Maureen gathered her things. “I don’t know. On Saturday, I think.”
Emma nodded, striving to push down the hollow feeling that seemed to be expanding in her belly and pressing up on her chest cavity. What should it matter to her if he was gone? He was confusing and rude and it was better to be rid of him altogether.
It matters, a stubborn voice in her head said. She tried to ignore that, too.
She hastened to the bedroom, where she sunk into the upholstered chair next to Cristina’s bed. She saw what Maureen meant. Cristina’s color was terrible and she looked so tiny and shrunken lying there on the grand, luxurious bed.
“Cristina?” Emma called, seeing her patient’s eyelids flicker. “It’s me, Emma.”
Cristina rolled her head on the pillow and regarded her with rheumy, crusted eyes.
“There you are,” she mouthed, her voice barely above a whisper. “My confessor.”
Emma smiled and stood. “Hold on to your confessions for a minute. I’m going to get a cloth for your eyes.”
A moment later she washed Cristina’s eyes with a warm cloth. Afterward, she gently applied one of Cristina’s expensive creams to the dry skin of her face, rubbing gently. “Would you like a sip of water?” she asked when she was done. Cristina nodded. After she’d drank a few laborious sips, Emma set aside the cup and straw. “There, that’s much better,” Emma said. She pulled the chair closer and sat. She realized what she said was true. Cristina’s gaze seemed sharper as she looked at Emma, a hint of her strong personality in evidence once again.
Maybe it’s not the end for you yet, Cristina.
“What’s this about me being your confessor?” Emma asked, her tone brisk and matter-of-fact.
“I don’t like it when you’re not here.”
“I was just here yesterday. Do you think I should work 24-7?” she asked, touched despite her jocular tone. She knew Cristina was not the sentimental, touchy-feely type.
“No, you deserve the time off, but that doesn’t mean I like it,” Cristina gasped.
“Watch out, Cristina, or I’ll think you actually like me.”
Cristina scowled at her. “Look at you,” she rasped after a moment, and Emma realized she was actually studying her appearance closely for the first time since last week.
Emma glanced down at herself dubiously. “What?”
“You’re all dressed up. Or at least for you, you are. What’s the occasion? Did you do your hair and put on a halfway-decent blouse because you thought you were coming to my funeral today?”
“I did no such thing,” Emma said levelly, refusing to show her embarrassment over the fact that she’d spent some time on her hair the past two mornings and relished wearing her new clothes.
And he’s not even here. He’s halfway across the world.
She squirmed a little uncomfortably when Cristina’s gaze narrowed on her.
“I know that look. You dressed up for a man. Well?”
“Well what?” Emma said, standing and straightening up the nightstand to hide her discomposure.
“Who’s the man? It can’t be that boyfriend you talk about. The impression I got of him is that he wouldn’t inspire a blush, let alone that glow I see on your face right now.”
“I must have rubbed your eyes too hard,” Emma muttered.
“Have you met my stepson, by chance?” Emma’s heart jumped when she took in Cristina’s sharp stare. She felt so transparent. “Because . . . that might be a very good idea . . .” Cristina faded off musingly.
“Why? Does he need a nurse?” Emma hedged, rolling her eyes in a show of amused exasperation. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the best of actresses. “You said you had something you wanted to say to me?” she asked, sinking into her chair again.
Something flickered across Cristina’s pinched features. She stared at the curtained windows.
“Is my stepson here?” Cristina whispered.
“No. From what I understand, he’s in France. Cristina, do you need to speak to him?”