Chapter Twenty-Four
Quinn
D r. Maynard’s brow furrows as he looks over my sugar level log. I bite my lip, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders. My sugar is better than it was when I was first diagnosed, but it could be better.
He jots down a couple of things, still reviewing my log. Thankfully, I haven’t noticed any negative side effects of my insulin injections. Still, I have a feeling the insulin will be changed based on my readings and Dr. Maynard’s frown.
Guilt gnaws at me. I should have told Bram about the appointment. He would have come with me if I’d only asked him to. Which is exactly why I didn’t tell him.
Squirming, I try to keep my brain from replaying the kiss from yesterday. I don’t last long. That kiss is burned into my brain. Carved into my soul. I’m not sure if he feels the same, but something has changed for me. I can’t stop remembering the way his hands felt on my cheeks or the warmth of his breath on my neck.
Then, this morning he’d gone and apologized for the kiss, sending my budding hopes crashing to the ground. Of course, he’d only kissed me to appease Jovie since she would have said something to Mom or Lois if it looked as if we weren’t “smoochy kissing.”
A burning sensation builds behind my eyes, and I inhale deeply, praying for the tears to stay tucked deep inside.
“Well now,” Dr. Maynard says, distracting me from thoughts of my husband. “The CGM seems to be helping with keeping track of your levels. And the numbers are a lot better than they were.”
I wait, knowing there’s a “but” coming.
“But it’s not where I want to see them. I’m going to increase your insulin for now.” He levels me with a thoughtful look. “Quinn, would you like to discuss getting an insulin pump?”
My throat tightens, and I attempt to swallow over the growing lump. Gripping the edge of the examining table, I try to remain calm. If I thought I was about to cry earlier, this news is definitely rocking me.
Honestly, I have no idea what having a pump will entail, but it seems like another piece of my life is being ripped away from me. However, as Dr. Maynard discusses the details, a stirring of hope fills my chest. He sells me on it when he informs me it would be one injection every two to three days instead of multiple times a day.
Dr. Maynard continues to talk, and before I leave the office, I fill out the paperwork to start the insurance approval process. A swell of gratitude for Bram’s sacrifice washes over me. If I hadn’t married him, getting a pump would be almost impossible.
As I leave the office and head back to my car, a semblance of peace settles over me for the first time since my diagnosis. It’s all going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.
My phone chimes in my purse with an incoming text. I glance down and stop in my tracks.
Mom: Just wanted to let you know that they’re increasing Jovie’s twice-a-month overnight visit with her dad to twice-a-month weekend visits. I know it’s hard, sweetie.
I stand there staring at my phone for several moments, my heart in my throat. It doesn’t mean anything. This has happened to other foster kids we’ve had. But sometimes the birth parent screws up again and the visits stop. It doesn’t help to alleviate the panic flooding my chest.
I can’t lose Jovie.
Tears threaten for release as I slide into my car. I don’t want to miss out on my lunch with Julie, but if I see her now, I’ll fall apart. And when I fall apart, everything will come out. Including the strange feelings proximity to Bram are beginning to elicit.
Sending Julie a quick text, I cancel our plans and turn to the one person I long to discuss it all with.
Taking a deep breath, I shut my car door, the sound echoing around me. A shiver shoots up my spine, but I straighten my shoulders and continue down the path. I can almost walk this place in the dark, though it has been a while since I’ve been to visit him.
Finally, I stop in front of the headstone, rubbing my hand over the top as fresh tears well up inside of me. “Hey, Daddy,” I whisper, pushing away the guilt that always tries to rear its ugly head whenever I come to see him.
Tears blur my vision as I sit down with my back against the headstone. I stopped caring long ago if someone saw me or not. It isn’t that I believe Dad can hear me. I know he’s with God enjoying the splendor of being in His presence. But there are times when I miss him so much I fear the ache in my chest will expand until it completely consumes me.
Sometimes, a girl just needs her daddy.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been by in a while. It’s been . . . crazy.” I let out a bitter laugh as tears begin streaming down my face. “Lois got married. Ran off to Europe and met some Lord or Duke or whatever and eloped.” I scoff. “Sounds like Lois, eh? He’s okay, I guess. I haven’t gotten to know him too much, so I probably shouldn’t be judging him too harshly.”
Twisting the wedding and engagement rings on my finger, I glance away for a moment. “I don’t think that’s the craziest news though. I’m married now too, Dad. And you’ll never believe who to. Bram Baxter. I’m now Quinn Baxter. Isn’t that insane?”
Wiping at my eyes, I take a shuddering breath, the weight has lifted the more I talk. “He’s such a good guy, Dad. Though, you already know that. He . . . um . . . well, he married me so I could get health insurance. Daddy, I have Type 1 diabetes. The insulin is helping some, but I’m going to be getting a pump soon.”
The gentle breeze blows my hair across my face as I work through my emotions. “I know I shouldn’t complain. I have a husband who will take care of me. Even if . . . even if he doesn’t love me,” my voice cracks and more tears spill out. “I don’t love him either, but . . .” I trail off and sigh. “But I think I could.
“Jovie is growing so fast. I wish you would have gotten to meet her. She’s like a little burst of sunshine in our lives.” I twist my hands together. “They’re trying to give her back to her birth father. And I know that’s what’s supposed to happen. But . . . she’s always been mine,” I choke out a sob. “I don’t think I can lose her too.”
The next thirty minutes go by with me pouring my heart out to Dad’s grave. The act proves to be therapeutic in a way. By the time I stand to leave, it’s as if most of the weight has rolled off my shoulders. I have to keep reminding myself that weekend visits aren’t an automatic sign of reunification. It’s simply a trial run.
After arriving home, I put a roast in the slow cooker for supper. My energy is zapped from the news at the doctor’s office, my emotions over Jovie, and my crying session at Dad’s grave. I glance at the clock and see it’s only a little after one. I double-check the slow cooker and decide to lie down for a bit. I’m half asleep before my head even hits the pillow.
Clattering in the kitchen wakes me several hours later. Cracking my eyes open, I hit the button on my phone. 3:30 p.m. My eyes fly open. What is Bram doing home so early?
Throwing the covers off, I stumble into the kitchen where Mrs. Graham greets me with a smile.
“Hello, dear. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” She stirs the roast.
I rub the sleep from my eyes. “Um . . . Mrs. Graham. What are you doing here?” Inside my home. While I’m asleep. But I don’t say that.
“Why, I thought you looked a little peaked when you came home earlier. So, I thought I’d come over and help you fix that handsome husband of yours a nice meal.”
I brush my unruly hair out of my face. “Oh.” What else can I say? “You didn’t have to do that.” Like, really didn’t have to do that. No one wants to wake up to find their neighbor making themselves at home in their kitchen.
She waves a hand. “Oh, nonsense. I think you two could use a little help.” She states it so matter-of-factly. I find myself biting my cheek to keep from responding. What does she think we need help with?
“Well . . . ” I draw out, weighing my words. “That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Graham. But the roast will be ready by the time Bram gets home.”
“And now he’ll also have bread and pie. I made it sugar-free just for you dear.” I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t necessarily need to eat sugar-free as she continues, “I was going to make Bram a regular one, but I figured he gets enough sugar from you.” She turns and winks at me. At least, I think it’s a wink. It could be some type of spasm for all I know.
I don’t have time to be embarrassed by her words as she removes a freshly baked pie and a loaf of bread from the oven. How long has she been here? Did she transport everything from her house to ours? Is she some kind of magical fairy masquerading as our nosey, old neighbor? There’s no way she could have whipped all of that up in the couple of hours I was asleep.
My mind struggles to catch up to everything going on around me. The smell of freshly baked bread makes my stomach rumble. When’s the last time I ate? I know I need to take care of myself if I want my sugar level to be within the target range Dr. Maynard set for me.
As if reading my mind, Mrs. Graham motions with her head toward the fridge. “I’ve got a tray of fruit, meats, and cheeses in there if you need something now. I don’t want to be calling an ambulance for you.”
I open the fridge, wondering how Mrs. Graham knows about my diabetes. Did Bram tell her? Of course, it’s a small town, so there’s just as much chance that she heard about it standing in line at the grocery store.
Once I open the door to the fridge, all my questions fly out the window. The tray looks amazing. Strawberries, grapes, pineapple, raspberries, and orange slices are placed on a large tray with some kind of chocolate fruit dip in the center. The tray of meats and cheese looks just as delicious with various hams, pepperoni, salami, roast beef, and several different types of cheeses.
Who is this woman?
After placing both trays on the table, I head back to my bedroom to get my phone so I can check my sugar on my app. Mrs. Graham hums away in the kitchen. When I return, she’s placed a plate on the table along with a glass of water. My eyes burn with gratitude for this odd neighbor of ours.
We chat while I eat, my brain and body finally starting to wake up. I’m sure I look awful. My eyes are still puffy from crying, and I haven’t even bothered to run a brush through my hair to get rid of the bedhead.
Mrs. Graham tells me about her late husband, Winston, her eyes taking on a soft, far-away look as she talks. I learn that she has four grown children—who all moved to Texas years ago—a dozen grandkids between them, and a host of great-grandchildren.
“Don’t you ever wish you were there with them?” I can’t help asking the question. I don’t think I’d ever move so far away from my family. Though, who knows where Lois and Chad will wind up? They’ve not told us their plans for where they want to settle. If they even want to settle. They’ll probably end up traveling the world.
“I think about it sometimes,” she says with a smile. “But Peach Beach is my home and God has never given me a reason to move on. Until He does, I’m content where I am. Besides, this is where Winston and I met, married, and started a family. I’m reminded of him every time I hear the ocean waves beating against the sand or when the wind blows just right and I get a whiff of the salty breeze.” Her eyes grew watery. “This is home.”
“You must have really loved him,” I reply softly, a deep yearning growing in my chest. I want a love like that. A love that’s so powerful that even a decade after being separated by death, I would still love him with such a passion.
I blink against the sudden tears in my eyes and take a sip of water to try and clear my tight throat. Did I mess up by marrying Bram and not giving myself the time or opportunity to find the one I could love so deeply? Or will Bram and I be able to develop that same kind of love together?
Mrs. Graham sends me an understanding look and pats my shoulder. “Now, dear,” she says firmly. “You go clean yourself up before that handsome husband of yours comes home.”
Wiping a tear from my eye, I glance down at my baggy pants and even baggier shirt. “Oh, I’ll be okay.” I shrug. It’s what I wear most of the time when I’m home.
Mrs. Graham raises a brow as she does a slow perusal of my attire. “That wasn’t a suggestion. Go on now. Off with you.” She shoos me right out of my own kitchen. I want to continue arguing, but something about her tone has my feet obeying.
After washing my face, brushing my teeth, and untangling the knots from my hair, I look for something to put on. I have a feeling that if I come out in my yoga pants and a T-shirt, Mrs. Graham will send me straight back.
Finally, I settle on a pair of dark wash jeans and a teal off-shoulder blouse that Mom always says makes my eyes pop. I slip it on and glance at myself, my hands shaking slightly.
Do I want Bram to notice me?
My eyes are still puffy, but I don’t have time to apply makeup before Bram gets home. Besides, if I do, he’ll wonder why I’m all dressed up. Heck, I wonder why. It isn’t just Mrs. Graham’s nudging. Because, if I’m being honest with myself, she didn’t have to nudge too much before I complied.
The sound of the front door shutting makes my heart skip a beat in expectation. Expectation for what? I’m not sure. Emerging from my bedroom, I make my way down the hallway. Everything is quiet. Even the sounds of Mrs. Graham bustling around the kitchen have disappeared. The lights have been turned off, but a soft glow is coming from the dining room.
Now my heart is skipping for an entirely different reason. Every horror movie Grayson has forced me to watch with him starts flashing through my mind. Is this the part where I start seeing glimpses of someone running from room to room?
Oh, wait. That’s Scooby-Doo .
I inch cautiously toward the dining room and gasp at the doorway. Mrs. Graham has set the table with what appears to be real china plates and wine glasses—don’t ask me where she got them. The roast is on the table along with carrots and potatoes. The delicious aroma swirls through the air around me. Candles are lit all over the dining room, giving it an intimate feel.
The sound of Bram’s truck pulling into the driveway yanks me out of the moment. Oh, Mrs. Graham. What is Bram going to think when he sees this? What do I want him to think?
Unfortunately, there’s no time for me to blow out the candles or change back into my sweats as heavy footsteps sound on the front porch and keys jangle in the door.
With trembling hands, I smooth down my hair just as the door opens. A nervous smile takes over my face as I turn to greet my husband.