P.s. Love You Madly. Bethany Campbell

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      “Dad,” he said, “my main concern is that you and Trina have an understanding about certain things. For instance, there’s—”

      “Later, son,” John said with surprising gentleness. “Don’t worry about Trina. Take care of yourself.”

      “Dad—”

      “Goodbye for now. Get some rest.”

      The line hummed meaninglessly in his ear. He opened his eyes long enough to hang up the receiver, then sank back against the pillow.

      Oh, hell, he thought bleakly. That’s another bloody thing. I need to call Trina—or she’ll worry.

      But for a moment he needed to lie there, his eyes shut against the erratic ebb and flow of the pain in his skull. He told himself he would choose his words carefully for Trina, rehearse them to perfection.

      But he did not. Exhaustion covered him like a dark blanket. He slept.

      DARCY GOT OUT of the hospital elevator lugging Sloan’s leather overnighter in one hand. In the other she carried a bunch of wildflowers, a gesture she now supposed was ridiculous.

      She’d made a card with a foolish cartoon face on it and had tied it with a ribbon to the clay vase. She’d pondered fretfully over the message and finally settled on the highly unoriginal but dependable Wishing You a Speedy Recovery.

      She had brushed her hair and let it hang loose. She had changed her T-shirt for a white silk shirt and a vest she’d made of interesting silk scraps. But otherwise, she hadn’t dressed up. Whether he found her attractive was of no concern to her, she told herself. None at all.

      Yet she was nervous as she approached his room. It was an odd, silly kind of nervousness that she connected with very young girls who have just discovered the opposite sex. She hadn’t felt it in years, and it unsettled her to feel it now.

      Maybe he won’t be in his room, she thought with edgy hope. Maybe they’ll have him off somewhere immunizing his blood or x-raying his head.

      His room was number 1437, and its door was open only a few inches. She raised the hand with the flowers to give the door frame a hesitant knock, but the door itself opened. She found herself staring into the eyes of a tiny, wizened little nun.

      “Oh,” she breathed, startled.

      The nun looked her up and down without emotion.

      “Mr. English,” Darcy said in a hospital whisper. “I’ve brought his overnight case and some—” she gestured self-consciously “—flowers. Is it all right to go in?”

      “He’s sleeping,” said the nun. “He shouldn’t be disturbed.”

      “Oh,” Darcy repeated. She felt both relief and a strange disappointment. Behind the little nun, she could see the hospital room, and it looked so bland and joyless that she was glad she’d brought the flowers.

      In the bed, she saw Sloan English’s long form stretched out beneath a sheet and thin blanket. His face was turned away from her. His brown hair seemed dark against the stark whiteness of the pillowcase.

      “I’ll take these things,” the little nun said firmly. She commandeered the flowers and tried to take possession of the suitcase.

      “No, no,” protested Darcy, “it’s too heavy. Let me.”

      For a moment, the nun’s cold fingers rested next to hers on the case’s handle. She studied Darcy’s face as if it were a book with large print, and she could read everything in it with no difficulty whatsoever.

      “As you wish,” she said without emotion. Silently she turned and placed the vase of flowers on the bedside tray. She nodded at the bureau, and her meaning was clear: Put the case down there. Quietly.

      Darcy obeyed. Carefully she set down the overnight bag so it would make no noise. Then she turned to leave.

      On the bed, Sloan stirred, and his head turned. She could see his face, and although illness had whittled it too lean, there was still beauty in the strong, fine bones of it. The cheekbones were high and sharp, the jawline strong, the chin stubborn and marked by a deep cleft. His nose had an aquiline curve that reminded her of a Roman prince.

      The face was almost in repose, but even in sleep the dark brows drew together as if trying to frown. His lashes were thick and black, like blades of jet.

      Her heart seemed to spin out of her body, as if it were trying to hurl itself into some higher, more intense world. She took in a sharp but soundless breath. She lost herself in staring at him.

      She was an artist, and she knew comeliness when she saw it, but she saw more than just handsomeness in his sleeping face. There was a solitariness about this man that was both touching and disturbing.

      Then the nun motioned toward the door, and Darcy understood. She should go. She stole one last glance at Sloan, then ducked her head and left, feeling guilty.

      The nun followed, easing the door shut behind them. She looked up at Darcy.

      Darcy’s heart had come home to her, but it felt changed. “Will he—will he be all right?” she asked.

      “If we can tie him down and make him rest,” said the woman.

      “I never heard of Malay fever before,” said Darcy. “Is it bad?”

      “He obviously had a bad case. It could have killed him,” said the little nun, looking her up and down again. “This relapse should be a lesson to him. Make sure he pays attention. He needs to learn to stop and smell the flowers. I’d take good care of him, if I were you.”

      Darcy gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “He’s not mine.”

      The woman gave her a look that told her not to argue.

      “You brought the flowers, didn’t you? Maybe you’re supposed to teach the lesson, too.”

      She turned and glided off, leaving Darcy standing alone.

      The faintest scent of wildflowers still hovered in the antiseptic air.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      SLOAN AWOKE to a fragile, foreign perfume that he couldn’t identify. It was so delicate that he at first thought he was having some sort of rare hallucination of the nose.

      It would go away, he thought; all he had to do was open his eyes.

      A hard job, but he was the man for it.

      Yet when he forced his heavy lids to raise, the scent did not fade, and his vision was filled by an unexpected kaleidoscope of color.

      Flowers. He frowned. Someone had brought him flowers. But not from a florist. This was no formal and formulaic bouquet, its design picked from a catalog and its flowers arranged by rote.

      No, the flowers were a wild profusion of untamed color—brilliant scarlets, vivid yellows, and blues as profoundly deep as the spring sky.

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