“It’s possible.” Steph swiped her sleeve across her face. “But Finn thinks he’ll feel obligated to marry her.”
“Branson might listen to you, though. He trusts you. Maybe you could suggest they shouldn’t get married. You shouldn’t have to give up your job.” Laurie angled her head. “By the way… where would we be moving if you took the job with Finn?”
“New York City.”
“New York?” Laurie danced a seated victory jig, pumping her hands in the air. “I’ve always wanted to live in New York. That’s awesome. My classes are online, so I can live anywhere. We’d have so much…” Her voice trailed off. Her lips turned down, and her brown eyes turned puddly. “Sorry. I know you don’t want to leave Branson. We’ll just pray they don’t get married.”
Steph nodded, swallowing her tears, as a surge of nausea hit. “I think the stress may be getting to me, because my stomach feels terrible. Or maybe it’s something I ate.”
“You could have a stomach virus.” Laurie wrinkled her nose. “Ellie threw up all day yesterday.”
“Oh no.” The meager contents of her stomach rolled around to confirm the diagnosis. “The school nurse warned us there was something going around, but I thought we’d escaped it. Why didn’t you call me?”
“You know I would’ve called if it had been a respiratory bug. But I knew her CF didn’t make a stomach bug particularly dangerous.”
“Poor thing. Can’t believe she’s so peppy today. She didn’t even mention being sick.”
“It didn’t last long. She was feeling better by bedtime and was fine when she woke up this morning. Maybe a twelve-hour bug. Ran a little fever. I guess you’ll know all about it, soon.”
“I hate throwing up.” Stephanie clamped her hand over her mouth. “This is going to be a long night.”
Laurie disappeared into the other room and emerged with a white spray bottle. “Here goes the Lysol, again.”
“I hope you don’t get it, too.”
“You and me both.” Laurie looked like she was considering drinking the Lysol. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go hide out in my suite. But I’ll come over in the morning and get Ellie ready for school, so you can sleep in.”
“Sounds good.” Steph barely got the words out before limping to the bathroom, her only comfort in knowing she would have another day before she had to face Bran.
Branson fumbled about in the huge kitchen, grumbling that nothing was where he remembered it. He shouldn’t be surprised, since he hadn’t cooked anything for himself in the past two years. At two a.m., all his culinary employees were sound asleep, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. He had to do this alone.
He’d been lying in bed awake when Stephanie’s text came in. Stomach virus. Will take sick day tomorrow.
He’d immediately fired back a text informing her of his intention to bring her a cup of ginger tea for the nausea. She protested, but he was determined. He was equally determined to make it himself, without any help from the staff. This meant smelling each box of tea to locate one with ginger flavor.
After every open package failed the sniff test, he considered calling on his cell for a late-night grocery delivery.
He fumed. Sixteen different flavors of tea in the drawer, and none of them are ginger. Then he remembered the cook’s special tea tin inside the pantry. Fortune smiled on him as he opened the lid and breathed in. Ginger!
Filtered water in the electric pot took a few minutes to boil—enough time to locate a mug. In the back of the cabinet, he felt his special cup, a textured mug he’d acquired from New Zealand when he’d done his first bungee jump.
Still waiting for the pot to whistle, he considered Stephanie’s text. In the two years since she’d started working, she’d never been ill enough to miss a day of work. Though Ellie had frequent health issues, Steph had a strong constitution and a stronger work ethic. If she hadn’t been so utterly honest, he’d have suspected she made up the stomach flu story to avoid working with him the next day.
The pot whistled, and he poured the hot water over the tea bag, using a thumb to feel when the cup was full. He set a timer, removing the tea bag after precisely three minutes. Satisfied that his nausea remedy was as perfect as possible, he made his way down the west wing corridor, around the corner, counting until he reached the tenth doorway on the right. A quick inspection of the Braille numbers on the door told him he’d reached the right suite. Afraid he would wake Ellie if he knocked on the door, he sent a text to Steph.
I’m in the hall outside your door. Have ginger tea.
A few seconds passed before Steph’s response came. Too sick to let you in. Told you not to come.
Have a master key. Can open door.
A short pause followed, then another text. No. Not dressed.
Doesn’t matter. I’m blind.
A minute passed, and he thought she might’ve fallen back asleep. Maybe he could let himself in and leave the ginger tea on the table. Then his phone vibrated with another message. Hugging toilet. Leave tea outside.
As he thought of her on the bathroom floor, suffering all alone, he sent a final text. Coming in. Be right there.
He ignored the phone, which vibrated angrily in his pocket, while he opened the door and slipped inside, carrying his magical ginger tea concoction. Uncertain which direction to go, he stopped to listen. He was soon rewarded for his efforts when he heard a coughing sound straight ahead. As he navigated slowly down the hallway, his white cane checking for obstacles, he strained his ears to locate her.
At last he came to the end of the hallway, where another series of coughs filtered through the closed door. He tucked his cane under his arm and tested the door handle. It swung open, and he stepped inside, noting the familiar sour odor of bile. Though he was particularly sensitive to smells, his concern for Steph outweighed his stomach’s response. A low groan came from his left.
“Why are you here?” she rasped.
“I’m going to take care of you.” He used a don’t-argue-with-me tone, though she sounded too weak to put up much of a fight, anyway.
Probing with his cane, he located the vanity counter, glad he’d chosen to make the layout of each guest suite identical. As he set the tea down, he heard gagging noises. He ached to make her feel better, hating his powerlessness.
“Do you have a cool, wet cloth for your face?” he asked.
“No,” she croaked. “Branson you don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” he replied, as he probed the vanity cabinet. “This is empty. Where are your washcloths?”
“In the laundry,” she replied. “It’s okay. I don’t need a rag.”
