The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys 1)

I looked up from the list. “Hot Pockets?”

Dr. Johnson shrugged with a grin. “We all have our guilty pleasures. I can eat an entire bag of Smarties candy if I’m not careful.”

I grinned. “Same. Smarties are life. Thank you, Dr. Johnson.”

“Good luck.”

I left the Medical Center and drove through Santa Cruz with its little shops, cafes, and greenery. My hometown was smack in the middle of a forest, at the edge of the coast, and butted up against a mountain range. It had all its geographical bases covered and was, in my eyes, the most beautiful place on earth.

The Whitmores lived near my neighborhood on Quarry Lane. I pulled into the drive of a house that was smaller than mine but new. Two stories with a two-car garage and another garage that looked added on at the side. The door was open and the skeleton of a car and various parts were strewn all over. I guessed Mr. Whitmore liked to take his work from his auto body shop home with him.

There was no sign of River’s Chevy Silverado.

At the front door, I rang the bell. It chimed inside, and after a few moments, a dark-haired woman about my mom’s age answered. She threw open the door with gusto and a wide smile.

“Are you from the hospital?”

I nodded. “Violet McNamara. And you are…?”

“Dazia Horvat,” she said, eyeing me up and down. “Nance’s best friend. Look at you. Doe eyes. Sweet face. Thank you for being here. Come in, come in.”

I followed Dazia into the house, the woman chatting in a faint accent I couldn’t place about one of the nurses she didn’t like, how nice the weather had been, and how Nancy loved tea but couldn’t have it too hot.

I listened while taking in my surroundings. Photos lined the wall up the stairs—River as a baby, as a toddler, playing pee-wee football and looking almost buried under the gear. Family portraits, one taken for every year: Mr. Whitmore, big, dark hair, smiling brightly. River, like a younger version of his dad. His little sister Amelia, three years younger, gap-toothed and smiling as a toddler, beautiful as a teenager. And Nancy…

My throat caught. Bright, vibrant. Blue eyes and dark blond hair and a smile that shown with happiness.

Outside the master bedroom, I inhaled deeply.

Dazia knocked on the door. “You decent?” She shot me a wink, then led me inside.

The Nancy lying in bed did not resemble the woman from the photos. This woman was thin, frail, wit

h a scarf around her head. No eyebrows or lashes, but her eyes…

She’s still there. She’s all there.

“Hi, Violet,” Nancy said. “So nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I said and fought back sudden tears. Not because I pitied her but because of the sudden, strange desire I had to be with this woman and take care of her in these last, sacred moments of her life. But I pulled myself together, determined not to fall apart on the first day—the first minute—of my job.

“You know my son, River?”

“Yes. Not well, but…yes.”

“He speaks highly of you.”

“He does?” I lowered my voice. “I mean…that’s nice. I think highly of him too.”

Oh my God, shoot me now.

But Nancy was gracious enough to pretend not to notice I’d turned pink to my roots.

“He’s so busy with football practice and games these days. I don’t see him much.”

Sadness infiltrated the room like a fog.

Dazia pulled the blanket higher over her friend and patted her leg. “He’s a popular kid. That’s all. Busy, busy, busy. Isn’t that right, Violet?”