‘Okay, so that was a little artistic license, but I read it in his expression, anyway.’ I shove my hands into my pockets and tip forward on my toes. This feels . . . strange. Between Rhett and me. Like we’ve called a truce. ‘Does stuff like this happen to him often?’
He frowns, his head angling. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, in March, I found him on my doorstep after a motorcycle accident.’ I slide my hands from my pockets, linking my fingers instead. ‘You know about that, right?’ He inclines his head briefly, though offers nothing more. ‘And now this. He fell off his yacht. Does that not seem weird to you?’
‘Why should it?’
‘Because it is weird,’ I retort, my tone firmer.
‘You’re all right, you,’ he states quite abruptly, pushing off from the wall.
‘Well, yeah. Because I’m not the one who’s been admitted to the hospital. Oh. I get it. Was that supposed to be some kind of praise?’
‘It’s the best you’re gonna get.’ He folds his arms across his chest, and I notice his biceps are the size of hams. Meat arms to go with his meathead, I think uncharitably. Whatever. One conversation does not make us friends. ‘I didn’t think you’d stick around.’
‘Oh, nice.’ I drag my gaze from his noticing a nurse exiting a nearby room with a tiny old lady hobbling behind her. ‘I get it. You thought I was just out for what I could get. A gold digger.’ I glower, my gaze moving back to him.
‘Nah.’ His mouth turns down in a show of distaste. ‘I just thought you’d have more sense. When you found out, I mean.’
‘About Amélie?’ My innards suddenly feel like they’ve been filled with wet cement. ‘So, still not a compliment. You think I’m stupid—stupid for staying with him?’
The man closest to him gives me this advice now? What the heck is that about?
‘No. He’s a good man, on the whole. And no one’s perfect.’ His wide shoulders ripple with a shrug. ‘I just thought, well, people like us. People who’ve known real poverty, we’re pretty good at protecting ourselves. In some ways, we’re like the rich, though it’s usually self-preservation and not greed that makes us put our needs first. That and maybe experience.’ His shoulders lift and drop, and he makes a show of stretching his back. ‘Anyway, I’m gonna go and get a few hours kip. Need me to bring you anything when I come back?’
‘Like what?’
‘A coffee? A rope?’
‘To escape or to strangle him?’
‘Maybe to tie up the bad guys. You know, in case they try to bum-rush his room.’
I lower my voice and incline my head, speaking under my breath. ‘Because you think someone did this to him?’
‘I don’t get paid enough to think.’
‘Bullshit.’ My answer is nothing more than an incredulous laugh. ‘You wear the same kind of suits as your boss.’
‘And I look better in them than he does.’
‘You really are a piece of work.’
‘It takes one to know one, Heidi,’ he retorts with a cheeky wink. ‘He’s all yours. Try to be nice to him.’
As I watch him saunter down the hallway, the door to Remy’s room opens as the two nurses slip out, pink-cheeked and giggling. One turns to follow Rhett’s direction, the other’s gaze collides with mine, causing the colour in her cheeks to deepen.
Girl, I know.
Gripping the doorhandle, I fix a smile on my face. If the ills of the world can be solved by salt, I’ll stick to sweat and seawater because I’ve cried enough tears.
I’m just going to love him from here on in.
36
Rose
I spent the next thirty-six hours on a chair next to Remy’s bed. No way was I leaving him alone. I also figured it was the best use of company time. In order to lead the company, Remy needed to be well. In order to be well, he needed rest, and he was more inclined to rest while I was near. Though I will admit he wasn’t thrilled with my company when I told the next doctor who came into his room that this was his second concussion this year. The news created a flutter; there were questions, warnings of traumatic brain injuries, talk of keeping him in the hospital for a longer observation period, and mutterings about the odds of the occurrence of aspiration pneumonia, almost as though it were some kind of side order dish. They spoke in English, maybe garnering that they’d get the unvarnished truth from me, rather than an imperious mouthful and denunciations of charlatan and impostor from the grump in the bed.
‘You fuss too much,’ Remy complains, his eyes appealing to the ceiling for deliverance.
‘And you’re a very bad patient. Do you think this is my idea?’ I ask, my hand flying out to indicate the wheelchair by the side of the bed. The wheelchair Rhett’s currently sitting in.