.” Juan faced her. “Pretty girl, pretty name,” he said, beaming. Then he aimed his dark-eyed stare at Wade. “Maybe theese time, you peek a winner?”
Wade covered his eyes with one hand. “Juan—”
“You think because you’re a big-shot doctor you can interrupt an old man’s story?” Another round of rumbling laughter filled the booth. He turned to Patrice again. “As I was saying, I had a heart attack up there, hanging from the telephone pole. And it would have killed me, if not for the good doctor, here.” He reached across the table, squeezed Wade’s forearm. “I thank the good Lord for him every day of my life.”
A moment of silence ticked by before she said, “Maybe I’m the one who picked a winner.”
Was she kidding?
Wade came out of hiding in time to see the merry gleam in her eyes. So she’d decided to play along, he realized as his blush intensified.
Juan held a forefinger aloft. “But you haven’t heard the half of it!”
She tilted her head—a bit flirtatiously, Wade thought.
“There’s more?”
He figured Juan was gearing up to tell her about the loan, and he didn’t want that. Didn’t know why, exactly, he just didn’t. Pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, he tried to think of a way to divert Juan’s attention. He saw Enrique just then, having an animated conversation with a diner. “Looks like your boy could use some help,” Wade said, pointing.
Juan didn’t so much as glance in his son’s direction. “After the operation,” he went on, “I couldn’t go back to climbing poles, and I wasn’t trained to do anything else.” His voice softened. “For as long as I could remember, I took care of my own. Not being able to work was—”
“Juan, enough. You’re—”
“My condition began to worry the good doctor, here. And months after the surgery, after a checkup, he came to our house. I was making soft tacos, he agreed to join us for supper…and he gave me the idea for Mi Casa, right there at our kitchen table.”
Patrice blinked and sighed. If she said “my hero!” like an actress in some B movie, he’d dump the sugar bowl into Juan’s lap.
“We had spent all our savings, keeping the bills up to date while I was out of work. One bill we didn’t have to pay was Dr. Cameron’s. He didn’t charge a penny for his services. What do you think of that, Patrice?”
She looked from Wade to Juan and back again. “I honestly don’t know what to say.”
“Well, what would you say about this. He also gave me the down payment to buy this place.”
Wade could only exhale the breath he’d been holding and shake his head, hoping for the best.
A few seconds ticked by before she said, “I guess I’d have to say you’re right to call him a hero.”
The entire Gomez clan had been calling him that for years. Patients and their families routinely dubbed him a hero, too. His sister’s kids had never said the word, but he could see in their eyes that they thought the world of their Uncle Wade. Despite it all, he hadn’t felt the least bit heroic—until Patrice said it.
But, sure as he was sitting here, looking into her gorgeous face, the truth would come along sooner or later, and change her opinion of him. So for as long as this feeling lasted, Wade decided, he may as well go ahead and enjoy it.
She thought it was charming, the way Wade blushed like a schoolboy under Juan’s obvious admiration. Horse and saddle references aside, she admired him, too. And so Patrice made a concerted effort to ease his discomfort.
She introduced dozens of topics, from the philosophical to the political. The interchange of opinions and ideas taught them they had a lot more in common than Ellicott General. They voted for the same man in the last election, became enraged at the mere mention of flag burning, loved kids and dogs and apple pie.
“Dessert?” Enrique said, rolling the dessert cart to their table. Patrice smiled as Wade rubbed his palms together.
“I’ll take an order of the flan,” he said, grinning. “Patrice, what’ll you have?”
She couldn’t remember her name ever sounding quite so lyrical. “I’m stuffed,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ll just have a bite of yours?”
His grin made her stomach flip and her heart lurch. He turned to the waiter, held up one finger, then two. “One flan, two spoons,” he said. And when Enrique rolled his cart to the next table, Wade blanketed her left hand with his. “You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden. Worried about your dad?”
“Maybe.” With thumb and forefinger, she measured a centimeter of air. “Just a little.”
He gave her hand a gentle pat. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
She nodded. “I know. And I know it’s silly, worrying about him, because he’s really quite capable.”
“Well, we’ll be through here in no time. Then you can see for yourself.”
Another nod. “Thanks, Wade, for understanding.”
He gave a shrug, as if it was no big deal that he’d cued in to her fears…and hadn’t made her feel ridiculous for them, as other men had.
“So how’d it happen?”
Patrice took a sip of her decaf. “Car wreck.”
His hold on her hand tightened slightly.
She’d learned a ton about him tonight; why not even the score a bit?
“It was my fault.”
Silence was his response. She wondered if his caring expression was sincere, or something practiced and mastered in med school. “It was raining that night…teeming is more like it. I wanted to go to a party, and talked him into driving me.”
Patrice tried to wriggle her hand free of his grasp, but Wade wouldn’t allow it. Absently, her right forefinger picked at its neighboring thumbnail. If she were a betting woman, she’d say his concern was genuine. “He slammed the car into a big brick wall after he picked me up from the party. He’s been paralyzed from the waist down ever since.”
He nodded, and she could almost read his mind. No wonder you’re such a devoted daughter—you blame yourself.
“I’m sure you’ve heard this before, hundreds of times, no doubt,” Wade said, “but accidents happen, Patrice.” His hazel eyes darkened and his lips thinned when he added, “Usually, they’re nobody’s fault.”
Usually? The fact that he’d stressed the word made her wonder if Wade blamed himself for an accident in his own past.
“I didn’t have to go out that night, but I didn’t want to miss Marcy’s party.” If she didn’t shut up, and quick, she was going to cry. Why had she opened this Pandora’s box!
“And your dad didn’t have to take you.” He sandwiched her hand between his own. “If you insist on laying blame, lay half of it on his shoulders. You were a kid, he was a grown-up. He made the final decision, after all.”
She shook her head. “Not really. He hadn’t