Wish Me Tomorrow

Exactly how long would that be? Would he teach Tommy and Becca to parallel park? Admire them in their graduation robes? Walk Becca down the aisle and shake Tommy’s hand when each of them got married...hold his grandchildren? His eyes stung at the thought.

He paused on the fourth-floor landing and rubbed his aching calf. It’d never been the same since they’d replaced his diseased fibula with titanium. In fact, nothing seemed the same. Surviving cancer felt like living in a house of cards. At any moment, everything he’d built could fall apart.

A couple of minutes later, he found his door and fumbled for the lock, the metal key scraping against the wooden panels. After several attempts, the tip of the key slipped in. He slammed through the door in an instant.

“Take one more step and it will be your last,” warned a voice in the dark.

O-kay. Not exactly the homecoming he’d looked forward to. He wasn’t used to knocking on his own door.

He peered into the dim room and saw the outline of a slender woman standing on a chair.

“Christie?”

“Eli?”

She clutched something large over her head, the chair wobbling. He lunged as the object—a hefty volume from his bookshelves, he realized—fell from her grip.

“Ouch!”

“Oh, my goodness. Did that hit your foot?”

“Yes,” he grunted, sliding off his shoe to rub his big toe. “Lucky you didn’t get my head.”

She took his offered hand and stepped lightly to the floor. “Lucky you still have my rabbit’s foot.” Her white teeth flashed in the dark.

“I would have preferred steel-toed boots.” He limped into his living room. His very tidy living room, he noticed, now that his eyes were adjusting to the dimness. Had she organized despite what he’d told her?

“How about an ice pack instead?” she called from the kitchen. He heard the freezer door open. “It’s a little melted, but still cold.”

“Sounds fine.” He looked around the candlelit room. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, meaning it, to his surprise.

She’d lined up their shoes and arranged Tommy’s action figures in dramatic poses. The sewing area resembled a tailor shop with Becca’s costume materials sorted and folded. Wow. He’d never spend another hour searching for lavender sequins again. Christie’s version of order felt homey rather than sterile. Perhaps he’d been wrong to insist on the chaos.

“Oh, about that—” She leaned close to place a cold bag across his toes. “I clean when I worry. When you asked me not to touch your things, it was too late.” She sat beside him on the couch. “But since the kids went to bed, I’ve been making it messy again.” She gestured to a few books and pillows on the floor.

This was her version of a mess? He almost laughed until he took in her apologetic expression.

“It’s fine.” He spread his hands, glad she hadn’t headed out the door as soon as he returned home. He was way too keyed up to sleep, and he couldn’t deny he just flat-out wanted to know more about her. “Actually, it’s great. Really.”

Her soft sigh whispered past his ear as she settled deeper into a corner of the sectional. “That’s a relief. How’s John?”

“Good. He’s gotten back most of his movement and all of his speech.” He inhaled her wildflower scent, the subtle aroma wreaking havoc with his senses. Stay focused. “In fact, he asked for some Jameson.”

She laughed, the jubilant sound infectious. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed sharing a laugh with a woman. Strange. He’d won back his life, but he hadn’t really been living it, he realized. There was danger in wanting things, in dreaming of a future when you couldn’t guarantee tomorrow.

“John will be asking to go to the White Horse Tavern, then.”

“Have you been there?” It was a popular neighborhood pub. Did she live in SoHo?

“My gran lives on Bleecker and I’m on Spring. I take her there every Sunday after church.”

The contradictory nature of cities, living near people you never met, surprised him anew. What would have happened had they run into each other years ago?

“Is she Irish?” he asked. A breeze from an open window blew her fragrant hair against his cheek.

“To be sure,” she said with an exaggerated inflection then laughed. “Gran immigrated when she was twenty.” She pulled her hair back and began braiding. “How did you know?”

He resisted the urge to touch the soft strands tickling his neck. “Something in your voice. And this.” He held out her lucky rabbit’s foot.

Her fingers brushed his as she took it.

“I wished I’d had it when your elevator trapped me.”

He frowned. His super would get a call tomorrow. First the power, now this. That gate was a menace. “How long were you stuck?”

Her laughter sounded again in the softly lit room. “No more than a minute. But it was enough. I’m claustrophobic. And a bit dramatic, if I’m honest. Perhaps I should have gone into acting instead of nursing—well, pediatric grief counseling now.”

“No,” he exclaimed. Her face reflected the surprise he felt at his outburst. Well, now he’d need to explain. “You’re so good at what you do. Trust me. You’d never want to go into entertainment.”

She cocked her head and toyed with the fringe on a pillow. “And why is that, I wonder?”

“I’ve photographed actors and models. It’s an artificial world and you, you’re so—” He grappled with how to finish his thought.

“It’s all right.” She looked down at her hands. “I know I’m no beauty.”

What? He studied the adorable tilt of her nose and the curve of her generous lower lip, the shadowed light enhancing her unique looks. She had occupied his thoughts the better part of the night and didn’t have a clue.

“You’re real,” he said, figuring it was safe to admit that much. “That’s the only difference.”

“Oh.” Silence stretched between them. “Don’t you like working with beautiful women every day?”

“It was a paycheck.” Makeup and hair extensions didn’t add up to beauty in his eyes.

“Was?”

“Now I run my own graphic-design business from home. But I used to work for Faire du Charme magazine.” He held up one of the glossy publications fanned on his coffee table. Where on earth had she found it? He thought he’d gotten rid of them all.

Christie leafed through the pages. “Impressive. Why did you leave?”

“My ex-wife is the assistant to the editor-in-chief...as well as his current spouse.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.” She studied a large picture on the wall beside his TV. Its simple black frame set off rows of waving corn and a red tractor beneath a hazy purple sky. “Is that what you photograph now?”

He wished. Artistic photography was a financial gamble. To provide for Jacqueline’s expensive lifestyle, he’d put aside his dream of showing his work in a gallery. Once his illness arrived, and she left, he’d lost interest in photography altogether. That was, until he’d seen Christie. Her mobile face made him itch to capture every expression.

“Haven’t taken a picture in over two years. I took that one seventeen years ago, the day I graduated high school. Working that farm paid for my ticket to New York.” He stood and walked toward the kitchen, his foot recovered. “Would you like something to drink?”

“That’s okay,” she replied. “I probably should get going.”