The problem was Ramona had started to walk out at the same moment that he did. They found themselves together in the doorway; their bodies wound up brushing up against one another. A host of shock waves seemed to travel right through Paul, and he pulled back instantly as if propelled by a live wire.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized quickly, hoping that she didn’t think he’d done that on purpose. Had he been Derek, he realized, he probably would have—and then smoothed it over with his golden tongue.
Something else they didn’t have in common.
Incredibly, her smile seemed to widen even more and there was a hint of laughter in her eyes as she absolved him of all blame.
“That’s all right,” she assured him as if she realized it had been an accident on his part. “And for the record, I don’t bite.”
Even though he opened his mouth to respond, Paul had no comeback for that. His mind had gone completely blank in the face of her smile. He was really going to have to work on that, he chided himself
Mumbling “Tomorrow,” Paul hurried down the hall to his other office, grateful that he could retreat somewhere.
Ramona stood in his doorway for a moment longer, watching the quietest member of the Armstrong tribunal disappear down the corridor. She wasn’t really sure what to make of Dr. Paul Armstrong. If she didn’t know any better, she would have said that the man seemed almost sweet. But that wasn’t possible, not given the overall circumstances.
One thing she did know was that Dr. Paul Armstrong was going to be the subject of some heavy Internet research tonight.
Time was that after she’d put in a full day’s work, she’d head for her cozy little apartment, eager to enjoy a little well-deserved solitude. Dinner most likely would be something she’d have delivered. She’d wind up consuming it while sitting on her chocolate-colored sofa—purchased expressly to hide a multitude of sins, otherwise known as indelible stains—and channel surfing. It was her way of unwinding.
But these days, her own gratification, not to mention rest, was usually postponed, if not put on hold altogether. Instead, she would wind up swinging by the house where she had grown up. The house where her mother still lived.
The key phrase here, Ramona thought, changing lanes to pass a slow-moving SUV, being “still lived.”
Ramona became aware that her grip on the steering wheel had tightened and she forced herself to loosen it—while still keeping a grip on her fragile emotions.
Once upon a time, not all that long ago, she’d been so eager to make her own way, find her own path in the world. But even as she did, she was very aware of the solid foundation she had in her life. Aware that if ever anything went wrong, or she needed a haven, she had her mother, someone who would always be there for her. Always. And if everything was falling apart around her, her mother could always make her feel that it was going to be all right.
Until now.
The threat of mortality, of death always hovering in the background, an invisible wraith that had the power to steal absolutely everything from her, was now ever present.
Ramona knew it was childish, but even so, on some level she felt that she could stave off the threat of her mother’s demise for another day if she just swung by the house and saw her for a little while in the evening. Some nights, “a little while” stretched out into the wee hours of the morning. At other times, she didn’t bother going home at all, crashing in her old room instead.
Turning onto her mother’s street, Ramona was aware that she was once again holding her breath, the way she did now every time she came. She only released it after a swift scan of the surrounding area told her that there was no ambulance parked nearby, no paramedics rushing in or out of the New England–style house that, according to family legend, her mother had fallen in love with thirty-five years ago.
All clear, Ramona thought, pulling up onto the recently repaved driveway.
Taking a moment to collect her things—her purse and the state-of-the-art laptop that went just about everywhere with her—Ramona got out and locked her vehicle, then made her way to the front door.
She paused, juggling purse and briefcase, searching for the keys that habit always had her dropping into her purse the moment she took them out of the ignition. She knew she should just hold the keys in her hand, but that never seemed to happen. She always wound up playing a frustrating game of hide-and-seek in front of the door before locating her keys.
This time, Ramona didn’t have to. The front door opened before she could pull her keys out of her purse again.
Katherine Tate, or what was left of her these days, stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorjamb to support herself. There was a slight smile on her lips as she looked at her daughter fondly.
“I thought I heard your car pull up.” A tiny “yip” had her mother amending her words. “Actually, Roxy was the one who heard you pull up,” she confessed, referring to the tiny, energized mix-breed puppy that was all but tap-dancing behind her, trying to get at Ramona. “How she can tell your car apart from all the others that pass by, I have absolutely no idea. But she’s never wrong.” Placing her very thin hand on her daughter’s shoulder to anchor herself, the five-foot-two woman stood up on her toes in order to press a kiss on Ramona’s cheek. “How’s my famous undercover daughter doing?”
Shifting her briefcase to the same side as her purse, Ramona linked her free arm through her mother’s as if they were just two carefree girlfriends, walking and chatting, instead of a daughter who was attempting to unobtrusively guide her mother back inside the house.
“That’s a contradiction in terms, Mom. If I was famous, I couldn’t get away with being undercover. I’d be recognized immediately.” With a wink she pointed out, “I’d rather be good than famous.”
“To me you’re both,” Katherine declared with great feeling.
Ramona beamed at her mother, biting back a wave of fear. Life couldn’t go on if anything happened to her mother, she thought.
Hear that, God? You can’t have her. I need her too much.
“I can always count on you to pick up my spirits,” Ramona said to her mother. Roxy eagerly scurried back and forth. It was the dog’s way of showing she was happy to see her.
“Why?” Katherine asked, slipping her arm out and shutting the door behind them as they walked in. She flipped the lock into place then slowly turned around to face her again. “Do your spirits need picking up?”
They did, but only because seeing her mother like this, a shell of her former vibrant, youthful self, was always a shock to her system for the first few minutes. She didn’t know why she expected her to look exactly the way she had a little over six months ago. Probably because she still liked to believe in miracles and secretly prayed that one would occur in the hours that she was away from the house and her mother.
But the miracle just didn’t happen.
It will. As soon as I find who your eggs went to, Mom, it will, she silently promised.
“Just a tough day,” she said, knowing Katherine expected some kind of response. Ramona attributed her own success as an investigative reporter as something that came naturally to her thanks to her mother, who would approach a subject from an endless multitude of angles until she got what she was after. Surrendering or giving up were never considered options.
Ramona was aware that her mother’s breathing was becoming labored. It took very few steps to tire her out these days. Katherine sank down on the sofa in the living room. Roxy instantly hopped onto the seat beside her mistress. Smiling wearily at the dog, she stroked it as she looked at her and asked, “Where is it again that you’re pretending to work?”