Riptide

“Nah, I’ll do it.”

“Becca, thank you for telling me about all your mother’s things safely in storage in New York.”

He’d heard her, actually heard her speaking to him. And since he’d heard her speaking to him, just maybe her mother had heard her as well, maybe she did have a final connection with her. “You’re welcome. As I said then, it’s a start.”

“Yes,” Thomas said, smiling up at his daughter. “It’s a very good start.”

Adam was now walking up and down the corridor, ill-tempered, his back throbbing, his arm throbbing, feeling useless, wanting to hit someone because he felt so damned helpless. At least the damned catheter was out.

He was carping and carrying on when Becca laughed and said, “All right, you’ve finally driven me away. My father is doing fine, the pneumonia is kicked, and I’m going to Riptide to see Sam.”

“No,” he said, leaning against the hospital corridor wall, utterly appalled. He wanted to grab her and tuck her under his arm. “I don’t want you going there alone. I don’t trust McBride. I don’t want you out of my sight. I’d really like it if you would sleep in my bed with me and I could hold on to you all night.”

She realized she’d rather like that as well, but she said, “There’s no danger, Adam. How could there be? I’m not going to see Tyler. I’m going to see what’s going on with Sam. Don’t forget, Adam, it’s my fault that Krimakov even took him, my fault that Sam got traumatized. I’ve got to fix it. Tyler has nothing to do with it.”

“Dammit, it was Krimakov’s fault. Give it another couple of days, Becca, and I’ll go with you.”

“Adam, you can barely get to the bathroom by yourself now. You’ll stay here and just concentrate on getting well. Spend time with my father. And maybe you could work on all those church dates as well. None of your family can come to an agreement.”

“Well, are you still going to marry me?”

“Is that your final offer?”

He looked both pissed and chagrined. Suddenly he laughed. “I swear I’ll change that green tile. Do you mind moving from New York, living down here? We’re really close to your dad. Is he going to rebuild?”

“We haven’t discussed it yet. Yes, Adam, I’ll marry you, particularly if you change that bathroom tile. Consider it a done deal. I have no real ties to Albany. Goodness, there are so many folk around here who need good speechwriters. I’ll make a fortune. Now, you can’t flirt with any of the hospital staff anymore, you got that? I’m considering that we’re now officially engaged.

“Ah, good, here’s Hatch. Is that cigarette smoke I smell, Hatch? Adam won’t like that. He’ll probably take a good strip off you for that, maybe hit you with his walker.”

She watched the two men argue, smiling. Sherlock came up behind her and said, “Everything nearly back to normal, I see. Let’s watch CNN. Gaylan Woodhouse is going to be on in about a minute. He’s speaking for the president, and you’re going to love this spin.”

Good grief, she thought, watching the TV, she was now a heroine. Someone, she had no idea who, had somehow taken a photo, very grainy, showing her facing Krimakov on that burning roof, her white nightgown blowing around her legs, her Coonan held in front of her in both hands, pointed straight at Krimakov. Gaylan Woodhouse wouldn’t shut up. “Oh dear,” Becca said. “Oh dear.”

“It’s been a long haul, and you came through,” Sherlock said, and hugged her tightly. “I’m really glad to have met you, Becca Matlock, and I like your being a heroine. I have this feeling that you, Adam, and your father will be coming to lots of barbecues over at our house, beginning when they get out of this joint. Did I tell you that Savich is a vegetarian? When we barbecue, he eats roasted corn on the cob. We won’t know about Sean and his preferences for a while yet. Have you agreed to the date and that marvelous Presbyterian Church your in-laws have been members of for years and years?”

“Not yet,” Becca said. “Hey, I’m so famous maybe I’ll ask if the churches want to place bids for our ceremony.”

“You’re a writer, you could write a book, make a gazillion bucks.”

“She’ll have to make it fast,” Savich said, coming up and squeezing his wife against his chest, “fame is fleeting nowadays. Another week, Becca, and you’ll be a last-page footnote in People magazine.”

The next day, Becca fle w to Portland, Maine, rented a Ford Escort, and drove up to Riptide. It was cooler this trip, the breeze sharp off the ocean. The first person she saw was Sheriff Gaffney, and he was frowning at her, his thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt.