Brett flung his parka over the hook in the mudroom and unwound his scarf after his flight back from the islands that morning. He still had to go over to the plant, but since he would be working late, he wanted to stop by home first.
Seeing Andrea always brought his world back into focus again.
One foot at a time, he kicked off his boots in the mudroom, lining them up precisely. Andrea had always kept the house immaculately clean and organized before the accident and he tried to keep things as close to normal as possible. Otherwise, she fretted over things she wished she could do, the way life used to be. She had a live-in sitter, but as he knew well, caring for Andrea was a full-time job in itself.
He would hire a houseful of help in a heartbeat. He certainly had the money now. But he couldn’t afford to draw undue attention to himself with conspicuous consumption. Especially not when he was so close to a bigger payoff. Large enough to finance a life of ease in Europe and access to every doctor, every experimental treatment possible.
Soon, baby. Soon.
Echoes of the helper clanking pots and singing in the kitchen drifted into the mudroom. He ducked his head inside with a finger over his mouth. “Shhh.”
Mrs. Glotov waved from the dishwasher, loading lunch plates. Nodding his thanks to the widowed nurse’s aide and all-around helper, he tucked his gift for Andrea on the counter. Treats from the fishing lodge, from her aunt who owned the place. Oatmeal rhubarb bars, her favorites.
When he and Andrea moved to Europe, she would no doubt miss her only remaining relatives—the aunt, uncle, cousins. It already frustrated her that she couldn’t live on the island, but she needed to be on mainland Alaska with reliable medical care nearby.
Eventually, she’d conceded he was right, and she would see he was right about this move as well. Soon, he would give her the Swiss Alps for a view, along with a host of the best new doctors. He was doing everything he could to secure her future, to find the cure they’d hunted for so fiercely these past five years.
He pulled out his BlackBerry and checked the connection. Strong. Good. He logged onto the Web for a quick message check in his special account set up to deal with correspondence from the mountain village. A speedy look through showed nothing new from Sunny or Misty, but he hadn’t expected any, as they were both away from computers. And Sunny should be dead by now from her rigged snowmobile. Wade would have to turn back.
With Sunny out of the picture, he could pull this off. He eyed the remaining thirteen messages, including ones from Ryker Everett, Phoenix Foster, and Astrid Foster… all of which he could take care of later.
For now, he needed to see his wife, to remind himself of the main reason he must succeed. Early tomorrow, the power plant explosion would rock Alaska. After that, he would be very, very busy.
Tiptoeing in his stocking feet, he started around the corner; a floorboard squeaked and he paused. But everything stayed quiet, other than the ticking grandfather clock and the wind whistling along the eaves. She usually napped this time of day, and he could think of nothing more perfect than sliding in bed beside her.
He opened the bedroom door slowly… and found it empty. He scanned the spotless room, decorated in her favorite vibrant reds, with a picture window and a huge, perfectly made bed.
Once she’d come home from the hospital, he’d brought in a special hospital bed, king size, with controls on her side as per her medical needs. But they could still sleep together. He scanned the room—her medications resting on a wooden tray, her favorite photos lined up along the dresser.
The two of them fishing together.
Snow-machine racing together.
Skiing together.
The last photo had been taken the day before her accident. Now she lived in a wheelchair. Which wasn’t in the bedroom?
Frowning, he pivoted. Her helper would have called him if there had been an emergency. He walked deeper into their three-bedroom house, one of the spares used by the live-in, the other room used as a study.
He stopped outside the home office and sighed with relief. Sagging against the doorframe, he took a second to draw in the look of her, still alive. Even after all the years since her accident, he woke up at night in a cold sweat, reaching across the bed to make sure she was breathing.
Nightmares still tortured him. Seeing her crumpled and broken on the bottom of the icy slope, the snow around her tinged red with her blood, had been the most devastating moment of his life. He’d gotten another chance to be with her, to take care of her better this time around.
Andrea was his weakness. He knew that. But he’d channeled that into strength. He would do anything, anything, for her.
She sat at her computer, her link to the outside world, she often said. Her typing splint strapped to her wrist, she poked the stylus along the keyboard, using her other wrist to move the mouse. Andrea insisted on staying active, sharp, useful. Via the Internet. She called herself a “virtual volunteer,” something he’d never heard of before, but hey, if it made her happy, he was all for it.
This year, she’d settled in as a grocery order taker for the elderly, doing store-to-door orders. She talked to the seniors on the phone, then entered their shopping lists into some online forms.
She damn near broke his heart every day.
Quietly, he made his way across the room, slid aside her thick red ponytail, and kissed her neck right where he knew she could still feel the press of his lips to her skin.
Her hand fell to the side and the stylus clattered against a pencil holder. Andrea turned her head, her green eyes sparking with tears…
And fury.
Raising her hand again, she rammed the keyboard with her stylus and demanded, “Who the hell is Misty?”