Burn Down the Night (Everything I Left Unsaid #3)- Molly O'Keefe Page 0,63

Yes, she might have saved my life, but there was the hypodermic needle to my neck, too.

And the catheter.

She stared down at me and then, like it hurt, she smiled. “Hello, Max.”

Susan just kept talking. “I was just inviting Max and his wife…”

“Joan,” I supplied.

“Right. Joan, to the cocktail hour tomorrow night.”

“I’m sure they’re too busy,” Fern said.

“Not at all.” I could tell she was mad because she somehow got even more expressionless. “We would love to come!” I said, just to grind it in a little bit. Fern looked like if she could actually swallow her own lips, she would.

“Lovely!” Susan said. “I am so excited to talk to you about your tattoos. My grandson is a tattoo artist in Portland; he does just the most beautiful work.”

“Susan!” Dean yelled from across the pool and behind the paper. “Leave the poor man alone. It’s his honeymoon.”

“You’re right!” Susan said. “Congratulations again. I hope we meet your wife at the cocktail hour.”

“You sure will,” I said. I had zero intention of going but it was fun punishing Fern.

Susan left with a jaunty little wave and jumped into the pool for some kind of exercise that seemed to mostly consist of yelling at her husband and then helping him do the crossword.

Marriage was weird.

“You’re feeling better,” Fern said, looking me over. The bruise on my ribs was particularly colorful. Purple and black with green edges. It looked poisonous.

“I am.”

“How is the leg?”

“Fine.”

I wasn’t going to tell her anything I didn’t have to, and she seemed to realize that. Her job as my doctor was over and we were both relieved and showing it in the same clenched-jaw way.

“You will not be going to the cocktail hour,” Fern said and then turned to walk away, standing military straight.

She was right and I didn’t care enough to argue, so I closed my eyes for what would be my first nap of the day.

“What about the cocktail hour?”

Oh shit. It was Joan. I cracked open my eyes to see Fern and Joan in stand-off mode. I got distracted momentarily by Joan in that white bikini. Seriously. The girl had a body.

“It’s the same one the residents organize. Every Friday and Wednesday.”

“I completely forgot about those!”

Oh, that she actually looked excited broke my heart a little.

“You are not going to go.”

“Why?”

“Joan…” Fern said like a warning. “We had a deal.”

Hmmm…I guessed the deal had something to do with keeping a low profile and not embarrassing Fern.

That killed the excitement on her face and for a second she looked hurt. And I never would have seen that, never would have been able to recognize that split second of hurt before last night. But now I was wise to it. Now it was all I saw, even after she put it away, hid it behind an expressionless face. Behind all that bravado of hers—nothing but pain. “Right. Keep my head down.”

Fern blinked like maybe she saw that second of hurt, too.

“They’re dull. You must remember that.”

Joan smiled, briefly. “I remember Jennifer got drunk on tequila sunrises that one time.”

“She thought it was juice.” Fern’s expressionless face cracked just enough to register some other emotion. Not that I could tell what it was.

“No, she didn’t,” Joan corrected her, kindly. “That’s just what we told you so you wouldn’t get mad.”

Fern shook her head. “I should have known.”

“I told her she could have one, but she must have had like ten. Threw up all over the beach.”

“You and I chasing after her with water and aspirin,” Fern said. “You were so worried.”

“She was never much of a drinker after that. A good lesson, I guess. But we never thought the cocktail hours were boring. The food was good.”

“It’s mostly unhealthy garbage.”

“Exactly,” Joan said. “And that Murray guy…who plays the piano.”

“He died a few years ago.”

Joan blinked, clearly stunned. Clearly pained. “Of course,” she whispered with a gruff voice. “He was so old. That…shouldn’t be so surprising.”

“I’m sorry,” Fern said.

“Me too. He was really nice. Reminded us of Dad.”

Now it was Fern’s turn to look surprised. “Murray reminded you of Derrick?”

“They both really liked music.”

It looked for a second like Fern wanted to argue about something. About how unlikely the Murray-Derrick connection was. But something in Joan’s face, that deep layer of nostalgia maybe, made Fern keep her trap shut.

“But I get it,” Joan said. “No cocktail hour.”

Fern nodded, short and sharp, and the matter was over. “Enjoy the sun,” she said. “Try not to draw too much attention to