Gene pulled the van into the driveway and set the parking brake before turning off the engine. Beside him Sarah stirred.
"Home," he said. A gust of wind and rain hit the windshield. "You grab the bags, I'll get the cases and the cooler."
By the time they made it inside both of them were soaked. Sarah found the hall light switch and flipped it on. She shivered, her face pale above the dark fabric of her jacket. Gene took the overnight bags from her.
"Why don't you go warm up in the shower?" he said quietly. "I'll put stuff away."
Sarah nodded and moved down the hallway. She hadn't spoken since they'd dropped House off at Mayfield; she'd escorted him to the rear delivery entrance where an orderly waited, then returned to the van in grim silence. Gene didn't think they'd argued, but something had happened. He hoped she would tell him about it. When she went quiet like this it was hard as hell to get her to open up.
He thought about the weekend while he hung their jackets in the utility room to dry out, and put the instruments in the spare bedroom. As far as he could tell it had been a good three days for everyone concerned. Sunday afternoon he, Will and House had watched college football while Sarah visited a neighbor. He'd thought at the time it was unusual behavior on her part. Not that she was a huge football fan, but she found it a handy excuse to cuddle with him on the couch and rarely passed up an opportunity to indulge. She was pretty quiet all day Sunday, come to think of it . . .
Gene dumped dirty clothes on top of the washer and took the cooler into the kitchen. Whatever went down must have happened between Saturday evening and Sunday morning before breakfast. He had a vague memory of Sarah up sometime in the night, but he couldn't remember how long she'd been gone. She told me House was up late Friday playing music because he couldn't sleep. If he did the same thing after the session . . . Gene frowned. Sarah would have heard the guitar, gone down to investigate. And then what? Maybe he hit on her. Maybe he said something . . . did something . . . It didn't make sense. He'd always had the impression House saw most attractive women as fair game, but was all talk and little or no action. Gene hoped that was still true, or it was likely he'd end up in the Director's office because he'd beaten one of Sarah's patients into a bloody pulp.
He opened the cooler and put leftover sodas and teas into the fridge, and considered his options as he worked. He'd see how things went on tonight. Sarah would tell him if something hinky had happened, of that he was certain. He was under no illusions about his wife's secrets; he had a few of his own, nothing heinous but he'd just as soon the world didn't hear about them. Still, he and his woman had built trust between them through their years together, hard-won and carefully nurtured. That bond would help him find out what had occurred, and do whatever he could to make things right.
A short time later he sat on the edge of the bed and watched his wife wrestle with her hair. She yanked the brush through tangled curls, knuckles white with effort. He winced. If he ever savaged his own scalp that way he'd have a bald patch the size of a dinner plate. "Let me do it," he said, and held out his hand. Sarah glared at him, then slapped the brush into his palm. She got up and sat at his feet though, so he knew she wasn't really mad at him. He ignored the sense of relief this knowledge engendered—he'd been a bit worried he was somehow the source of her annoyance—and set to work. With care he slid the brush through the ends. A fleeting memory came to him: his older sister as she got ready for a date. He'd always secretly admired her skill as she rolled thick dark locks around pop cans to get the smooth flip then in fashion. Of course it had been a matter of principle to steal those cans for use in target practice . . . She almost took off my hide when she found them all shot up. He suppressed a grin as he recalled his quick exit to the haymow, where he'd stayed hidden for the rest of the day.
"So," he said, as he brought his thoughts back to the present, "what happened?" He kept his voice calm, mildly curious. Sarah said nothing, but her back pressed against his legs a bit more. She wasn't ready to talk, not just yet. "Okay," he said, and continued his task.
It wasn't until they were in bed snuggled under the quilt together that she said "I—I think . . ." He waited, and held her close without comment. When Sarah spoke again, her voice was thick with unshed tears.
"I think I lost another patient."