of him and kiss her senseless.
Darcy’s chin came up, determination written in every rigid line of her jaw. “Today was a mistake. I’m not going to let this go on, because I couldn’t stand it if something even worse than this—” she waved at his bed “—happened to you because of me.”
“I’m willing to risk it.”
“I’m not.” She stepped back again, nearly knocking over an IV pole. “I’m taking care of the bill. Goodbye, Michael.”
“No!”
She gave him a tremulous smile, then turned abruptly.
“Darcy, wait!” he cried, sitting up. Vertigo overwhelmed him, and he had to grip his head to try to ease the nauseating dizziness. When he finally got it under control, he looked up. Darcy was gone.
A devastating, not to mention surprising, sense of loss made him fall back on the pillow, holding his head.
“This isn’t over, Darcy,” he said to the empty room. “Not by a long shot.”
8
Darcy found the number she needed from the phone book and jabbed it into her cordless.
“Country Village Nursing Home,” a woman answered on the first ring.
“Yes,” Darcy said, glancing around her apartment and scowling. “I was wondering. Do you take donations?”
“Monetary donations?”
“Not exactly.” She scowled again. “More like donations of plants, flowers, that kind of thing.”
“Well, now, that’s a rather . . . unusual question.”
Darcy batted aside a palm as she paced her living room. “I have an . . . abundance of plants at the moment. I thought it would be nice if someone else enjoyed them.”
“Well, isn’t that thoughtful? If you bring them by, I’m sure our residents will enjoy them.”
“Good. I’ll get them there soon.” She looked into her dining room. “I don’t suppose anyone would want a few helium balloons?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”
The doorbell rang. Again.
Sighing, Darcy hung up the phone and went to the door, looking through the peephole. Sure enough, another delivery boy. This one was dressed as a bellhop. She pulled a couple of one-dollar bills from her jeans pocket—money she’d learned to have at the ready at all times lately—and opened the door.
A goofy-looking young man with big ears grinned up at her. Darcy cocked her head. The kid had nothing but an envelope in his hand.
To her simultaneous astonishment and embarrassment, he dropped dramatically to one knee, whipped a card from the envelope, then placed a hand over his heart as he read the message.
“A message from Michael Davidson. ‘Darcy—I lost you before I had a chance to win you. Please give me one more chance. Listen carefully to the words of this song. Please, Darcy, let it be.’”
Then, to her utter mortification, the kid started belting out a particularly bad rendition of the old Beatles tune.
Doors started popping open up and down the hall, as her neighbors tried to determine the source of the caterwauling. If there was any possible way Darcy could make herself disappear, she’d have done it there and then.
Somewhere to her right, a dog howled.
She’d never realized before just how very long the song was. Either that, or the kid was milking it, now that he had an audience. She hated to tell him, but she didn’t think this audition would win him any additional jobs.
About a decade later, the boy finally wrapped up the song with a flourish, standing and bowing deeply. Darcy plastered a smile on her face and forced herself to clap, all the while plotting Michael Davidson’s imminent demise.
She started to hand the boy his tip, but suddenly an arm—a suit-coat-covered arm—reached out from somewhere to the left of the door and handed the kid a twenty. The kid looked at the bill, eyes wide. His face split in a crooked grin, he snatched the bill and disappeared.
Hands on hips, she waited for the rest of the body attached to that arm to appear. She didn’t have to wait long.
He stepped in front of her, a determined scowl on his face that did
Darcy’s chin came up, determination written in every rigid line of her jaw. “Today was a mistake. I’m not going to let this go on, because I couldn’t stand it if something even worse than this—” she waved at his bed “—happened to you because of me.”
“I’m willing to risk it.”
“I’m not.” She stepped back again, nearly knocking over an IV pole. “I’m taking care of the bill. Goodbye, Michael.”
“No!”
She gave him a tremulous smile, then turned abruptly.
“Darcy, wait!” he cried, sitting up. Vertigo overwhelmed him, and he had to grip his head to try to ease the nauseating dizziness. When he finally got it under control, he looked up. Darcy was gone.
A devastating, not to mention surprising, sense of loss made him fall back on the pillow, holding his head.
“This isn’t over, Darcy,” he said to the empty room. “Not by a long shot.”
8
Darcy found the number she needed from the phone book and jabbed it into her cordless.
“Country Village Nursing Home,” a woman answered on the first ring.
“Yes,” Darcy said, glancing around her apartment and scowling. “I was wondering. Do you take donations?”
“Monetary donations?”
“Not exactly.” She scowled again. “More like donations of plants, flowers, that kind of thing.”
“Well, now, that’s a rather . . . unusual question.”
Darcy batted aside a palm as she paced her living room. “I have an . . . abundance of plants at the moment. I thought it would be nice if someone else enjoyed them.”
“Well, isn’t that thoughtful? If you bring them by, I’m sure our residents will enjoy them.”
“Good. I’ll get them there soon.” She looked into her dining room. “I don’t suppose anyone would want a few helium balloons?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”
The doorbell rang. Again.
Sighing, Darcy hung up the phone and went to the door, looking through the peephole. Sure enough, another delivery boy. This one was dressed as a bellhop. She pulled a couple of one-dollar bills from her jeans pocket—money she’d learned to have at the ready at all times lately—and opened the door.
A goofy-looking young man with big ears grinned up at her. Darcy cocked her head. The kid had nothing but an envelope in his hand.
To her simultaneous astonishment and embarrassment, he dropped dramatically to one knee, whipped a card from the envelope, then placed a hand over his heart as he read the message.
“A message from Michael Davidson. ‘Darcy—I lost you before I had a chance to win you. Please give me one more chance. Listen carefully to the words of this song. Please, Darcy, let it be.’”
Then, to her utter mortification, the kid started belting out a particularly bad rendition of the old Beatles tune.
Doors started popping open up and down the hall, as her neighbors tried to determine the source of the caterwauling. If there was any possible way Darcy could make herself disappear, she’d have done it there and then.
Somewhere to her right, a dog howled.
She’d never realized before just how very long the song was. Either that, or the kid was milking it, now that he had an audience. She hated to tell him, but she didn’t think this audition would win him any additional jobs.
About a decade later, the boy finally wrapped up the song with a flourish, standing and bowing deeply. Darcy plastered a smile on her face and forced herself to clap, all the while plotting Michael Davidson’s imminent demise.
She started to hand the boy his tip, but suddenly an arm—a suit-coat-covered arm—reached out from somewhere to the left of the door and handed the kid a twenty. The kid looked at the bill, eyes wide. His face split in a crooked grin, he snatched the bill and disappeared.
Hands on hips, she waited for the rest of the body attached to that arm to appear. She didn’t have to wait long.
He stepped in front of her, a determined scowl on his face that did
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