A spreadsheet filled the screen.
Invoices.
Late payments.
Three red notices.
She snapped the computer shut when I entered.
“Tough day?”
“I’m fine.”
I knew better than to pry.
I made tea.
Chamomile for me.
Then I made a second cup and put it beside her.
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“I know.”
She looked at the mug.
“Why chamomile?”
“You’ve already had three coffees.”
Her eyes rose.
“How do you know?”
“Because after the third one, you rub your left temple.”
Her hand immediately moved toward her head.
She caught herself.
For one second, the corner of her mouth almost lifted.
Then she wrapped both hands around the mug.
“Thanks.”
It was the first sincere thank-you she had given me.
Three days later, Caleb apologized to me.
He found me watering hydrangeas.
“I thought Vanessa was right about you.”
“About what?”
“That you married Grant because your life would be easier.”
I shut off the hose.
“My life was already good.”
“I know that now.”
He looked embarrassed.
“You’re nothing like what I expected.”
Before I could answer, Grant called from the driveway.
“Caleb! Farmers market?”
Caleb grinned.
“I’ll drive.”
They left arguing over peaches.
When I turned around, Vanessa stood behind me on the porch.
She had heard everything.
“Caleb trusts you,” she said.
“I trust him.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“I mean he really trusts you.”
I set the hose down.
“Trust takes time.”
Vanessa nodded.
Then, almost too quietly to hear, she said, “So does healing.”
I watched her walk back inside.
For the first time, I thought perhaps the worst was behind us.
Four days later, I would learn how wrong I was.
### Part 4
Grant’s heart attack began with a pair of gardening shears hitting the patio stones.
That sound still lives somewhere inside me.
Metal against stone.
Sharp.
Wrong.
I was upstairs folding towels when Caleb shouted from the backyard.
“Grant!”
I dropped everything.
By the time I reached the patio, Grant was sitting on the ground beside the roses.
His face had gone gray.
One hand pressed against his chest.
Caleb was already calling emergency services.
Vanessa stood five feet away.
Frozen.
“Dad?”
Grant tried to answer.
He couldn’t.
I dropped beside him.
“Grant, look at me.”
His eyes found mine.
He whispered something about the emergency medication his cardiologist had prescribed.
I knew where it was.
Top drawer.
Nightstand.
I ran upstairs so quickly I nearly slipped on the hallway runner.
When I came back, Caleb had placed a cushion behind Grant.
Vanessa still hadn’t moved.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.
I grabbed her hand.
“Vanessa. Look at me.”
Her terrified eyes met mine.
“Unlock the front door. Turn on the porch light. Then bring me the medical folder from the cabinet.”
“I—”
“Go.”
She went.
Sometimes panic doesn’t need comfort.
It needs a job.
The paramedics arrived quickly.
I gave them Grant’s medical information, insurance card, medication list, and cardiologist’s number.
One of them looked at the organized folder.
“You keep this ready?”
“My husband has a heart history.”
“Good thinking.”
As they carried Grant toward the ambulance, he reached for my hand.
“Claire.”
“I’m coming.”
Vanessa stood on the driveway barefoot.
She had forgotten her shoes.
I looked at her.
“Get dressed. Caleb will bring you.”
Her face crumpled.
“Is he going to die?”
I couldn’t promise what I didn’t know.
“They’re helping him.”
Then the ambulance doors closed.
At the hospital, Grant was taken directly into the cardiac unit.
The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and burned coffee.
Vanessa sat beside Caleb with her arms wrapped around herself.
Her bare ankles were bruised where she had apparently struck something while running through the house.
Nobody spoke.
Eventually, a nurse called me to complete paperwork.
When I returned, Grant had been moved into a monitored room.
His color had improved.
The doctor told us the attack had been serious but caught early.
“We’re optimistic,” he said. “But he needs rest. And as little stress as possible.”
I nearly laughed at the last sentence.
Not because it was funny.