His gaze latched onto the vital pulse at Clara’s throat. There, just beneath the crepe of her pale, ivory skin, he spotted a fluttering blue vein. The thrum of her heartbeat met his ears, calling to him like a siren. Jonas. Jonas. Jonas…
“It’s polite not to stare.”
His gaze snapped to her eyes. “What has Cain told you?”
She placed her mug on the table. Flecks of paint embedded around her cuticles. “He told me to expect you. That you planned to make me an offer, but he refused to give me more details than that. He only said that it was important that I hear you out. But let me tell you, Mister Jonas, if this is some attempt to purchase my home, you can leave. This house will go to my grandchildren.”
“I’m not interested in your home.”
“Then what?”
His gaze drifted to the ice box. “Who is that man with his arm around you in that photograph?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “That’s my late husband, Arthur. That picture was taken in Washington the year Clinton was inaugurated. My husband was a political man.”
“Husband?”
“He’s gone now. We lost him and my son a few years back.”
“I’m sorry for your family’s loss.”
She gave a sad smile as her grief thickened the air. “Loss is something my family has known all too well.” She took a sip of her coffee, her gaze turning away from the photographs. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
“Did you love your husband?”
“Very much. Are you married?”
A sharp pain knifed through his heart at the memory of his wife. He struggled to picture her face but sensed he loved her very much. He wanted—desperately—to say her name, but for reasons he didn’t understand, his brain wouldn’t allow it.
“I have four children.”
“And a wife?”
“My wife sent me here to you.” Resentment boiled in his veins with chaotic confusion.
“Well, I’m on pins and needles, Mister Jonas. What can I do for you?”
He glanced at the little orange bottles cluttered along the windowsill. “Why do you have so many medicines?”
She laughed. “I’m old. You’ll get there someday.”
“How old are you?”
“Tsk, tsk. Did your mother never teach you it’s impolite to ask a woman her age?”
“My apologies.”
She waved a hand at him with paint-dappled fingernails. “I’ll forgive you. I’m twenty-nine.” At his look of shock, she chuckled but her laughter faded into a rattling cough. When she regained her composure, she smiled. “I’m seventy-two.”
In the corner of the kitchen, a shabbily dressed doll slouched against a worn basketball. “You’re the guardian of your grandchildren.”
“Yes. My daughter recently passed away. It’s something I would rather not discuss if you don’t mind. Still too fresh.”
“How old are they?”
“Ten and sixteen.”
“You worry for them.” It was not a question but an observation.
“Of course. I’m all they have left. Cybil, the younger of the two, hasn’t spoken a single word since her mother died. And Dane, he’ll soon be a legal adult, but he’s still very much a young boy. I just hope I can make it until he’s eighteen, but the doctors…” She waved a hand. “It’s a worry that keeps me up at night.”
“Make it?”
She chuckled and coughed again. “Do you know what the difference is between doctors and God, Mister Jonas?” She raised a faded brow. “God doesn’t think He’s a doctor.” When he didn’t laugh, she looked at his shirt and suspenders. “Perhaps my attempt at humor offended you.”
“No.” He knew plenty about being at odds with God. “What do the doctors tell you?”
“I’ve refused treatment, other than pain-management drugs, at this point.” She patted the pocket of her robe. “My friend Mary Jane will keep me company until the end. According to the doctors, my time’s only a few months away—too soon to see my grandson turn eighteen, so you can understand my stress.”
He frowned. “Treatment for what?”
“Cancer, Mister Jonas. I’m dying.”
Tension coiled in his back. “You’re certain?”
“We all die eventually. There’s no such thing as eternal life.”
“What if there was? Would you take it?”
“I’m too old to play make-believe.”
“But what if you could live forever and be there for your grandchildren? Would you wish it?”
“Wishes are meant for wells.” She shook her head. “The most I can do is prepare for the inevitable. My attorney added their names to the deed, and I’ve expressed my wishes for Dane to become Cybil’s legal guardian once he’s of age. I have money set aside from Arthur’s life insurance policy that should keep them comfortable for a few years. Other than that, what can I do? I’m tired of fighting. I want to be with my Arthur again.”
Touched by her surrender, he confessed, “I’m dying as well.”
Surprise registered in her clouded eyes. “You don’t look sick.”
He shook his head. “When it’s our time, we know. My wife knows it. My children know it. But I’m the only one prepared for it. Like you, I refuse to take the cure.”