Chapter Eleven
Kiyah
“You’re looking for the skilled nursing unit?”
He smiled tightly. “Unfortunately. My wife was involved in a hit-and-run accident a little over a month ago. She survived, but she’ll never be the same again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. It’s been rough, but what can you do?”
“Did they find who did it?”
He smiled softly and shook his head. “They didn’t.
The cops have reached a dead end in the investigation, and at this point, I’ve stopped calling to ask for an update.
And don’t even get me started on the insurance companies.
A new bill comes in every day that the insurance company neglected to pay, and then I’m on the phone for hours, being bounced around and on hold. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Uhhh, like what?” I asked, heading in the correct direction of the skilled nursing unit. He followed close beside me.
“Like you can’t believe a wealthy man is complaining about money. The money isn’t the issue. It’s the principle. If you pay for something, you expect to get your money’s worth.”
“I can’t argue with you there. What’s the room number again?”
“Room 203D.”
A minute later, we stood in front of Room 203D across from the nurses’ station.
“All right, Pistol Pete, this is where we part ways,” I said, trying to hand the toddler to his father, but he wasn’t having any of it. He held onto my hair tighter and stuck his face in the crook of my neck.
“I’m so sorry,” Todd rushed to apologize as he tried to disentangle us. “This is so embarrassing,” he said, his cheeks turning bright pink.
“Stop apologizing. I’m sure he just misses his mother,” I commented as I tried to figuratively shake the clingy child off. “Ow, yeah, okay, that’s some grip you got there, Pistol Pete,” I said, wincing as he attempted to rip my hair out of my scalp.
Damn, this little boy pulls harder than Grant!
“I guess he has to go home with you now,” Todd joked, trying to make light of the situation.
Yeah, showing up with a surprise baby will blow over really well with my husband.
“I’m starting to think this was your plan all along,” I said, finally freeing myself.
“You got me,” he said, chuckling warmly, trying to regain control of his son. “I’m sorry again about your hair.”
“It’s fine,” I replied, raking my fingers through the pressed strands, freeing them from the knots and tangles.
I wouldn’t dare remove my baseball cap and reveal my curly roots.
Grant had sweated my fucking silk press out.
Thankfully, I received text confirmation after he arrived at work that he had scheduled another hair appointment at my favorite salon for Thursday before the rehearsal dinner.
“Kiyah Baker, please report to the Ladies’ Lounge,” Ms. Marley’s annoyed voice resonated over the P.A. system. I held back my groan.
Grandma’s about to be on one.
“You’ve been summoned.”
“I have. Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you both, and I wish you and your family all the best and pray for your wife’s recovery.”
“Thank you for your well wishes and for being our tour guide.”
“Bye, Pistol Pete,” I said, waving to the boy who couldn’t be more than two.
I high-tailed it out of there and made it to the Ladies’ Lounge, where the hens had gathered with expectant looks on their faces.
“Well, look who decided to grace their fragile grandma with their presence,” Grandma bemoaned, earning sympathetic coos from the others.
“Are you done?” I drawled, approaching her for a hug. She threw her arms open and wrapped me in a tight hug—far tighter than I thought for a woman in her eighties.
“Oh, my sweet child. It’s been too long. Where have you been?”
“Chicago.”
“Wonderful city,” she said, releasing me. “Have I ever told you that your great-great-grandfather owned one—”
“Of the longest-running speakeasies during Prohibition. Yes, Grandma, you’ve told me quite a few times.”
“Most successful, too,” she added, adjusting the gold bangles that clinked on her wrists. “You’re losing weight. Girls, isn’t she losing weight?”
“I didn’t want to say because it’s not my place, but you do look a little on the lean side,” Ms. Beatrice said. Resounding hums of affirmation filled the room.
“Are you eating in Chicago?” Grandma pressed.
“I am. I’ve been training for a marathon.”
“Hmph. Girls, doesn’t my grandbaby look so lovely without all that metal in her face?”
“She’s absolutely stunning!” Ms. Agatha chirped, fanning herself with a luxury hand fan.
“Come sit, Kiyah. Come sit. There’s much to discuss,” Grandma pleaded. She shoved me down on the leather settee and smoothed the skirt of her metallic-green pleated caftan beneath her before easing down beside me gracefully. “Are you dating anyone?”
“No, ma’am.”
Shocked cries of disbelief reverberated through the room, and I patiently waited for them to dog pile on me and badger me about being 28 and single.
“Kiyah, that is unacceptable!” Grandma croaked. “It’s time for you to settle down and give your grandma some great-grandbabies.”
“Have you had this discussion with Daisy?”
She squeaked and grabbed her chest. “You should’ve heard your sister’s vulgarities when I broached the subject! I was offended, but I don’t blame her. Nori is a terrible influence on Daisy.”
I don’t know about that, Grandma. They’re both scumbags, and I’m not sure one edges out the other.
“I’m only attending the funeral—I mean, wedding, for the cake.”
“What did you get them for a gift?”
“My presence,” Grandma said with an air of indignation. “I planned on buying them a vacation home, but not with that attitude. She—what did you kids used to call it?”
“Fucked around and found out?”
“Precisely. Do you at least have a date for the wedding?”
“Negative.”
“That’s unacceptable,” Mrs. Fowler piped up from a sectional near the fireplace.
“My dear, you can’t attend your sister’s wedding without a date,” Grandma chuckled. “Do you need me to find one for you? Perhaps Thaddeus Branson Jr.?” My mouth popped open. “Yes, I saw you speaking to the governor hopeful. You would look lovely on his arm, and he’s very wealthy, and—”
“And married,” I said, cutting her off.
She rolled her eyes and whispered, “Bless your heart.”
“He is married, Kiyah, but in name only. The wife is a vegetable due to the accident.”
“Yeaaaaah, I think you might need to move into Granddad’s unit because empathy doesn’t seem to be in your wheelhouse any longer.”
She sighed. “I’m empathetic, Kiyah. It was a horrible situation, and I hope whoever ran over the poor lady is brought to justice. However, I’m a realist. Look at the statistics of men who stay with their severely injured or sick wives.”
“They’re dismal,” Ms. Lily mentioned. I smiled at her sympathetically. She had an adoring, loving husband, or so she thought when she was diagnosed with breast cancer at 43. The man cut out as soon as she denied the breast reconstruction surgery after her double mastectomy.
“A man like that doesn’t stay on the market long. If it’s not you, it will be someone else. Kiyah, the man, may be President of the United States one of these days. First Lady Kiyah Branson has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it, girls?”
I sat through two more minutes of the seasoned women trying to convince me to poach a married politician to let them get it out of their system before I changed the subject.
There were five significant flaws in their plan:
I have some morals and values despite what some may think.
I’m not interested.
I refuse to have this woman haunt me if she ever leaves this world.
I refuse to be viewed as a homewrecker.
I’m married… at least for now.