“It is with great sadness we inform you that your birth father, Jeffrey Morgan McAfee, has passed away from Huntington’s disease …”
She tossed the letter on the table, closing her eyes and taking a seat. She hadn’t misread it. With elbows planted firmly on the worn walnut surface, she dropped her head into her hands and did something she rarely allowed: she felt sorry for herself.
“We recommend you meet with a genetic counselor and set up a blood test …”
She’d never known her father, her mother had never spoken of him, and this had been one hell of an introduction. She’d called her mother to verify her father’s name last night, but had only got her message machine. Then later, Mom had called back to break the bad news. He was, in fact, her father. That’s all she’d said, but Kasey intended to get the whole story one day soon.
“Did he leave you anything in his will?” So like Mom. Always looking for a free ride and never coming close to finding one.
“Yeah, Mom, one doozy of an inheritance …”
Kasey wouldn’t wish the progressive, degenerative disease on anyone, yet with her birth father having and dying from it, she had a fifty percent chance of developing Huntington’s. And once the symptoms began, if they began, which was a mind-wrenching thought in itself, there would be a tortured journey of wasting nerve cells, decreased cognition, Parkinson’s-type rigidity and myriad other health issues until it took her life.
At least Mom had apologized, but how could a person make up for sleeping with the wrong guy, getting pregnant, and never seeing him again? Actions and consequences had never really figured into her mother’s style of living.
She couldn’t dwell on the disease. There was no point. While removing her head from her hands, her stomach protested, reminding her it had been hours since she’d eaten. She either carried the marker or she didn’t, the ticking clock had already been set or it hadn’t. Thinking how her ignorance had been bliss all these years, she had no control over anything, and now her life must go on just as it had before the letter had arrived.
She stood, losing her footing and having to grab the table for balance. Could it be an early symptom? Her throat went dry. Hadn’t she been bumping into things more recently? She shook her head, scolding herself. She’d always been clumsy, especially when she rushed, and she rushed all the time at work. There was no need to second-guess every misstep. She needed to eat, that was all.
And if she wanted peace of mind, all she needed to do was make an appointment and have a blood test and find out, once and for all, if she carried the defective gene. Be done with it or face it head on.
She’d been drawing blood from patients for years, never thought twice about having her own lab work done. Not since a kid had the thought of a laboratory test sent an icy chill of fear down her spine. Until today. What would she do if she had Huntington’s? She tightened her jaw and stood straighter. If she had the disease, she’d just have to make the most of each day … until the symptoms began, and even then, she promised to live life to the fullest for as long as she was physically able.
Though her stomach growled a second time, she’d just lost her appetite.
CHAPTER TWO
FRIDAY night, hidden in a booth and lost in the noise of the local Pub, Kasey took another sip of her beer. She’d asked Vincent to join her for dinner, her treat, hoping to work up the nerve to tell him her troubles. So far they’d each had a deli sandwich, hers the chicken breast, his the beef dip, and they’d shared a Caesar salad. Vincent had just ordered a second round of beer, yet she still hadn’t broached the subject etched in her genes and squeezing her heart.
“O. M. G., look!” Vincent pointed to the bar with the neck of his low-calorie beer bottle. “It’s him, Dr. Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous.”
Kasey almost choked on her drink when her eyes focused on the broad shoulders covered in a well-cut jacket, and the trim hips and jeans-clad legs. Though from Vincent’s perspective Dr. Finch might be, she wouldn’t go so far as to call him tall, but somewhere more in the vicinity of five eleven or so. Why split hairs, when the conclusion was the same? The man was a hunk.
Speaking of hair, and since she was now officially living her life for the moment, waves like those gave her the urge to run her fingers through them, just to see how they felt. She glanced at Vincent and realized he was probably thinking the same thing, and it made her blurt out a laugh. They shared the same taste in men. Where Jared Finch might possess superb physical traits, he sorely lacked both personality and charm, going from the short encounter she’d had with him. Looks could only take a man so far in her opinion. Maybe she wasn’t the only person in the world with problems? Kasey continued to glance toward the bar, intrigued.
“I wonder what he’s doing here,” she said.
“Well, duh, drinking!” Vincent reached across the booth table and patted her hands. “He must be human, just like us. Isn’t that sweet?”
Vincent had been teased mercilessly all his life about his carrot-top hair, which he now kept meticulously combed and perfectly spiked, resembling a torch on top. If the red hair didn’t set him apart, his alabaster-white skin dotted with free-flowing freckles sealed the deal when combined with his fastidious style of dress and precise mannerisms. He’d survived a tough childhood and now lived life exactly as he pleased. As a result he owned the sweetest content smile on the planet. Right now he shared that smile with Kasey. Sparkles beamed from his eyes—even in the darkened pub Kasey could see them—as he watched Jared standing at the bar, hoisting a mug, taking a swig and watching the Red Sox on the big screen.
“I don’t think he’s with anyone,” Vincent said. “I’m going to invite him over.” He shot out of the booth and zigzagged through the crowd before Kasey had a chance to stop him.
“Don’t do that!” she said, her voice overpowered by piped-in Irish rock music as he was halfway across the bar. “I need to talk to you … tell you my horrible news. And that guy’s a real pill.”
Biting her lips, she refused to watch Vincent. Instead, she cringed, took another drink of her beer and hoped Dr. Finch had a short memory. Or that he thought Vincent was too forward and invading his privacy and refused to associate with subordinates. That would suit his attitude.
Unable to stand the suspense, she glanced from the corner of her eye toward the bar. Damn, the men were both headed for the booth. She sat straighter and fussed with her bangs, then wished she hadn’t left her hair in the French braid tucked under at her nape. They’d come here straight from work, and a whole lot of hair had escaped since that morning, judging by the tendrils tickling her neck. She must look a mess, and what had been completely acceptable for spending time with Vincent would now fail miserably for making an impression on Vincent’s Dr. Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous. Why should she care?
Catching an errant strand of hair and tucking it behind her ear, another pang of anxiety got her attention. What the heck was she supposed to talk about? The plan had been to wine and dine Vincent, then tell him her woes, not have a social encounter with an aloof plastic surgeon. She hated it when her plans didn’t work out.
When Jared arrived at the booth, his tentative smile made her suspicious he’d had a drink or two already, since friendliness hadn’t been his strong suit at the clinic. “Hi,” he said. “I was just on my way out when Vinnie caught me.”
Vincent preened in the background over his job well done.
“Hi, Dr. Finch, what are you doing here?” she said, ignoring her gloating friend and cringing over the lame question.
“Having a drink—what else?” He pinched his brows together and glanced around the pub just as a group of three waiters broke into song at the booth next to theirs. They sang “Happy birthday” to a young woman who didn’t look a day over sixteen, though they served her a fancy umbrella drink with a flaming candle in it, so she had to be