Chapter Nine
"ALL GOOD," DR. THURMAN says with a smile as he hands us the latest scans and test results. "Another week of rest is recommended, but other than that, she's good to go."
My mother looks at me immediately upon hearing this. She's still pale under her makeup, and there's a butterfly bandage at her hairline she keeps trying to cover with her fringe.
"Did you hear that, Chase? I'm healthy and fit as a fiddle."
"That's not what he says at all," I say dryly.
"But you know it means the same thing." Ruth looks at her doctor. "Right, Dr. Thurman?"
She doesn't wait for an answer. She's already leapt to the next topic, and of course it has to do with her next charity project.
"I already have my next tournament all planned out," she tells me as we get into the backseat of the limo.
"Just be sure you work behind the scenes."
"Oh, what a worrywart you are."
Chimney, who's been driving for my family for over ten years now, takes his place behind the wheel while my mother huffs and puffs.
Chimney is ex-military. Doesn't speak much.
When he does, it's like hearing thunder rumble.
He's also the one who told me about Ruth's accident.
The only one my mother can't gently bully into keeping secrets from me.
"Can you keep an eye on my mother, Chimney? Let me know if she does anything crazy?"
"Of course, sir."
Ruth makes a face. "Why must you always take this boy's side, Chimney? You never have pity on a poor old lady like me."
I nearly snort at that.
"But enough about me." Ruth turns to me with a smile that immediately puts me on alert. "I've been wondering. You've met a girl, haven't you?"
It may sound like a good thing, but I find it inconvenient.
How intuitive she is.
"I haven't."
Because technically, she...isn't a girl. She's a woman. And most importantly of all, she belongs to someone else.
Ruth doesn't push. Her gaze drifts to the window.
Chimney pulls up the long drive to the estate not long after.
We pass the gate and the gardens. Then the manor on our left. The windows are lit on the ground floor and on the second, all the rooms a full-time staff is paid to keep ready for someone who hasn't lived there in years.
I look at it as we drive past.
I always look at it as we drive past.
The cottage is on the far side of the grounds. Smaller. Closer to the trees. Ruth had it built when my father died and she didn't want the manor anymore.
Chimney brings the limo to a stop and gets out to open her door before I can.
"Stay, sir. I've got her."
But I'm already getting out.
I take her arm because she's still favouring the hip and the gravel is uneven, and I walk her to her own front door.
We reach the threshold.
She turns to look at me.
"You've been with me for a week. That's too long apart when I suspect you and the girl have just met."
I open my mouth.
"Go to her, son." She pats my cheek. "Life is short."
The hand at my cheek is thinner than I remembered.
She's inside before I can answer.
I turn back toward the limo. The manor is still lit on my left. I watch it until Chimney closes my door.
Three words.
Just three simple words. And yet I find myself thinking back to them again and again on the flight back to New York.
The moment Ruth said them, something walked over my grave.
Now, in the cabin, the feeling hasn't left.
The whisky on the table beside me has been there since takeoff. The same drink, the same crystal, the same steward who knew not to ask. I haven't reached for it once in the last six hours, the same way I didn't reach for it on the way over.
I'm still wearing the shirt.
I'm racing time.
If I delay a second longer, it will be too late.