A Time for Us - By Amy Knupp Page 0,74

Jackie said, causing Rachel to jolt with guilt at her line of thought.

She racked her brain for how her mother could have seen them during the short time Cale had had his arms around her. They’d been alone. The rest of the benefit-planning group had returned to the picnic site. The layout of the area would have made it tough to see them unless someone had been looking for them specifically.

“Spying on me?” Rachel tried to keep her tone light, but with the lack of rest, she knew she’d probably failed.

“Is there something to spy?” Jackie’s tone was light, too. Almost teasing. As if she suspected Rachel of shacking up with him on the sly. As if she knew.

A knot tightened in Rachel’s gut.

“Someone nearly died, Mom. We were coming down from the stress. Talking.”

Her mom popped the end of the bread loaf into her mouth and chewed. Then she said, “If I didn’t know better, I might think you were overly defensive.”

There it was. There was a distinct accusation in her voice, and that sent Rachel’s blood pounding.

She set down her knife so hard it clattered on the counter and splattered mayonnaise all over. “Cale and I are friends. If you have something to say, an accusation to make, then put it out there. Quit hiding behind little jabs.”

Her mom narrowed her eyes and tilted her head at Rachel, looking more confused and concerned than angry at Rachel’s outburst.

“We’ve never minced words in the past. Just say whatever it is you need to say,” Rachel continued as she manhandled her wrap, rolling it up so roughly that it started to break into pieces. She was too wound up to care, not to mention no longer hungry.

Her mom set her own butter knife down gently, and put her hand on her hip. “I was kidding around about Cale. I’m glad he was there for you last night, because I don’t care what kind of doctor a person is, a life-or-death emergency when you’re not even on duty takes a toll.” She opened the oven, pulled out the pasta to check it and pushed it back in.

“However,” she said heavily, turning back to Rachel, “I do have a few things to say. And since you asked—”

“Be my guest,” Rachel said, stuffing the wrap into a container to take with her to work because she now had zero desire to eat. “Like I said, don’t hold back.”

“You’re right that something’s changed between us, Rachel. And I hate it. You’re on edge all of the time. I know you’ve just started your job and that’s stressful. But you’ve always thrived with that kind of challenge.” Her mom shook her head.

“So all the tension in the house is my fault,” Rachel stated.

“I’m worried about you, sweetie. You seem...stuck.”

Some chopped vegetables would go nicely with her mangled wrap. Rachel removed the butcher knife from the knife block, set it on the counter by the mayo mess and took out a bag of raw celery and carrots from the refrigerator. She grabbed a cutting board from the lower cabinet, and, once she’d washed off a couple of giant carrots, she set about whacking them into snack-size sticks.

“This is the first time you’ve spent any real time at home since Noelle died.”

“You know I couldn’t just walk away from my residency, Mom—”

“Of course not. What I mean is that now you’ve been forced back here, where it’s hard to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Pretend?” Rachel knew she’d miscalculated with the knife a full second before the pain in her finger registered. Damn! She closed her eyes, not in favor of the sight of her own blood, and reached for a paper towel. Wrapping the paper around her left index finger without inspecting the damage, she attempted to act as if nothing had happened.

“I didn’t say that. You’re twisting my words. Dammit, Rachel, I’m worried about you! You do nothing but work and read medical journals.”

“You’re taking me to task for working too much? Where do you think I learned that?”

“I don’t think you’re processing her death, honey. You’re not coping with it. Not dealing with it. You’re just...working. Overworking.”

“I’m new at my job. I don’t like being the peon. The only way I know how to change that is by working my butt off.”

“As you said, I’m the ex-queen of workaholism, but I’m starting to become pretty damn convinced that your situation is more than that. Maybe it’s by design, so that you can avoid the big, nasty