8 July 1959
The days all had a habit of running together, Jean had found. Tuesdays and Thursdays she had her appointments with Lucien; he would come to her, smiling apologetically, would help her from the bed and escort her to the surgery, if she was feeling fine enough for a bit of walk, or carry the medication in to her if she was not. He would sit beside her, whether she lay in bed or on the examination table in the surgery, and they would speak softly to one another, and Jean would smile, content. But with the exception of those brief hours, every moment of every day seemed shockingly repetitious. Oh, Jean had always kept a strict routine, laundry on this day, polishing the silver on that, but each day differed from the last. Not so, now; she slept, she woke, she slept some more, Lucien would sit with her, or Mattie would, and the hours slipped away, unremarkable and interminable.
This particular day, she thought, must have been a Wednesday or a Friday, for she knew she'd sat with Lucien the day before, and the heaving of her stomach confirmed it to be the day after a treatment. She'd spent most of it sleeping; there was a pounding in her head that made her loath to open her eyes. Sometime around 5:00 Mattie came in with a tray of dinner, making excuses for Lucien - who had, as he was wont to do, gotten himself caught up in a murder - and Jean had picked ineffectually at the food before her, and done her best to listen to Mattie's chatter. The girl was a godsend, really; though her eyes were worried she always had a smile for Jean, and brought to her news of the outside world, reminded her that there was a life to be lived, once Jean was well enough to go out and face it. There was life, waiting for her on the other side of this illness. There was Lucien's smile, and a dream of love, and a whole town full of people whose hearts were linked to Jean's, in one way or another. There might be talk, Jean knew, about her and Lucien stepping out together, but at the moment she could not step beyond her doorstep, and so could not devote much energy to worrying over offenses that had not yet been committed. The time might come when gossip would be of a concern to her but it was, she thought, a very long way off.
After supper she must have dozed again, for the soft sound of a footfall in her parlor roused her up from dreams, and she blinked several times, trying to recall when Mattie had left her, trying to work out how long she'd been sleeping. The world beyond her windows was dark, but there was a little clock on the wall, and when she turned her gaze there she found it was only just after eight. Not so terribly late, then, certainly not too late for the visitor who was currently making his way towards her.
It was Lucien, smiling, carrying two cups of tea in his hands. As he approached Jean straightened up in her bed, and out of sheer force of habit she reached up to smooth her hair, but her palm found only the soft satin of her favorite blue kerchief. She smoothed that anyway, and returned Lucien's smile with a grateful heart.
"Did I wake you?" he asked softly as he drew near.
"No," she lied, and reached for the teacup he offered her. Lucien did not hesitate; as soon as she took it he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and then settled into the chair Mattie had occupied a bare few hours before.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. Those were always the first words out of his mouth, whenever he saw her, and Jean had long since stopped bristling at his concern. It was not pity that compelled him to ask after her, she knew, and nor was it common courtesy; he genuinely wanted to know how she was faring, and would seek to make her more comfortable wherever he could.
"Well enough," she told him. "A bit nauseous," she confessed wryly when he raised his eyebrow at her, "and my head hurts, but I think the tea will help with both."
"I can make myself scarce, if you need to rest."
"No," she said quickly, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. How strange it was, she thought, that she could touch him now, if she wished, that she could wish it and not regret it, that he could welcome her touch with such warmth in his eyes. From the moment he'd first stumbled into her life her hands had been itching to reach for him, to right him when he wavered, to comfort him when he was low, to hold him close, but for so long she had kept her hands and her wishes to herself. Not so, now; now she was learning, once again, how lovely it could be, to touch and be touched, what comfort she could find in the nearness of another. In the nearness of him.
"Tell me what you did today," she prompted him. It had been not quite a week since she'd returned from hospital, but every night since then Lucien had come to her after supper, had sat with her, and smiled at her, held her hand and spoken to her gently, and these little chats remained the highlight of her day. It was one piece of predictability that did not gall her; she had begun to take comfort from this new routine they'd forged for themselves, and hoped that it would continue. Knowing that Lucien wanted to see her, that he thought of her, that he had taken it upon himself to create this new little tradition just for them, charmed her utterly. What a dear man he could be!
"Well," he said, "I saw Nell Clasby this morning, and she sends all her love. She says Agnes does too, but you know Agnes."
Jean smiled wryly; yes, she was well acquainted with the Clasby sisters, as different from one another as night from day, and yet both of them lovely, despite their differences.
"And we had a bit of a breakthrough with our murder victim."
"The lad who was hit by the car?"
The cases were beginning to run together, for Jean; before she fell ill she had prided herself on the strength of her memory, her ability to recall people and places and their connection to one another with crystal clarity, but the drugs and the sleep had made her foggy, and so many of those recollections drifted away from her, water falling through a sieve.
"The very same," Lucien confirmed, and Jean felt just a bit of relief at that. The lad had been run down on one of the quieter roads leading away from town and towards the farms that dotted the countryside, and the town, according to Lucien, had been in an uproar ever since, distraught that someone could do such a thing, strike an innocent bystander and simply drive away as if it were nothing.
"There was rather a lot of damage to his body, of course," Lucien said, "and we waited to do the autopsy until more of the bruising had developed. Well, today, we finally cut him open, and it turns out the lad was shot before he was run over. We missed the bullet hole initially, because the car made such a mess of him."
"How awful," Jean shuddered. It was terrible to think about, but it was Lucien's work, and Jean was always eager to hear how he was spending his days, eager to share in whatever mystery fascinated him in the moment. At times his mind was a mystery to her, but with each of these little conversations another piece of him seemed to reveal itself.
"Matthew also found out a little bit more about our victim today. He's not a local, you wouldn't know him," he added quickly, for he must have seen by her expression that Jean was about to ask for the boy's name. Perhaps she was not the only one who found these little chats illuminating.
"But we have an avenue of inquiry, and that's promising."
"The police have an avenue of inquiry," Jean chided him gently. From this distance she could not reach him as she would have liked, and so she smoothed her hand absently over his forearm, the only part of him close enough to touch. "You do worry me, rushing off into these investigations."
"I'm always careful, Jean, you know that," he said. She scoffed, and he laughed, reached for her hand and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss that made her cheeks flood with heat. The ease of his affections, the bright, hopeful happiness of his eyes...sometimes when they sat together like this, Jean found her mind wandering, wishing for something else. Something more. Wishing she could sit beside him on the sofa, wishing she could let her hand drift through his hair, wishing her weakness did not preclude them from exploring the warmth between them more earnestly. If she felt well, perhaps his kisses would not land on her hand, or her forehead. If she felt well, perhaps she could stand beside him, and let those strong arms wrap around her. If only she were well…
Then again, she thought wryly, perhaps not. If she were well, there would be cause to worry about the gossips. She would need to guard herself more fully, for to spend time...getting acquainted with a man who slept just down the hall was the first step on the road to ruin. Perhaps, she told herself, she ought to be content with what she had.
"Careful is not a word I would use to describe you, Lucien," she told him, arching her eyebrow at him in accusation.
"Well then, I shall promise to be more careful, how's that? I have rather a lot of plans for the future, you know, and I mean to make good on all my intentions."
His voice was low, and soft, and full of promise, and just the sound of it made Jean's stomach flutter in a way that had nothing at all to do with the medications she was taking. How easily he could slip from jovial to passionate; how easily he could drag her down with him. He meant to make good on his intentions, and while Jean could not be certain what those intentions were in their entirety, she was not a fool, and she could see what it was he wanted when she looked into his eyes. There was a fire burning there, a fire just for her, a fire that told her she was not the only one thinking about what might happen, once she was well, what they could do together when she was strong enough to leave her bed behind for good. Those eyes, and his intentions, and his forearm warm beneath her hand; she had always known he was handsome, but when she looked at him now, broad and strong and burning for her, the tug she felt low in her belly was so much more than a response to a handsome man. This was something else, a want that ran deeper than a moment's interest, a yearning that would not be satisfied until she felt his hands on her, felt the warmth of his kiss. There was so much she wanted, so much she had not allowed herself to consider before now, so much possibility, waiting for her, for them, as soon as she was well.
"You'd better," she told him, her voice a little unsteady, and he smiled at her warmly, and kissed her hand again. It was enough to tell her that he understood; Jean had intentions of her own, and she was quite looking forward to the day when Lucien would be able to satisfy those intentions, completely.