to other decisions she’d be facing. But she seemed mired in that same cold emptiness she’d experienced in the car yesterday. Feeling a kind of bleak disconnection, too; her mind wouldn’t stay focused. Why? Because at some level she wasn’t convinced a divorce was the right choice after all?
Pace, sip wine, listen to the storm battering the cottage, watch the quivery candlelight and firelight to keep from watching the stationary darkness. She’d never wanted to leave a place more than she wanted out of this one, a feeling as irrational as her borderline nyctophobia. There was really nothing menacing or unpleasant about the cottage or its setting. It was just the wrong place at the wrong time, a symbol, a catalyst. No matter what happened in the future, she knew she would look back on her time here with a sense of loathing.
Rattling at the door, an inrush of wind and wet for a couple of seconds: Jay was back.
He came in breathing hard, jammed the door shut with his body and then threw the bolt. Under the brim of his rain hat, his face was a pale oval slicked with wetness. Shelby went to the kitchen for a dish towel while he shed his rain gear and gloves. The legs of his Levi’s were soaked almost to the knee, the rest of his clothing clinging from water that had gotten in under the oilskin.
“What did Lomax say?”
“Didn’t talk to him,” Jay said as he dried his face and neck. “Couldn’t get in past the gates. He had them closed, padlocked with a chain.”
“Can’t blame him, after what happened to Gene Decker.”
“I could’ve climbed over, but I didn’t want to risk it.”
“Illegal trespass,” she said.
“Yeah. Get my ass shot off.” He bent to pick up the sodden hat and coat he’d dropped on the carpet; his breathing was still labored when he straightened.
“Are you all right?”
He answered the question with a dismissive gesture. “Nothing any of us can do in the dark anyway, while it’s blowing like this. Have to wait for daylight.”
“You’d better get out of those wet clothes and into the shower. There’ll be hot water in the tank.”
“Okay.”
“Here, give me those. I’ll hang them up on the porch.”
He handed over the coat and hat. “I tried moving the tree with the car before I drove down there,” he said. “No use. Too big, and I couldn’t get any traction. I don’t think Lomax’s SUV can move it either. Chain saw’s our best bet. He’d better have one.”
“We’ll worry about that tomorrow. Go on, get into the shower.”
“Pour me a glass of wine while I’m in there?”
“Yes.”
He went off down the hall, carrying one of the candles. Shelby finished her wine as she poured a glass for Jay. Another glass? Might as well. Three glasses of inexpensive chardonnay should have had her feeling mildly buzzed, but not on this miserable night. The wine might as well have been tap water for all the effect it was having on her.
She relit another couple of snuffed candlewicks, then went to put a pair of logs on the banking fire. It wasn’t really cold in there, but she felt chilled just the same. Maybe she’d take a quick shower herself when Jay was finished. Once she’d have just gone in and joined him, to conserve the hot water, but that kind of intimacy was unthinkable now.
The fresh wood began to crackle, radiating heat against her back. But it didn’t take the chill away. Bone deep. A mound of blankets and comforters wouldn’t make her warm again tonight.
What was taking him so long in there?
Three minutes was his usual shower limit. And he wouldn’t use up what was left of the hot water, would he?
She picked up a candle, followed its light into the bedroom.
He was in there, not in the bathroom, dressed in dry trousers and a long-sleeved shirt and sitting slumped on the far side of the bed. The room was cold, very cold—the fire’s heat didn’t reach back here—but for some reason he’d failed to button the shirt. The candle he’d brought in was on the dresser in front of him; its trembling flame created a restless play of shadows across his face, so that the skin seemed to be rippling like dark water.
“Jay?”
He mumbled something she couldn’t hear over the wailing and whining of the storm.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you feeling well?”
He winced as if with a sudden spasm, lifted a hand, and then let it drop onto his lap.
Shelby went around the bed, bent to hold the candle up close to his face. It was difficult to tell in the pale light, but his color didn’t look good. She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. Cool, sweaty. And his respiration seemed even more labored.
Red flags. Alarm bells.
“Do you have any pain?”
No answer.
“Dammit, Jay. Do you have any pain?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
He winced again, squeezed his eyes shut.
“Answer me. Where do you hurt?”
“… Chest. Left arm.”
“Anywhere else?” she asked. “Radiating down your arm, into your back?”
“No.”
“Describe the pain to me. Sharp, dull, crushing … what?”
“Like a … hand squeezing.”
“How much trouble getting your breath?”
“A little.”
“Nauseous?”
“A little.”
“How bad was the pain when it started? Scale of one to ten.”
“… Five, six.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know … not as bad. Three, four.”
“Tingling sensation in your fingers?”
“Yes.”
“Lie back on the bed, knees up,” she said, and helped him into that position. She felt his neck—the veins weren’t distended. And there was no pedal edema in his feet and ankles. Quickly she got a blanket from the closet and covered him with it. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
She hurried to the utility porch, swept her raincoat off the hook, found the car keys, and ran outside with the coat draped over her head. Her jump bag was in the Prius’s trunk, where she always kept it for work and emergencies. She rushed back inside with it, stopping on the way for another lighted candle. In the bedroom she set the bag on the bureau, opened it.
Stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, pulse oximeter, bottle of chewable baby aspirin. She pulled the blanket down to expose Jay’s chest, listened to his lungs with the stethoscope. Slightly wet-sounding. She clipped the oximeter to his index finger, then took his pulse. Rapid, too rapid—125 beats per minute. Rolled up one shirtsleeve, strapped the cuff around his arm, pumped it up, read the pressure gauge by candle flame. 185 over 100. High. Checked the digital reading on the oximeter: 92 percent blood oxygen saturation. Low, on the edge of the danger zone.
“Am I going to die?” he said.
“Not if I can prevent it.”
She buttoned his shirt, pulled the blanket back up under his chin.
“… Pills,” he said.
