Bad Influence

“Sorry I’m late. I was at the allergist and then I had to go home first.”

“The allergist?”

“Yeah. Kev and I want to get a dog, but they make me sneeze and puff up, so we wanted to see if we could do anything about it.”

“First living together, now a pet? Our little baby’s getting so grown-up,” Cilla choked, dabbing at her eyes.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Kelly replied. “So has anyone here ever gotten allergy shots? They do a bunch of tests on you beforehand—pregnancy, infections, everything. Then they draw this grid on you and poke you with little bits of all kinds of stuff to see which square gets red.”

“And you found out you’re allergic to housecleaning,” Sabrina guessed.

“I don’t know. We never got that far. I was sitting there in the examining room in my little paper prom dress, waiting for them to do the grid thing, and the doctor comes in and says they can’t do it.”

The waiter stopped by. “Your cranberry juice.”

“Thanks.” Kelly picked it up and took a drink. “Says the tests showed up some unexpected results and they’re going to have to reschedule on the allergy stuff because I’m—”

“Pregnant!” Delaney squealed.

“You’re pregnant?” Paige demanded just as her cell phone shrilled. Impatiently she pulled it out to turn it off. Then she recognized the area code on the display and frowned. “Hello?”

“Paige, honey?” She heard her grandfather’s voice. “I need your help.”

T HE EMERGENCY ROOM smelled like antiseptic and floor polish from the big industrial-size buffer a cleaning staffer was running in the hall. Paige ignored the machine and hurried up to the counter and the admitting clerk. “Hi, I’m Paige Favreau. My grandfather is in here. Lyndon Favreau?” she supplied. “He’s been in a car accident.”

The clerk nodded and clicked some keys on her computer. “You’ll have to wait just a minute.”

“Can I just go back? He knows I’m coming,” said Paige in a rush. “He called me on his cell phone.” He’d said he was fine, but that didn’t explain why he’d been taken to the emergency room.

And why he wasn’t waiting out front to be driven home, as she’d expected.

At the clerk’s glance, Paige smoothed her hair self-consciously. The frantic hour-and-a-half drive from L.A. had to have taken its toll. The more sober and sedate she looked, the more likely she was to get cooperation.

“You’ll have to wait,” the clerk repeated. “Please sit down and we’ll call you.”

It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Granted, her grandfather had sounded in pretty good shape when he’d called her from the scene of the accident, but he was eighty, after all.

“I’m a family member. Can’t I just go in to him?”

“Not until we get his approval.”

Paige battled frustration and lost. “That’s ridiculous. He called me. All I want to do is see him.”

The clerk looked at her. “Legally we can’t notify anyone of anything without his consent and we’ve got our hands full with other cases right now. We’ll get to you when we can.”

Glowering, Paige stalked back into the waiting area. Ridiculous, she lectured herself. He was probably fine. To hear him tell it, it had only been a fender bender. Still, until he was completely checked out and had a doctor’s release, she wasn’t going to be able to completely relax.

It happened that way when your only other living relative was a father who lived permanently overseas.

“Makes you want to strangle someone, doesn’t it?” a voice said cheerfully, and Paige turned to see a rough-looking guy sprawled in a chair against the wall, lanky legs stretched out ahead of him on the carpet.

Perfect. Just who she’d expect to run into in an emergency room, she thought, looking at his stubbled jaw. A gleam of white teeth glinted below his black Pancho Villa mustache. It made him look like one of those bandits who’d ridden along the border back in the Wild West days.

Probably waiting for a buddy who’d gotten knifed in a bar fight, before they hopped on their Harleys and headed off to the next biker rally.

“I’m sure they’re doing the best they can,” she said to herself as much as to him.

He winked. “You could just break the rules and walk in,” he suggested sotto voce.

Paige gave him a meaningless smile and chose a chair on the other side of the room. She had more things to worry about than shady-looking men with lawbreaking friends. She picked up a women’s magazine from the table next to her and leafed restlessly through Christmas cookie recipes and instructions on making appliquéd throw pillows for every holiday of the year. Even at the best of times it wouldn’t have grabbed her attention. Now, concentrating on anything was impossible.

To one side, a group of people who were obviously related sat around a tense couple. She wasn’t the only one who was worried about her loved one, Paige realized. From the white knuckles on the woman’s hands, there were far worse things going on that night.

“Paige Favreau?” A nurse stood at the door to the E.R.

Paige rose.

Behind the door, the emergency room was a scene of controlled confusion. Nurses and orderlies bustled to and fro, carrying basins, pushing gurneys or patients in wheelchairs. Her stomach tightened.

And then she saw her grandfather.

Lyndon Favreau lay in the bed with his eyes closed, looking subdued and uncomfortably frail. His thick, wavy gray hair was disheveled. He’d hate it if anyone saw him looking like that, she knew, and crossed to him to straighten it.

His eyes opened. “What? Oh, Paige. How are you, sweetie?”

“I’m fine. What I want to know is how are you?” No IV, she saw in relief. No obvious bandages. Only his eyes looked funny, a little glassy and unfocused. “The doctor won’t tell me anything until they get the go-ahead from you.”

“Tight-lipped bunch here.” Lyndon nodded wisely, but his head bobbled a little. “I’m fine. You know me, raring to go.”

He giggled and Paige blinked. In the thirty years she’d been alive, she couldn’t ever remember hearing her grandfather giggle. Laugh often. Giggle? Never. What the hell was going on?

“Are you the granddaughter?” She turned to see a tall white-coated man with tired eyes and a kind smile. He put out a hand. “I’m Rich Patterson, the staff doctor.”

“Paige Favreau,” she responded, studying him. He was younger than she’d have expected, though judging by the lines around his eyes, he’d seen plenty.

“Don’t mind him,” he said with a nod at Lyndon. “He’s a little out of it because we gave him some painkillers.”

“Painkillers? What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing serious, we don’t think.” He had a nice voice, soothing. His eyes were hazel, she noticed. “He’s a little banged up. He’s complaining of chest pain. It’s okay,” Patterson assured her immediately. “I really don’t think it’s serious. Probably rib or cartilage damage from the accident, but we have to check it out. We’ll keep him overnight for observation.”

Head spinning, she listened to the litany. Broken wrist, sprained ankle, CT scan to rule out head injury. “He called me from here over an hour and a half ago and he seemed fine,” she protested. And she couldn’t understand why so far nothing had been done.

“He is fine, but we just need to be a little bit careful. He’s had to wait because we had a car flip on the highway with four kids,” he added as though he’d read her thoughts.

The families in the waiting room, she thought immediately.

“We’ve been busy trying to get them put back together. Now it’s Lyndon’s turn. This could take a while,” Patterson warned. “You might as well go out into the waiting room. It’s more comfortable.”