Out of Character. Diana Miller

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      Jillian returned the pot to the warmer and sat at the table beside Andy. “Don’t worry about me. I want to go see Kristen’s parents then I need some time alone.” She sipped hot, strong coffee.

      “The funeral’s tomorrow. At ten at First Lutheran. Jason called.”

      “That’s fast.”

      “I think her family wants to get it over with. It will be several days before the authorities release her remains, so…”

      Jillian cradled her mug between her palms. “I can’t believe we’re talking about Kristen.”

      “Do you want to stay here again tonight?” Andy asked.

      “Thanks, but I need to go home. I have to find something to wear to the funeral.” She closed her eyes against a stab of pain.

      “At least let me take you to it.”

      She took a couple steadying breaths before reopening her eyes. “I’d appreciate that.”

      “I’ve got to go.” Andy closed his laptop and stuck it into his briefcase. “I’ll come back and give you a ride home.”

      “I’ll take a cab. Then I should rent a car.”

      Andy stood and slipped on the suit coat he’d draped over a chair. She’d forgotten how terrific he looked in a suit, how terrific he looked no matter what he wore. Had made herself forget.

      “Call me if you change your mind about staying here or feel like going to dinner,” he said. “Or need to talk.”

      She’d also made herself forget what a truly nice guy he was. “Thanks. For everything.”

      Andy’s eyes darkened. “She meant a lot to me, too.”

      Jillian nodded.

      “And so do you.” He grabbed his briefcase. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nine-fifteen.”

      * * * *

      Jillian wiped her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex one more time as she stood in the pew.

      Exiting to an intricate organ arrangement of How Great Thou Art, people filed down the aisle of the enormous Gothic church.

      “Kristen would have loved this,” she said. “All these people, I mean.”

      Andy raised an eyebrow. “That so many people liked her, or that so many lawyers had to change their plans on a moment’s notice and give up all those billable hours to be here?”

      “Both. I never realized how many friends she had.” She released Andy’s hand, which she’d gripped through most of the service.

      He shrugged his dark-suited shoulders. “She made friends everywhere, even with attorneys who opposed her. She was that kind of person.”

      “Thanks for coming with me. This was even harder than I anticipated.” Despite Jillian’s resolve, her voice shook.

      The organist switched to Beautiful Savior. Andy wrapped an arm around Jillian’s shoulders and directed her into the aisle. “You’re doing great. Jason looks like shit, doesn’t he?”

      Jason had sat with Kristen’s family, at their request. He always seemed so lively and energetic, but today he looked like a blond zombie, his fair skin nearly albino.

      “Kristen refused to talk about why they divorced, other than to say they had reconcilable differences,” Jillian said. “I figured that meant she thought they’d eventually get back together.”

      “Jason said the same thing. I can’t imagine having someone I loved die so suddenly. I bet it takes a long time to get over it, if you ever do.”

      Jillian’s eyes were on the rose window high above the church’s balcony, but she saw something else. Mark’s face when he’d mentioned his wife. “Maybe that’s why.” Maybe his wife really had died and that had something to do with why he’d run off.

      “Why what?”

      She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. Of course, it didn’t matter why Mark had left, except for her ego. He’d been relegated to a minor facet of a vacation she desperately wished she’d never taken.

      “Sorry, my mind was wandering. Let’s go find Kristen’s family.”

      Chapter 6

      The emergency room at Denver County Hospital was packed, every gray vinyl chair occupied, a half dozen kids propelling plastic toys around the floor. It was noisy, too—people chattering in a cacophony of tones and languages, kids shrieking, an obese man in one corner and a bird-like woman two seats away trying to out-moan each other, a shrill-voiced woman screaming at the calmly nodding secretary stationed behind bulletproof glass. A typical winter weekday, when the combination of colds and flu, snow and ice-related injuries, and simple loneliness resulted in a backup of patients worse than the planes at O’Hare the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

      Jillian punched in a code then stepped through the door into the main exam area. Her co-workers, in their aqua cotton scrubs, hustled between exam rooms and the central desk. The familiar odors of antiseptic and coffee and the sounds of conversation, rubber soles slapping linoleum, and machines beeping loosened her back muscles. She’d felt as if her entire life had been upended and rearranged in some unrecognizable design, but it hadn’t. This important part still existed, unchanged.

      Sarah Williams stopped mid-step when she spotted Jillian. A nurse in the ER, Sarah was also one of Jillian’s best friends. “How are you?” she asked.

      “I’m happy to be here, which I think is a very bad sign. Hi, Mike.” Jillian greeted the assistant ER head, who was sitting at the central desk.

      Mike looked up from the computer he was using. “What are you doing here?”

      “Working.”

      “Aren’t you still on vacation?”

      “I’ll go insane if I stay home one more day.”

      Mike nodded his shaggy head, his eyes on her face. “And you figured the craziness in here would keep you sane. Are you sure you’re okay?”

      So the extra makeup she’d applied hadn’t helped. “You sound like Tom, who gave me his seal of approval, by the way.” Although it had taken a while to convince Dr. Thomas Binger, their egotistical ER chief, that she wasn’t a walking malpractice action.

      “Well, if you can satisfy God, far be it from me to argue,” Mike said, “especially when we need the help.” He stood and picked two charts off the desk. “Since you’re doing us a favor, I’ll let you choose. Would you like door number one—” he waved a chart—”or door number two?”

      “Two.”

      Mike looked down at the chart in his left hand. “Wait until you see what you’ve won. Behind door number two is Mildred Taylor, a seventy-four-year-old female with belly pain. Room 7.”

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