She felt like she was intruding. Like when she’d realized Mark hadn’t meant for her to see him without his hood. One of the men smiled at her, and she relaxed. If he could smile while being hooked up to whatever these machines were doing, what claim did she have to be uncomfortable?
In a corner chair next to a window, a woman with a silk scarf wrapped around her head was already waving them over.
Mark grinned. “There she is.” He reached her and took her outstretched hand. “Carmen, how are you?”
She beamed up at him, pale, but bright-eyed. “Oh, I’m wonderful. Thank you. I’m so happy to see you. Tell me your name again?”
Mark didn’t blink an eye at not being remembered. “Mark Rivers.”
“Yes, Mark! You come to help me when they’re done with me. Oh, forgive me for not remembering.”
“That’s all right. Carmen, this is my friend, Riley Madigan.”
The woman shifted her gaze. “Riley Madigan, what a beautiful name.” She held out her hand, and Riley took it. Her grip was soft, her hand cold. “You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t remember names well. Sometimes I forget information I’ve just been given, but I can remember all kinds of other things.”
“That’s all right,” Riley said, unable to look away from the woman’s pale blue eyes. She couldn’t guess her age. Maybe fifty? “It’s nice to meet you. Mark’s been mysterious about where he was taking me today.”
“He has?” She turned to Mark. “Oh, that’s not very nice, bringing such a pretty girl here. And you didn’t tell her anything?”
He shrugged as a nurse came over to start working with the machine next to Carmen. “I told her there would be blood.”
Carmen put her hand over her mouth, covering her laugh.
Mark leaned toward her. “Nothing wrong with coming here. All the prettiest girls are here, after all.”
“Oh, you!” Carmen shook her head fondly at Mark and smiled at Riley.
She was sweetness and light in a body no bigger than Riley’s. Frail, maybe, but not enough wrinkles to be old.
The nurse took a seat on the rolling stool.
Carmen reached for the nurse’s arm. “Mark, Riley, this is nurse Amy. All the nurses here are so nice. Oh—Mark, you probably already know that.” Carmen rolled her eyes at herself.
Mark turned his attention to Amy as she started clamping tubes and unhooking things. Carmen distracted Riley with talk.
“Riley . . . It’s Riley, right? That’s a beautiful name. And you’re a beautiful girl. Isn’t she beautiful, Mark?”
Mark grinned, trying to focus on Amy’s instruction.
“Oh, look,” Carmen said. “I’ve made him blush. Riley, what do you do? Are you from . . . Where is Mark from? Cashmere?”
“Miracle Creek,” Riley answered. “I’m a new teacher there.”
Amy tied a rubber strap around Carmen’s upper arm and removed the tubing from its place above her inner elbow.
“What do you teach?”
“Art.” Riley glanced to see Mark take Amy’s place next to Carmen, applying pressure at the vein site with his own hands. Amy slid off the stool, and Mark sat down.
As Amy removed the rubber strap, Carmen gasped. They all looked, alarmed at the sound, but Carmen only exclaimed, “You’re an art teacher!”
Mark and Amy exchanged smiles, and the nurse made a few more checks and left them.
Riley blinked at the smooth transition of everything, noting that Mark had never once tried to hide his right side from anyone here. She glanced at Carmen, who still waited for a response.
“Yes,” she said. “I teach art.” Brilliant, Madigan.
Mark chuckled, and Riley threw him a glare as she sat in a nearby rolling chair.
Mark leaned closer to Carmen’s arm, adding pressure with both hands stacked on top of each other. They moved with a slight thump-thump of Carmen’s pulse. He looked up at Riley, catching her watching. “Carmen’s an artist, too.”
Riley looked from him, as he literally held in the woman’s life blood, to Carmen. Carmen’s eyes were wide as she nodded.
“In what medium?” Riley asked.
Carmen rested her head against her recliner. “Watercolor, mostly. At least, I used to. I had a stroke. My kidneys failed—I almost died—while I was in the hospital trying to—” She looked at Mark.
“Recover.”
“Yes, recover from the stroke.” She lifted her right arm, the one she’d given Riley when they were introduced. “I lost a lot of muscle control on my right side, so . . .” She looked around, as if searching for the right word. “Umm, partial paralysis. That’s why I need someone to come and put pressure on my arm. I can’t do it myself like the other patients.”
“I’m happy to help,” Mark murmured.
Carmen patted his arm. “I’m unable to paint anymore. The stroke is why I don’t remember the way I used to. I forget new information quickly. Sometimes I lose words. I had to learn to read all over again! My grown daughter taught me, if you can believe that. I picked up a magazine after the stroke, and I thought, why would anybody give me this magazine? I thought it was written in Latvian or something! I don’t know Latvian.”
Riley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“But I can remember a lot of other things.” She took Riley’s hand again. “You’re . . . Riley.”
Riley nodded, and Carmen smiled, pleased.
Riley was struck both by the magnitude of loss this woman had suffered and by how much joy she still exuded. “I’d love to see something you’ve painted.”
Carmen’s eyes lit up. “I have some pieces around town, you know.”
“Carmen has done commission pieces for fruit growers all over,” Mark said. “Families have had her paint pictures of their homes in the orchards or vineyards.”
Carmen nodded. “And I think . . . yes, I’m sure . . . I knew
