“I want to thank you again for
agreeing to this…meeting.” He was about to say more when their
wine arrived. Jory taste tested her glass, pronouncing it good.
He agreed, and the sommelier beamed with pride.
Suggesting they decide on what
they wanted to eat, Turner opened his menu as the waitress
arrived. For some reason, he got the impression that Jory was
not the type to order the most expensive thing on the menu. But
just in case, he gave her carte blanche. “Sky’s the limit.” Turner heard a buzzing in the
back of his head when he heard the woman order the shrimp
alfredo. Inside, a little voice was urging,
No. She doesn’t like the shrimp. Go with the chicken. Order the
chicken alfredo. “No. Wait. Make that the chicken
alfredo.” He could barely breathe. “And you, sir?” the waitress
pressed. “I’ll have the chicken
parmesan.” “What kind of dressing do you
like on your salads?” His whole body seemed to focus
on the woman across from him. Would she…
Please. Please. Please,
he silently begged. Please don’t order what he was
nearly one hundred percent certain she would? Or please do, if
only to continue to confirm something that was happening but
shouldn’t? “I’ll take Italian dressing.” It felt like all the air in the
room had been sucked out. It was impossible. Everything—the
wine, the food, and even the salad dressing—was exactly what
Megan would have ordered. Was it all coincidence? Could
Mosher have known and given a heads up to this woman? Or was
Megan… Jory appeared to be mesmerized
by her glass of wine, and he wondered what she was thinking. He
cleared his throat to get her attention. “Are you all right?” She smiled at him, but he saw no
feeling behind it. “Yes. Of course.” “You look like you’ve had some
kind of major revelation,” he noted with a nervous chuckle. “I
hope you’re not having second thoughts about this meeting.”
“Oh! No! No, I’m not. I was just thinking of…something
else.”
It was beginning to be too much. He couldn’t continue to
sit there and stare at this woman, knowing that behind her eyes
his wife lay comatose yet awake in her hospice bed. Observing.
Listening. And soon to be tasting the very meal he and she had
been having the night he proposed to her. He sipped his wine again to give
him time to gather up his courage. “Jory, I hope you don’t think
me too out of line for asking this, but…may I hold your hand?” Funny, but she didn’t seem
reticent. “Hold? My hand?” “So Megan can feel my touch.”
Her eyes widened in shock, and
he immediately backed off. “N-never mind. Forget I asked. I have
no business—” “Yes.” He stared at her in relief and
surprise when she reached across the table to him. “Yes. You can touch my hand. And
Megan? Remember what it was like to hold hands with your
husband?” Damn him, but he couldn’t hold
back the tears. |
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