A Kiss in the Dark: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance. Lisa Fox

low humidity. The scent of damp earth carried on the wind from Riverside Park, the trees verdant in her peripheral vision. She marched toward the garage, her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. All around her, people were smiling and strolling, enjoying the day and one another. It was the perfect day for a walk, a picnic, a bottle of wine. Sadly, that was not her day.

      She got the car—something small and foreign and blue that hadn’t been cleaned out by the previous renter. It even lacked a GPS unit, but that hardly mattered. She didn’t need one. She knew where she was going. All too well. She brushed ashes off the seat, climbed in, and put the car in drive.

      The trip out of the city was uneventful, the traffic sparse. In under an hour, she was pulling into the tree-lined drive of the Westview Gardens Guest Homes and selecting a spot in the visitors’ area of the parking lot. A gentle breeze stirred the leafy trees on the campus, birds sang, and elderly people in hospital gowns and robes strolled the winding paths with partners and staff. It was a peaceful place, tranquil, and despite his difficulties, she still felt it was the right place for her father to be. Along with the beautiful setting, they had a nurse practitioner on premises twenty-four hours a day. The staff to patient ratio was outstanding. Everyone had private rooms. If there was a place where he could get better, it would have been here. But despite all the perks, he’d shown no signs of improvement. In fact, everything pointed the opposite way. A lump formed in her throat, and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth to get herself under control. She could not walk in there on the verge of tears. She had to get it together.

      She took a deep breath, exited her car, and entered the administrative building. A puff of air conditioning chilled the sweat she didn’t realize she’d had on her brow. Her shoes squeaked on the waxed linoleum floor as she walked down the short, wood-paneled corridor. She told the young woman at the reception desk her name and then sat on one of the plush, floral-printed sofas to wait for Andrea Wilcox to retrieve her.

      She picked up a random women’s magazine and had barely gotten through a thought-provoking article on the proper way to apply eye shadow when a familiar voice interrupted her reading.

      “Hello, Ms. Betancourt,” Andrea Wilcox said, standing over her. She was an efficient woman in a sensible pants suit, her light-brown hair pulled back in a tight, non-nonsense bun. She looked exactly the same as she had the first time Grace met her, almost two years ago when she’d admitted her father.

      Grace stood up and took her hand. “Hello, Ms. Wilcox. How is he doing?”

      “He’s fine. Of course, we’re monitoring him closely, but there’s no need for concern. It was just a minor bump.” The woman smiled. “Let’s go to my office and we’ll discuss some of the changes we’d like to implement for your father in the future.”

      Grace nodded, and Ms. Wilcox led the way past reception, into the right wing of the building. They entered an office at the end of the hallway, featuring a view of the grounds. Certificates and commendations lined one wall, family photos on the other. Grace did not look at any of them closely, her gaze was focused on the center of the large wooden desk, and her father’s chart sitting in the middle.

      Ms. Wilcox sat in her executive leather chair, put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and opened the folder. She studied whatever was written in there for a few seconds and then looked up at Grace. “I’m afraid your father’s condition is deteriorating faster than we’d hoped. We are concerned, but optimistic. However, some aspects of his care will have to change.”

      “How did he fall?” Condition. Deteriorating. She couldn’t process the words, didn’t want to. It was easier to focus on something small, something she could handle.

      “Unfortunately, he is showing signs of apraxia. He was on his way to the bathroom, and it appears he momentarily forgot how to walk.” She glanced at the file again. “Your father is going to require additional assistance in his daily living. His bathing routine for instance must change drastically in order to fit his current needs.”

      Grace’s heart hurt. This disease was the worst thing ever—far worse than even death. “What do you need me to do?”

      Ms. Wilcox met Grace’s gaze, her expression sympathetic. “I know this is disheartening, but have hope. Your father is in the best care possible, Ms. Betancourt. We will do everything we can to keep him comfortable and safe.” She removed a stapled pile of papers from the file and placed them on the desk in front of Grace. “Here are our revised plans. Look them over. We just need your signature to begin implementation.” She stood up and walked to Grace’s side. “I’ll give you a few minutes to review them. Would you like coffee or anything?”