The Rescuer. Ellen James

Alex said. “Actually he hasn’t.”

      Herb glanced at Colin disapprovingly. “Thomas fought in Vietnam. Pilot, decorated for bravery. Irony was that he made it through all that...and then he died in a car crash. He was only thirty years old.”

      “I’m sorry,” Alex said.

      Herb nodded. Even now, over twenty-five years since his son’s death, the pain was etched into his face. “Worst moment of my life,” he said in a low voice. “Worst moment for all of us. I’ve never stopped wishing him back.”

      The phrases were timeworn, but they always gave Herb comfort. Some people refused to speak about their dead loved ones. Not Herb. He talked about Thomas as if somehow, someday, the words would conjure his son back.

      Now he took the photograph from Alex and examined it as if he hadn’t already seen it countless times. “Jessie...Colin’s mom. Nice girl—even if she was a little meek for somebody like Thomas. Surprised us all, though. After he died, she remarried.”

      Colin had to restrain himself from speaking. Herb made it sound like she’d run out three weeks after the funeral and got herself hitched. She hadn’t remarried until five years later.

      “Can’t understand why she picked somebody like Mack Pearson. No comparison to Thomas,” Herb said.

      Colin couldn’t let his grandfather get away with any more. “Nothing wrong with Mack.”

      Herb was about to argue, but Alex intervened. “Does your mom still live in Sobriety?” she asked Colin.

      “No. I left town when I was eighteen. She and Mack left the year after that. They settled in Tacoma.”

      “Pearson sells cars,” Herb said disparagingly.

      He didn’t mention that Mack owned the dealership. And he never seemed to realize that his own son might have ended up doing something as ordinary as selling cars...if he’d lived. Thomas was forever frozen in time as someone young and bright and courageous. An image impossible to dim.

      Alex moved around the room. She picked up another photo, got Herb on the more neutral subject of his ex-wife. She was handling the McIntyre men very adeptly, it seemed. Even Sean was still there, hunched in his chair. Maybe he was no more animated than a stump, but his presence made for a refreshing change.

      So why didn’t inviting Alex for a McIntyre family dinner seem like such a good idea after all?

      

      ALEX SLEPT FITFULLY that night. Every few hours or so, she awoke feeling groggy and out of sorts. She couldn’t say why she felt so restless. She’d actually enjoyed her evening. Having Colin’s grandfather and son around had lessened her awareness of Colin. Hadn’t eliminated it—she’d still been uncomfortably aware of his gaze upon her—but with his family there, he hadn’t been able to flirt with her shamelessly the way he usually did.

      At last Alex fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. And then she dreamed. Flames surged up around her, eerily orange-red. Not the flames she’d seen on the video screen—no, flames right here in the room. They trapped her, licking at the edges of the bed. She couldn’t move. The smoke choked her lungs, and she had to gasp for air. She was frightened. So very frightened. She began to weep.

      She woke up with a start, her skin clammy, her pulse racing. The dream had been so real that she glanced around wildly, half expecting to see fire engulfing her. But there was only darkness and the cool nighttime air coming through the open window. Alex pressed a hand to her face. The tears she’d wept in the dream had felt real, too, but her cheeks were dry. It had only been a dream.

      “A nightmare,” Alex whispered. She reached over and switched on the lamp. She’d stayed at this small bed-and-breakfast only a few days, yet already the room’s details were comfortingly familiar: the wicker dressing table with the ruffled skirt, the pine whatnot cabinet, wallpaper in a pattern of violet sprigs. The decor was too consciously quaint for Alex’s taste, but right now she welcomed the cozy frilliness that surrounded her.

      She realized that she was shivering. Slipping into her robe, she went to the window and shut it. Then she did something she often advised her patients to do. She took her notepad, flipped to a blank page and began jotting down everything she could remember about the nightmare. Her fingers trembled alarmingly, but she pushed on. At last she set aside the notepad, pulled up the blanket and eased her head back against the pillow. She did something else she recommended to her patients: took some deep, slow breaths. Then she turned off the light, closed her eyes and ordered herself back to sleep.