Morgan grinned. It was funny how a little domestic bliss made matchmakers of even the most stalwart former bachelors. Brooks shook his head grimly.
“Don’t get any ideas. She’s the very last woman on the face of the earth I’d get involved with.”
“And why is that?”
Brooks looked his friend in the eye and tossed aside his medical ethics. “She has a brain tumor.”
The nascent spark of hope there swiftly died. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry.”
“She’s not Brigitte,” Brooks said softly. “It’s not like that. Well, Eva is refusing treatment for some reason, but it’s not my problem, and it’s not going to be.”
“No, of course, it isn’t,” Morgan rushed to say. “No one would expect—”
“She’s just passing through,” Brooks broke in. “She’s not my problem.”
“That’s right,” Morgan agreed, frowning uncertainly.
Brooks nodded. “Well, I have a busy day tomorrow. Give Lyla my thanks, and kiss Bri good-night for me.”
“Sure,” Morgan said, opening the door, “but, Brooks...”
“Yeah?”
“You could kiss Bri good-night yourself.”
He could, but he wouldn’t. That was a dad’s job. Brooks clapped his friend on the upper arm as he slid through the door. “Sleep well.”
“You, too.”
Brooks flashed Morgan a wave as he hurried to his waiting car. He thought of the cold, dark house waiting for him, and as he drove away from Morgan’s warm, comfortable home, he tried not to feel sorry for himself. He’d had his time in the sun. He’d won the girl and made the most of what they’d been given. He had no regrets on that score. But now, sixteen years later, he could be forgiven for a touch of melancholy, couldn’t he?
It would pass. Somehow, he couldn’t help thinking that it would pass just as soon as Eva Russell left town. Somehow he knew he’d feel better again once she had gone on her way. Then things could get back to normal.
Why normal had recently begun to feel less than satisfactory, he did not know or want to.
* * *
The room, if it could be called that, was downright luxurious, from the thick, cream-colored carpet underfoot to the royal blue velvet sofa and chairs in the sitting area and the cream-painted wood paneling. The bed furniture looked to be Empire-style, unless Eva missed her guess. Whatever the period, it was the real deal—no reproductions here. Sky-blue velvet curtains trimmed in heavy gold cording and fringe adorned the windows, with white on cream in the bathroom, gold fittings and sea-green towels. Vases of vibrant coral roses shocked the senses and perfumed the air, their color picked up in the subtle paintings on the walls. Over the stately fireplace hung a thoroughly modern flat-screen television.
Magnolia Chatam invited Eva to run a hot bath in the jetted tub and went out to find an extra nightgown for her. Deciding to take her up on the offer, Eva gingerly pulled up her hair and piled it atop her head. The blood had been rinsed out of it when the wound had been cleansed, but it could use a good scrubbing. That, however, would have to wait until her stitches came out. She began to disrobe, removing her scarves one by one and folding them carefully. Who knew how long she would have to wear the things?
She was down to her leggings and turtleneck when Magnolia returned with a voluminous cotton gown and a flannel robe that might have been fashionable in the 1920s.
“So you’ve always tried to look hideous,” Eva surmised, realizing she’d spoken aloud only when she heard the other woman’s gasp. “Oh, I said that, didn’t I? Maybe I do need the speech police.” She folded the flannel robe against her and made a face. “Sorry.”
Magnolia rolled her eyes, but then a reluctant smile tugged at her pursed lips. “Convenient thing, this brain tumor of yours. I’ve often wished for an unassailable reason to speak my mind.”
“Always has to be an up side,” Eva said. “That’s what I told my ex when I caught him in bed with another woman.”
Magnolia drew back, obviously horrified. “Oh, my. What possible ‘up side’ could there be to that?”
Eva almost said, “No custody battle.” Instead she quipped, “The prenup was nullified, for one thing.”
Magnolia blinked. “Well, I guess that was something.”
“Would’ve been if he hadn’t blown everything on bad investments,” Eva told her offhandedly. “Anyway, thanks for the nightclothes. Doc says we’ll get my own things from the van tomorrow.”
“The, ah, robe was my father’s,” Magnolia confessed.
“Yeah?” Eva held up the striped flannel garment and really looked at it.
“I often wear his things,” Magnola said, lifting her chin. “I hate waste, and they suit me far better than silks and bows.”
Eva smiled at the older woman. “Okay. I can get with that.” She glanced at the nightgown and said, “I don’t suppose you have any of his pajamas, do you?”
Magnolia chuckled. “I’ll fetch you a pair.”
“You’re a peach,” Eva told her. “Just leave them on the bed. I’m getting in that tub.”
“Fine,” Magnolia agreed. “I’ve had the kitchen send up a tray for you. You’ll find it in the dumbwaiter out on the landing when you’re ready for it.”
“You’re kidding,” Eva gushed. “That’s super! Thanks.” She wrinkled her nose and asked, “Tea?”
“Apple cider,” Magnolia assured her.
Eva threw back her head in grateful glee, then grabbed it as a sharp pain burned her scalp. “That’s wonderful. I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Her hostess stilled, hands folded. “That, my dear, is something we need to discuss.”
Eva heaved out a deep breath. “Look,” she said, letting her hands fall to her sides, “I’ve heard it all before. Christ on the cross. God is love, answering our prayers, if we’re good little girls. It’s all malarkey.”
Magnolia shook her wizened head. “Oh, child, what has happened to make you think such things?”
“Hmm, let’s see.” Eva ticked off the issues on her fingers. “A father I never knew. A mother and a sister who both died of cancer. A lying cheat of a husband. Oh, and a tumor in my head slowly killing me. Let’s see, did I forget the aunt who took a strap to my backside every time I turned around then gave our food money to the church? Yeah, give me some more of that.”
Magnolia looked positively stricken. For a moment, Eva thought the old woman might cry, but then she blinked, stiffened her already straight spine and said, “I blame your mother for your brain tumor.”
Eva literally reeled backward. “What?”
“I blame her for your terrible taste in men.”
Gaping, Eva sputtered, “H-how dare you!”
“I could even blame her for your sister’s cancer. It’s often hereditary, after all.”
Blazingly angry, Eva fisted her hands, a vein throbbing painfully in her head. “That’s not fair! You take that back!”
“But you blame God for the failures of His children and the problems of a fallen world,” Magnolia pointed out, shrugging.
Eva’s eyes narrowed, and some of her anger