The Best Next Thing

Thankfully that let Charity off the hook again and she relaxed somewhat and dragged out her tablet to adjust and recategorize her shopping list.

When they reached the tiny town, Miles found himself at loose ends. Mrs. Cole clearly didn’t want him to accompany her, that much was evident from the way she leaped from the SUV before George had even brought it to a complete standstill and—her shoulders hunched against the cold wind—proceeded to walk at a brisk pace toward the supermarket.

Miles was left to either jump out and run after her—a humiliating prospect since he wasn’t sure he would catch up with her in his current condition—or explore the town. An equally unappealing thought considering the weather. And since the place literally consisted of one main road lined with shops and a few streets branching off that led to the suburbs, he was pretty sure it would be a very short walk. Not that he had the energy for anything more than that. There was the beach boulevard that, George had informed him earlier, had undergone something of a facelift and rejuvenation thanks to a recent injection of local and foreign investment into the community. But Miles wasn’t certain many of the beachside stores would be open in weather like this.

He was still debating his next move, when George exited the vehicle and opened the sliding door for Miles. His choices were limited to staying in the van with George or wandering around aimlessly. After a brief consideration, he chose the latter and stepped down onto the wet curb.

Fortunately, it had stopped raining, but he nonetheless gratefully accepted the closed, black umbrella that George silently handed him.

“Text if you need me,” George instructed him, and climbed back into the SUV. Miles watched as his driver lifted a tattered paperback and leaned back to read. Feeling thoroughly dismissed, he looked left and then right, wondering which direction would yield the most interesting results. Foot traffic was relatively light, but there were enough people on the streets giving him curious looks to let him know that this was the kind of small town where strangers were viewed with both interest and suspicion.

He coughed and decided to go in the same direction as Mrs. Cole. He wasn’t following her, but if he happened to see her, he could perhaps accompany her on her shopping excursion. He laughed bitterly at himself. How goddamn pathetic that he had been reduced to following around his housekeeper because he felt so lost and weak. He, a man who commanded his own empire, didn’t know what the fuck his next move was going to be, and he was hoping that finding Mrs. Cole would give him some direction at least.

As he walked, his chest drew tight in the frigid air, and he stopped frequently, both to catch his breath as well as to regain his strength. He was grateful for the umbrella, which he was unashamedly using as a walking stick. He doubted he would get very far without it.

What he had believed would be a short, unchallenging walk, was now becoming a nearly insurmountable distance, and he could hear the familiar, horrible wheeze forming in his chest as he battled to breathe. He staggered a little before righting himself, casting a humiliated look around to be sure no one had seen him. Thankfully, everybody seemed preoccupied with their own concerns and, while curious at first, most of the townspeople were now ignoring him.

He leaned on the umbrella and was about to admit defeat and reach for his phone to call George—who was parked just three hundred yards away—when he spotted an A-frame advertising chalkboard ahead. Parked beneath an awning to protect it from the rain, the board sported blue, green, and red chalk curlicued writing to advertise the day’s specials. He had been so focused on his colossal struggle to breathe and walk at the same time that he hadn’t noticed the restaurant at all.

He wasn’t hungry after that delicious brunch, but a cup of coffee while he caught his breath would be most welcome. It took more strength and willpower than he would ever admit to anyone, but he made it to the restaurant, which was open and teeming with customers

A smiling young man welcomed him, led him to a table right beside the window and handed him a menu and a wine list, before assuring him that his waitress would be with him shortly.

He sat down with an appreciative sigh, pretty certain his wobbly legs wouldn’t hold up much longer and glumly contemplated the menu as he considered his appalling weakness. He had possibly been precipitous in inviting himself along this morning. He had always been the kind of man to run instead of walk but this fucking illness had humbled him and—while he would never admit it to anyone—it had terrified him as well.