Page 54 of Colton's Secret Weapon
“She said that his continued unconscious state could be a result of the swelling on his brain. Or it could be psychological.” That was the part that was getting to her the most. The idea that Bob St. James would actually make the choice to die and join his wife than stay around to be a part of their daughter’s life.
She had to be okay with it. To honor whatever choice he made without resentment. She just wasn’t ready to let go. Didn’t feel as though it was time to do so.
And so she stayed, holding on. To her fortitude, and to him, much of the time, too. Interlocking her fingers through his. Brushing hair back from his forehead. Washing his face. Rubbing his arm. Talking to him of the life they had waiting. The plans for St. James Boats, his lifeblood.
Kirk, the new hire.
But she had no way of knowing if any of it was getting through. Maybe she was just helping herself, maintain her vigil as she was, but if so, then so be it. As long as there was a chance that her father would fully rejoin the living, she had to be ready to be everything he needed as he got back on his feet.
To make life so good he wouldn’t reach for the bottle again.
Her job, while Bob finished detoxing and rested, was to keep herself positive. Finding the good. Feeling it all the way to her soul.
So when the time was right, she could share it with him. Like an IV straight from her heart to his.
To that end, she asked Mitchell, “How are things going at the docks?” More to allow her father to listen to the conversation if he cared to than because she had any concerns. Mitchell had said when he’d dropped her off that morning that he’d be checking in with Wes and the others throughout the day.
“A couple of newlyweds, first time to Alaska, stiffed Kirk out of nearly fifty dollars in fuel charges,” he said.
And she shook her head. Not the type of conversation she’d been seeking.
Mitchell didn’t seem to get the message as he continued with, “Wes rented the boat to them, and they’d said they’d pay for the fuel they used on their return, and when Kirk checked them back in, he told them they were good to go. They didn’t tell him that they owed money. He said he’d pay for it himself.”
Did her father’s finger just twitch?
Dove had been staring for any signs of coming back to life all day. Looking for any movement at all that couldn’t just be a process of breathing.
Just in case Whaler had an opinion about the incident involving his newest employee—a young man she’d told him all about, including that his father was out to sea most of the time—she quickly, and more loudly than necessary, said, “Please let him know that won’t be necessary. It’s our fault for not having a line item on the rental agreement for fuel, just as you already pointed out,” she said, watching that finger the whole time. “I’m sure Wes had expected to check the boat back in, and he’d have known about the fuel.”
There was no movement. No matter how hard she stared. She glanced over at Mitchell, to see if maybe he’d noticed something she had not.
He was looking at her as though he half suspected she’d spent the afternoon with a bottle herself.
“The doctor said he can most likely hear our conversation. I…thought I saw a finger move when you mentioned Kirk paying for his mistake.”
Warmth flashed in the blue eyes gazing back at her. She wanted to believe it was born of admiration. Or comradery, at least.
But feared it had been nothing but a surge of pity.
She didn’t need his pity.
She just needed him to believe, as she did, that Whaler was going to wake up.
Or…she just needed him.
Mitchell didn’t stay long at the hospital. He’d stopped in on his way to the docks. He’d promised Dove he’d keep an eye on things for her, and he intended to do so. Everyone had already left for the day. Their last rental had come in just past two. But he wanted to go over the day’s receipts. To take a look at the boats needed for the morning’s reservations. And get a start on some of the paperwork he’d said he’d help Dove overhaul. Beginning with the rental agreement.
She opted to remain with her father. And while he didn’t think the choice a healthy one—her sitting there all alone, for so many hours, watching a man either sleep or slowly die, he respected that she had to be where she felt the most needed. She clearly felt as though she could have the greatest impact by Whaler’s side.
He just didn’t like the idea of her being in the room all alone when Whaler took his last breath.Ifhe took his last breath, he amended.
In Whaler’s office, changing from his suit to the clean jeans and flannel shirt he’d thrown in the car that morning, he kept picturing Dove, sitting there in her spaghetti-strap tie-dyed caftan thing. Draped in darker colors, browns, reds, burgundies with patches of gold, he wondered what her choice of the day’s attire stood for.
And, realizing what he was doing, justified the thought by the fact that he knew she chose her clothes for purposes other than looks. Maybe the day’s dress had been something her mother made. Or had even been her mother’s.
Maybe it was just comfortable.
Maybe if he was a better friend, he’d have stayed at the hospital with her. Or asked why she chose the dress and flip-flops she’d come out to the kitchen wearing not long after dawn that morning.
