He laughs. “I told you I’m not mad. I’m not going to admonish you, just give you some advice. Don’t talk to the press again, at all. You see a reporter, you walk the other way around. Promise?”
“Sure.”
“I mean it. You don’t want to become their target. It’s exhausting.” He takes one hand from my lap, bringing it to his mouth and kissing my knuckles.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” I say.
“They are. Don’t need them to do this.” He turns my hand around, kisses my palm. “That was a sweet thing you did. I thought I was an expert at loving you, but you make me fall in love more every day.”
I smile, shimmying in my seat. “See? I don’t need sugar. All I need is you sweet-talking and I’m walking on sunshine.”
We reach the airport far too soon for my taste, but just in the nick of time for him to catch his plane. He gives me a hurried kiss and a “take care,” and then he’s gone.
***
The day drudges on slower than ever, leaving me too much time to think, to worry. About what in particular, I don’t know, but there is a nasty feeling in my stomach, and it won’t go away. By noon, a statement from Daniel’s company is published, and by the end of the day, Beatrix and her fiancé release one too, assuring everyone it was just a nasty rumor and their wedding plans are continuing without a hitch.
I’m not mentioned anywhere, which gives me some peace of mind. When I get home, I decide my funk is just about Daniel leaving, the prospect of being one week without him, and the lack of sleep from last night catching up with me.
After a quick dinner, I head straight to my bedroom. I’m about to change into my pajamas when I notice one of Daniel’s T-shirts by the bed. He must have forgotten it here. Smiling, I pick it up, sniff it tentatively. Smells worn, but in a pleasant way. It smells like Daniel, so I wear it to bed, feeling a little closer to him this way.
I wake up with a start before my alarm rings. Light is streaming from outside, so it’s morning already. Did I sleep in? Forget to set my alarm? Confused, I blink, look around the room, then realize the source of the disturbance. My phone is ringing; the caller is a number I don’t recognize.
Briefly, I consider not answering. What if it’s a reporter? Well, if it is, I can just hang up. This could be important. Keeping my fingers crossed, I answer.
“Hello?”
“Is this Miss Caroline Dunne?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m calling from the San Francisco General Hospital. Your father was just brought in, and you’re listed as his emergency contact.”
I jump out of bed so fast I nearly sprain my ankle. “Is he all right? What happened to him?”
“We don’t know what happened, but he suffered a fall.”
“How—how is he?” I hold my breath, my throat clogging up.
“Nothing certain yet. We’re going to take him up for a scan shortly, do some more tests. Do you want to keep him company in between tests?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be out the door in ten minutes. Five. Tell my dad I’ll be there, okay? I’ll be there. What floor?”
I commit all the details to memory, then end the call. I’m out the door in four minutes.
At the hospital, it’s not so easy to find my dad. Turns out the details she gave me on the phone weren’t correct. Or maybe my mind’s so scattered that I memorized it wrong. That’s a possibility.
“Please check your records,” I beg the receptionist.
“Miss, our computer system is down at the moment,” she repeats for the third time. “I’ll tell you as soon as they start back up. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
I can barely hold back my frustration.
“Have you tried calling your father?”
I nearly want to slap myself because of course I haven’t thought about calling him. What an idiot I am. He’ll tell me where he is. Except if he’s too weak, or too sick, but I refuse to consider that possibility. Drawing in a deep breath, I step away from the reception desk, into a quieter corner, and dial his number. It rings, and rings, and rings, then goes to voice mail. Panic flares through me, but I dial again. This time, he answers.
“Hey, baby girl.” His voice is so weak it scares me.