“Mrs. Hendrix,” he called.
There was no answer. He gingerly stepped through the rubble of what used to be her foyer and pressed on through the hall, calling her name as he passed a formal living room, a dining room, the kitchen, and then finally a sunroom. He found her there, hunched in her wheelchair, her hands clutched at her chest.
He knelt at her side. “Mrs. Hendrix, are you okay?”
Her breath was labored. “Ma . . . my h-heart.” It was all she managed.
“Do you have any medications I should give you?”
She shook her head, and her eyes pleaded for help.
He gently hoisted her from the chair, cradled her in his arms, and carried her out of the house.
They emerged into the afternoon sunshine, and the crowd on the street gasped at her feeble state.
“She needs to get to a hospital right away,” Jack called as he headed straight for Hunter’s cruiser. There was no time to wait for an ambulance to arrive.
“Put her in the back,” Hunter said, then rounded to the front of his car.
Jack eased Mrs. Hendrix down on the back seat. She snatched his hand, and her old, thin fingers held fast. “Don’t l-leave me.”
Jack sat in the hall in Seaside Hospital’s small Emergency Department while Mrs. Hendrix underwent tests. She’d asked him to wait, so now he flipped through hospital brochures to pass the time. Seaside delivered the basics that any community needed and left the big procedures—organ transplants, shock trauma, and serious cosmetic surgeries—to the larger hospitals on the mainland.
Finally, a nurse called him back to Mrs. Hendrix’s small room. The old woman lay in her bed, looking much more rested than when he’d brought her in. She was hooked up to machines monitoring her heart rate, pulse, and blood pressure, and a cannula inserted into her nostrils delivered oxygen.
She lit up when he entered. “There’s my hero. Oh, I like the beard.” Her voice was tired and raspy but still had a spark.
Jack laughed and reflexively brushed his hand against his cheek. “Thanks, it’s a work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all? It’s distinguished. You should keep it.” The glint in her eye was all mischief.
“I’m glad to see you’re looking better, Mrs. Hendrix.”
“I’m feeling better,” she said, patting the bed, gesturing for him to sit. But he was too large, and she was far too frisky for him to oblige.
“I’m dirty from cutting trees all day.” He pointed to his soiled jeans and jacket, then dragged the side chair over to her bed. “Have they told you what happened? Did you have a heart attack?”
She shook her head. “It was a panic attack and an angina attack in one. Can you believe it?”
“Well, we did demolish part of your house while you were in it. That was pretty stressful.”
A wistful expression crossed her face. “My husband and I bought that house back in 1962. We were the first Black couple to buy a home on Heron Harbor. I guess I didn’t realize how much I loved it till y’all started tearing it up.”
Jack reached for her gnarled hand. “I’m sorry. If it helps, I’m pretty sure your neighbor has more than enough money to make it right.”
Mrs. Hendrix shook her head. “Bah. Money isn’t everything, you know.”
True, but it made life a hell of a lot easier. He smiled. “It’ll rebuild your house.”
She blew out a hard puff of air. “Might look the same, but it won’t be the same.”
“Have the nurses called Claire or your other family members—Cleveland, right? Your great-grandson, who’s working at the Shipwreck?” He was impressed with his memory of Heron Harbor personalities.
“I didn’t ask them to call until the doctors figured out what was wrong with me. They’d worry themselves sick. They’ll be along soon.”
“You can’t stay at your house the way it is.”
Mrs. Hendrix nodded. “I know. I’ll stay with Claire. And her teenagers.” She sighed wearily.
“They can’t be that bad. They’ll keep you young.”
She shot him a glare. “I’m plenty young.”
He laughed. “I really should be going. It’s getting late, and we were supposed to clear one more tree today.” He rose to his feet.
“You going back to your girl, Ms. Raven?”
“Oh, she’s not my girl.” Though he wished she were. He wanted her like no other woman in the world.
“Why not?” Mrs. Hendrix asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“Do you want her to be your girl?”
“More than I can say.”
She arched a snowy white brow. “Then what’s the problem?”
Jack ran his fingers through his hair. This wasn’t any of