It seemed there was something else she wanted to say but didn’t.
She had offered to leave the girls with her mother and come to Jackson right away to see him, but he told her not to.
“I’m more tired than hurt,” he said, fixing his eyes on a blank television screen to keep them from closing, “and there’s a lot I need to do in the next couple of days. Remember that missing notebook I told you about?”
He could not remember how their conversation had concluded. What had he told her? Had he outlined his suspicions? If he had, he couldn’t remember her response. The details weren’t there, but what stayed with him as he dressed was a recollection of vague misconnection, as if they had been talking past each other, telling each other different stories, each with a point that the other didn’t, or couldn’t, grasp.
“So you’ve decided you’re fine and you’ll release yourself from the hospital?” Dr. Thompson said. “Usually a doctor does that. Namely me.”
Joe was standing with his back to the door, cinching up his belt. He turned to see Dr. Thompson holding a clipboard chart and leaning against the doorjamb. “I needed a good night’s sleep more than anything,” Joe said.
“I don’t disagree with your prognosis, given your, um, condition.”
Joe was confused.
“Let me look at your wound and get it redressed,” Thompson said. “Then we should probably have a little talk. You need to start taking better care of yourself, Mr. Pickett.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Joe said. “Am I sick?” He thought of how he had felt since arriving in Jackson, the foggy mental state, the sleeplessness, his lack of ability to concentrate. He steeled himself for bad news.
Thompson looked at Joe with amusement in his eyes, as if signaling him they could drop the pretense.
“Look, I’m a doctor, not a cop,” Thompson said. “The blood test we took last night is confidential information. No one can find out what’s on it. But you seem like a nice enough guy, and you have law enforcement responsibilities, and you carry lots of guns around with you. So you need to be aware of the side effects of your, um, indulgences.”
“My what?”
“First, take off your shirt and let me look at that wound.”
Stella Ennis was waiting for him in the hospital lobby, and the sight of her stopped him cold. She looked up at him over the top of a Jackson Hole newspaper.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Not as good as I thought, apparently.” His voice was shaky from the discussion he’d had with Dr. Thompson.
“You look pretty good,” she said, smiling.
“You do too.”
She laughed, throwing her head back. “You should have seen me ten years and fifteen pounds ago. I would have blown you away.”
She wore a black turtleneck sweater with silver and gold threads running through the fabric, and gray slacks. Her thick auburn hair brushed her shoulders. She shook the newspaper with exaggerated force.
“Did you know you’re a celebrity?” she asked.
“No.”
“How about I buy you breakfast?” “Okay.”
“We need to talk.”
“Yes,” Joe said, “we do.”
The morning was crisp and bright, the sun not yet well enough established to have burned the frost off windshields and lawns. They walked along a slick wooden sidewalk to a restaurant near the hospital that was crowded. The place specialized in baked goods and had a sign out front that read get your buns in here.
“I used to love this place,” Stella said, taking him by the hand and leading him past it, “but I’m a little too familiar in there and it isn’t as good as it used to be. Let’s go to the Sportsman’s Cafe.”
“That’s my favorite,” Joe said.
“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It was Will’s favorite too.”
Ed seated them in the back booth near the kitchen door, and Joe ordered the Sportsman’s Special. Stella smiled knowingly at the order.
“I know,” Joe said. “Will’s choice too.”
“It’s spooky,” she said, ordering coffee and a bagel.
Joe looked at her across the table, and she looked straight back. Her name had come up so many times since he’d met her. He’d thought about her, even dreamed about her. The fact that he hadn’t told Marybeth about her said more than he cared to think about. When Stella looked back at him he had the impression he’d been on her mind as well, but he wasn’t sure in what context. It was as if they’d been circling each other for days, each looking for an opening.
“You start,” she said.
He sipped his coffee, burning his tongue. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had breakfast with a woman other than my wife,” he said.
