Page 98 of What Doesn't Kill Her

“My prosthesis?”

“No, the leg that’s sticking out from under the bus! Idiot.”

Raucous male laughter echoed across the concrete floor and around the walls.

“Anything else?” Birdie asked.

How did Birdie know? Kellen reached across the table, took her hand. “I wanted to ask...if you would be my bridesmaid?”

41

At 5:30 p.m., Max pulled the truck up under Yearning Sands Resort’s sweeping portico and the doorman, Russell Clark, rushed forward to open Kellen’s door. When he saw her, his smile challenged the sun. “Miss Adams, you’ve come back to us.”

RUSSELL CLARK:

MALE, SOUTH PACIFIC/ASIAN/EUROPEAN ANCESTRY, 47, 5'11", 220 LBS, AUTISTIC. YEARNING SANDS DOORMAN FOR 31 YEARS. LIKES/NEEDS ROUTINE.

Kellen slid out of the truck. “I’m not back forever. But it’s good to see you. Are you recovered from your accident?”

The texting driver had caused an entire redesign of the entry, paid a massive fine—and Russell limped as if every step was painful, yet he beamed at her for her kindness. “I am fine, Miss Adams.”

“Are you going to physical therapy?” Kellen asked.

He bent his head in shame. “I’m supposed to.”

“Russell, I’m disappointed in you. You can’t recover completely without physical therapy and you know Yearning Sands needs you for many more years to come.” She shook a finger at him. “You go to PT or I will speak to Leo and Annie!”

“Yes, Miss Adams. I will do that.” He grinned and looked abashed at the same time.

“Good.” She put her arm around his shoulders and hugged him, then walked into the resort.

Max shook Russell’s hand and she heard him say, “You know you’d never get away with not doing your therapy if Kellen was still the assistant manager.”

“I know. We miss her.” Russell sounded sad.

Kellen stood in the lobby and took one long breath of rarified resort air. Here at Yearning Sands, she had returned from overseas and taken her first nonmilitary job on US soil. In this resort, she had seen stunning beauty and plumbed the depths of black despair, found friends and found treachery, grown strong and almost been killed. Here in this place she had found a family and a home.

Now it was at the end of summer, the high season on the Washington coast, and incoming guests pulled wheeled suitcases and stood in the check-in line. Guests walked into the elevators and out. They stood by the giant exotic floral bouquet in the middle of the lobby and frowned at maps. They sat in the breakfast area enjoying a complimentary glass of Washington wine.

Sheri Jean Haggerty manned the concierge desk; she looked up from a consultation with a guest and smiled at Kellen. Typical of Sheri Jean, the smile looked as if her teeth hurt, but Kellen chose to feel honored.

Three of the staff at the reception desk were new. One Kellen knew, and he gave a broad wave, then returned to helping an incoming guest.

Kellen walked through the breakfast area and toward the long wide sweep of windows that faced west across the Pacific Ocean and north up Highway 1 into Olympic National Park. She put her hand to her heart and sighed.

Max’s arm reached around her waist and pulled her close. “The best view in North America,” he said.

“It’s true. Every day I—” She caught herself.

“You miss it? I know. The winery location is pretty, but tame. This is wild and breathtaking—like you.”

She faced him and put her hand to his cheek.

He leaned in to kiss her.

A man’s voice called, “Max! Kellen! Welcome to Yearning Sands. What a fabulous surprise.”

Max winked at Kellen, released her and stepped forward to embrace his uncle, then shake his hand.

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