03_The Unexpected Gift Page 5

  Although Morgan was touched by the graciousness of her hosts, she made short work of her remaining food when Kit placed the plate in front of her. Then they moved on to the cheesecake, which was every bit as good as Grant has promised. After the last bite, Morgan leaned back, her face content as she sipped her coffee.

  “Wasn’t this better than tuna and cold soup?”

  At Grant’s quiet question, Morgan turned to find him watching her, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Her own lips curved up in response. “Eminently.”

  “How about some music?” Kit said from across the table.

  “Will you play, Uncle Grant?” Nancy asked.

  “I’m a bit out of practice.”

  “You always say that,” Nicki scoffed. “Besides, it won’t feel like Christmas unless you play.”

  “In that case, how can I refuse?”

  They all moved into the living room, and Morgan watched, intrigued, as Grant slid onto the bench of an upright piano and ran his fingers over the keys. For some reasons, she wouldn’t have expected him to be musical. But as the family gathered around and he began to play the familiar holiday carols, she discovered that he was, in fact, quite talented. Morgan hung back, feeling a bit like an intruder in this family scene, but Kit drew her forward.

  “We may not be the Metropolitan Opera chorus, but what we lack in ability we make up for in enthusiasm,” she said with a laugh.

  As Grant played one carol after another, Morgan found herself staring at his hands. His fingers were strong and capable, lean and long, as they moved with confidence over the ivory keys. He had wonderful hands, she realized. And all at once she found herself wondering what it would be like to be touched by them.

  Trying to force her mind in a more appropriate direction, Morgan turned away from Grant and looked over the family gathered at the piano—only to be transported back to another time, another piano, another family raising sometimes off-key voices in song. Her throat constricted with emotion, and her voice faltered on the words of a familiar carol as her eyes grew misty. When Grant sent her a questioning look, her cheeks warmed and she pointed to her pager, then quickly slipped away on the pretense of returning another call.

  Once in the hall, she drew a few long, deep breaths. For some reason, this day had been an emotional roller coaster, from her conversation with her sisters this morning, to her unexpected tears in church, to her wandering thoughts when she’d tried to work earlier at the cottage. The memories had been relentlessly lapping at her consciousness, much as the surf lapped against the shore at Aunt Jo’s cottage. Happy memories, for the most part, but memories of days long past. Most of the time she kept them deep in her heart. But today, they had risen to the surface, throwing her off balance.

  By the time Morgan returned to the living room, she had her emotions back under control. Most of the group seemed to accept her excuse for stepping away, but something in Grant’s expression told her that she hadn’t fooled him. His eyes were probing, questioning, curious, as if he was trying to reconcile her emotional reaction just now with the image she presented to the world of a savvy, businesslike, sophisticated career woman.

  Morgan looked away before his searching gaze went too deep, before he delved right to her soul and found out things about her that even she didn’t know. Things she didn’t want to know. And suddenly she felt an overpowering need to escape. There was something about Grant Kincaid that threatened her peace of mind. As soon as she could, she thanked her hosts and said her goodbyes, explaining that after her long drive yesterday, she was ready to call it a night.

  Grant insisted on walking her to her car, and short of being rude, she couldn’t refuse. He took her arm as they stepped into the frigid air, and their breath formed frosty clouds in the clear, dark sky as they made their way in silence down the driveway. She fitted her key in the car lock, then turned to him, grateful for the dim light that made it hard to read expressions. “Thank you again, Grant. I had a wonderful time.”

  “It was our pleasure. Are we still on for Monday?”

  “Yes. How about eight?”

  “That’s fine. I’ll see you then. Drive safe.”

  After she slipped into her car, he shut the door behind her, watching as she backed out of the driveway. When she reached the corner, she glanced in her rearview mirror and was surprised to find Grant still standing there, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, staring after her.

  As Morgan retraced the route to the cottage, she found herself reliving her unexpected holiday dinner and thinking about Grant. She pictured his strong, competent fingers on the piano keys. Recalled the feeling of security that had swept over her when he’d taken her hand in his for the blessing. Remembered the way his smile had warmed his eyes and lit up his face.

  And wondered yet again: who was Christine?

  Chapter Four

  “Anybody home?” Grant called as he opened the door of the house he’d grown up in, the house his father and uncle now shared.

  “We’re in the kitchen, son,” his father responded, his voice muffled.

  Grant made his way down the hall and found his father and uncle wolfing down what looked like remnants from yesterday’s Christmas dinner.

  “Pull up a chair,” Uncle Pete invited. “There’s plenty. Kit made us take all this home. Said she had way too much left over. We didn’t argue a whole lot.”

  After draping his sheepskin-lined jacket over the back of a chair and retrieving a plate from the cabinet, Grant joined the older men at the sturdy oak table.

  “On your way to see Christine?” his father asked.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I admire your commitment, son. But I worry about you,” he said, his face troubled. “It’s been two-and-a-half years, and you almost never miss a day. You’re going to wear yourself out.”

  “I have to go, Dad. She’d do the same for me.”

  “I’m not saying you shouldn’t go. Maybe just not every day.”

  Because it doesn’t seem to make any difference.

  The words were unspoken, but they hung in the air. His family had long ago accepted that Christine would probably never recover from the head injury that had sent her into a deep coma. Yet according to the doctors, there was brain activity. So she was still there, trapped in a broken body. Grant couldn’t abandon her, even though only a tiny glimmer of hope remained in his own heart. But even if that last glimmer was finally extinguished, he still had an obligation to her. And he would see it through…for as long as she needed him.

  Grant reached for a slice of prime rib and answered the way he always did. “I’ll see, Dad. For now, this is what I need to do.”

  Pete looked at Andrew, then changed the subject. “That was one fine meal yesterday. And the leftovers aren’t bad, either.”

  “I’m glad you convinced Jo’s niece to join us, Grant.” Andrew picked up Pete’s cue. “Didn’t sound like she had much of a meal planned. And nobody should be alone on Christmas.”

  “To be honest, she turned me down at first. So I called Kit, and her powers of persuasion did the trick.”

  Pete chuckled. “Your sister could charm a moose out of his antlers.”

  Grant grinned. “I agree.”

  “I hope Morgan had a good time,” Andrew said. “Seems like that job of hers doesn’t give her a minute of peace.”

  “I expect it’s the kind of life she wants,” Grant said with a shrug.

  “Can’t imagine why. Seems like too much stress to me. She is one high-strung young woman.”

  “She’s a looker, though,” Uncle Pete added.

  “She is that,” Andrew agreed. “But I feel sorry for her, living on the edge like that. Can’t even enjoy a holiday without interruption.”

  “Don’t waste your sympathy, Dad. She chose that life, so it must suit her. Just like it did Mom. In fact, she reminds me a lot of Mom.”

  Andrew tilted his head, his expression quizzical. “Is that right? She seems real different to me.�
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  “How do you figure that?” Grant helped himself to some potatoes. “She’s ambitious, driven, puts her career first…it’s Mom all over again.”

  “I don’t think so. There’s more to Morgan Williams than that. I picked up a sort of…restlessness…like she’s still searching for her path. Your mother was single-minded once she made up her mind to go for the gold. I don’t get the same vibes from Morgan.”

  “Then you must be on the wrong wavelength,” Grant said, giving him a wry look. “What do you think, Uncle Pete?”

  “Like I said, she’s a looker.”

  “You have a one-track mind, you know that?” Grant told him with a grin.

  “Well, it’s true.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t. But we weren’t discussing her appearance.”

  “You can discuss anything you like. But when the good Lord sends a pretty woman my way, I intend to enjoy it instead of trying to psychoanalyze her.”

  “How did you stay a bachelor all these years?” Grant asked, shaking his head.

  “I like my independence. But I don’t mind lookin’.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “That’s a fact,” Pete agreed good-naturedly.

  As his father and uncle began debating the merits of cherry versus maple for an upcoming project, Grant finished his lunch. Then he rose and snagged his coat off the back of his chair. “I’ve got to run. See you both tomorrow.”

  “Take care, son.”

  The two older men watched Grant leave, then turned their attention to the leftover cheesecake. As Andrew cut them each a generous wedge, Uncle Pete spoke.

  “I worry about that boy.”

  “So do I.”

  “Livin’ the way he does isn’t healthy. He spends all his time at the shop or running back and forth to Brunswick to see Christine. He’s got to be lonely.”

  “He has us. And Kit’s family.”

  Uncle Pete brushed that aside. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Andrew said with a sigh. “But he loved Christine, Pete. He still does. And he won’t go on with his life as long as he feels she needs him.”

  “Sometimes it sure is hard to figure why the good Lord gave him such a cross to bear,” Uncle Pete declared, shaking his head.

  “I don’t expect we’ll ever find the answer to that one.”

  “No, I don’t suppose we will. But it sure does seem a waste. He’s a fine man with a fine heart. He should be going home to a wife and a family every day, not spending time in that depressing extended-care facility.”

  “I agree,” Andrew said. “We just have to pray and trust that the Lord will resolve this situation in His own way and in His own time.”

  “You’re right,” Uncle Pete conceded. “But sometimes I wish He’d just get on with it.”

  The jarring jangle of the phone woke Grant instantly, and he fumbled for it in the dark as he peered at the face of the digital clock beside his bed. Two-thirty in the morning. He squinted at the caller ID, and a surge of adrenaline shot through him at the familiar number. It was the extended-care facility in Brunswick.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Kincaid?”

  “Yes. I have caller ID. What’s the problem?” he said tersely.

  “This is Walter Jackson. I’m the physician on call this evening. I’m sorry to tell you that your wife appears to have suffered a stroke. We did an initial evaluation here, but we’re having her airlifted to Portland for more extensive testing.”

  Grant felt as if someone had kicked him in the gut, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Christine’s condition had been the same as always when he’d visited the previous afternoon after eating lunch with his dad and Uncle Pete. There’d been no indication of any problem. His grip on the phone tightened, turning his knuckles white. When he spoke, his voice was taut with tension. “How bad is it?”

  “Her vitals are still relatively stable, but there has been a significant change in brain activity. Until more testing is done, I’m afraid that’s all the information we have.”

  The man was dancing around the real issue, so Grant voiced the blunt, unspoken question that hung between them, steeling himself for the response. “Doctor, is this a life-threatening situation?”

  There was a telling pause before the man responded. “It could be.”

  Closing his eyes, Grant sucked in a deep breath. “Okay. I’m on my way.”

  As he pulled on his jeans and threw on a shirt, Grant placed a quick call to his father, as well as to Christine’s parents, who lived in Portland. In ten minutes flat, he was in his truck and heading south at a speed far faster than was prudent on the icy roads.

  Grant had made the drive to Portland countless times, especially right after the accident. But when it became apparent that Christine’s coma might be of longer duration than indicated by the initial prognosis, Grant had moved her to a medical facility in Brunswick, which was much closer to home. Still, the route to the medical center in Portland was etched on his mind, and he made the drive on autopilot, all the while struggling to rein in his panic.

  Please be with me, Lord, he prayed. And with Christine. Please don’t let her suffer anymore. And please give me strength to deal with whatever waits for me in Portland. I’ve lived in dread of this day for two-and-a-half years. Help me to cope with this situation and guide me in whatever decisions I have to make.

  Christine’s parents were at the hospital when Grant arrived, and the looks on their faces as he strode into the waiting room made his stomach lurch. Stella’s eyes were red-rimmed, and Marshall’s skin was ashen. Grant came to an abrupt halt, and the color drained from his own face. His voice was halting when he spoke. “Is she…”

  “She’s still with us, son,” Marshall said.

  Grant closed his eyes and wiped a hand down his face. Stella came over to him, and they exchanged a long, comforting hug. They’d all been here before. And it was a place none of them had ever wanted to visit again.

  “Oh, Grant, it’s such a nightmare.” Her voice broke on the last word.

  He couldn’t agree more. He drew in a deep, steadying breath, then glanced over her head toward Marshall. “What have you heard?”

  “Not much. They’re still doing tests. They think a clot may have caused a stroke. But now they suspect bleeding in the brain, as well. And they…they had to put her on a respirator. She was having trouble breathing on her own.”

  Grant stared at the older man, his eyes bleak. Like Grant, Christine’s parents had never given up hope that someday their daughter would return. But for the first time, her father looked defeated. Grant felt the sting of tears, and he struggled to keep them in check. Lord, You’ve been with me through all the trauma over these difficult years. Please don’t desert me now, when I need Your strength more than ever, he prayed.

  He guided Stella to one of the chairs that lined the wall, and the three of them sat in silence. Christine’s parents clung to each other, and now and then Stella reached for Grant’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Minutes passed, then an hour. And the little group keeping vigil grew. Andrew came next, with Pete, followed soon after by Kit and Bill. No one said much. No one needed to. All that had to be communicated was transmitted by look and by touch. Occasionally a nurse would stop by to let them know that Christine was still undergoing tests and that the doctor would speak with them as soon as the results were available, but other than that no one disturbed them.

  As dawn spilled in through the windows, a white-coated figure at last appeared. Grant vaulted to his feet and strode toward the man.

  “Mr. Kincaid?”

  “Yes.”

  The physician, who looked to be in his midforties, held out his hand. “I’m Mark Baxter. We’ve done an extensive evaluation on your wife and I have all the results.” He surveyed the group assembled behind Grant. “We can review them in my office, if you’d like.”

  Grant turned to look at the people who had stood behind him and supported him
day after day, month after month, since the accident, and shook his head. “This is my family, doctor. We’d all like to hear what you have to say.”

  The man nodded and pulled up a chair while Grant took his seat. Although Grant didn’t grasp all of the medical terms or technical explanations for what had happened to Christine, he understood the most important thing. Even though her vital signs were stable, there was no brain activity and she was no longer breathing on her own.

  While the doctor explained the situation, he’d made it a point to make eye contact with everyone in the group. But now, as he finished, he focused on Grant, softening his voice. “Mr. Kincaid, we can keep your wife physically alive for an indefinite period. But she isn’t going to come back. So it doesn’t make a lot of sense to maintain life support. However, the decision is yours.”

  Grant stared at him, his face a mask of shock, and for a brief instant the doctor’s composure cracked. He reached out and placed a hand on Grant’s shoulder, his eyes compassionate. “I’m sorry to give you this news. Your wife is a beautiful young woman. I know how hard this must be for you. I’ll be here for the next couple of hours if you want to talk with me again. Just let the nurse know and she’ll page me.”

  A jerky nod was the only response Grant could manage.

  As the doctor exited, leaving silence in his wake, Grant turned to look at the people he loved. Kit was clinging to Bill’s hand as she struggled to contain the tears brimming in her eyes. Bill’s demeanor was concerned and caring. Andrew’s face was a mask of sorrow and shock. Pete had grown pale as raw wood.

  And everyone’s eyes reflected one emotion that Grant didn’t yet want to deal with.

  Resignation.

  He turned to Stella and Marshall. Stella had begun to cry, and as he watched, Christine’s parents exchanged the kind of look that long-married couples use to communicate without words. Then, Marshall directed his attention to his son-in-law. “We’re with you, whatever you decide,” he said, his eyes steady even though his voice wasn’t.