Page 282 of Mangled Memory
My silk romper is on the floor, stepped on and tossed aside for jeans and a sweater. “Hurry!” It’s all I can say as I jump into shoes that should’ve been unlaced and don’t want to allow my feet to slide in fast enough. Finally ripped open, I shove my feet in before I grab a beanie and a scarf on the way out.
“Sixty seconds behind you.”
How is that possible? And why is it always a thing that it takes me so much longer to get ready?
I’m in the passenger seat of the car, tying my second shoe when Christian slides into the driver’s seat, phone to his ear, and begins navigating us out of the garage. Lights sweep the driveway, and an eerie sense of déjà vu rises, but I refuse to think on it as we take off into the night.
“Is that you following us?” Christian pulls the phone from his face, presses a button for Bluetooth, and toggles to another app.
“Yes, sir.” Fitz’s voice reverberates through the SUV.
“We’re heading to Anschutz. I need you to lead.”
“Yes, sir.” The line disconnects as Christian holds the phone out to me. “Find Smithson Dohltree’s number for me please.”
I do and hit the phone icon as ringing fills the void.
“Barone?”
“Smithson. Sorry for the late call. I need some help.”
“What can I do for you?”
“My mother-in-law, Janie Murphy, was admitted this evening. I need security around her room, and I need the best of the best when it comes to Neuro attending to her.”
“Of course. I’ll make the calls now.”
“Appreciate it, Smithson.”
“Anytime, Barone. Hope she’s okay.”
I turn to my husband. “Who is Smithson Dohltree?” I stare at the name in his contacts to make sure I have it right.
“The Chairman of the board at CU-Anschutz.”
“You know the head of the board?”
He turns and looks at me for longer than I expect. “I sit on the board there, baby. Have for years. We”— he emphasizes the word—“are also donors.” Quietly, he adds, “I wonder if that’s why Janie was brought here instead of some place closer to the house.”
Somehow those words don’t feel like they were meant to be uttered, more as if they were musings that came out without intent.
Then, still focused on me, a smile breaks across his face. “Ayla, what are you wearing?”
I look down and am horrified but allow a laugh to bubble up through the tension in the car. I have on jeans and a sweater, all right, but it’s one I no doubt bought as a tacky Christmas sweater, complete with pom poms on it. I’m wearing lace up rubber boots, and my scarf is cashmere. “Maybe I should’ve spent another minute in the selection process.”
“Your mom will be pleased we put her first, although if you keep showing up dressed like you are, she’s going to assume you need a personal stylist.”
“Apparently, I do.” I lift my arms out from my sides as the hospital comes into view.
We pull into the garage and circle several times until we come to reserved parking spaces near the side doors. Fitz, who let us lead from the time we entered the garage, slides into a space near us and exits, his hand inside his jacket, clearing the garage as if we are in a training exercise.
The three of us will turn heads, I’m sure of it. To my right is the former Army Ranger with his bulk and height in head-to-toe black, who must have thighs thicker than tree trunks, with a military buzz cut and an eat-shit look. On my left is my gorgeous husband, suit coat abandoned and tie gone, with hissleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair is disheveled as if he ran his fingers through it one too many times in his quest to get here. I’m bringing up the center with my very questionable outfit and evening-out, drama makeup. My boots squeak on the floor with every step. I’m the oozy filling in a hot guy sandwich.
I apologize when I snicker. Both men turn to look at me, but I wave them off.
“Janie Murphy?”
The receptionist types something into the computer before looking between us all. “And you are?” How she has the guts to ask is beyond me. She must have a will of steel.
