The Target
come up here. I should have known Emma would get you. This is humiliating."
He handed her a glass of water. She eyed it, then rose slowly. "Let me brush my teeth."
"I've got some antacid. You want some? Oh yes, Emma was really worried. I'm glad she had sense enough to fetch me. More sense than her mother."
"Go away," she said, pushing him out the door and closing it. He heard her rinse her mouth out with mouthwash. Five minutes later, he was walking beside her to the bed. There wasn't a great view in the guestroom, but the row of three windows that were there gave a glimpse of the Golden Gate.
"At least while I'm lying here dying, the last thing I see will be beautiful."
"Nah, the last thing you'll see is my ugly face. That's enough right there to get you well again."
"I must have eaten something bad on the airplane."
She'd had the linguine with clam sauce. Both he and Emma had had the chicken. "Could be. That or it's stress."
He gently cupped her face with his palm. She was sweaty and damp. He frowned. "I'm going to call my doctor, see what he has to say."
"I'm not going to any doctor, Ramsey. Forget it. My stomach's empty now. I'll be fine."
"We'll see," he said, in the same adult tone she used naturally with a child when she wanted to clamp down on any further arguments.
He brought her a couple of pills and a glass of water. "Take these."
She didn't even ask what they were. When she'd swallowed them, she leaned back against the pillows.
"How's your arm?"
"It's fine. How's your back?"
He just smiled at her. "I'm okay. Can you still see the stitches in your arm?"
"Some of them, but they're on their way. How's your leg?"
"Long healed. I want to see your arm." She suffered his rolling up the sleeve of her pale cream-colored blouse. He gently pulled back the bandage. The skin was a healthy pink, the stitches obscene in her white arm, but the wound was much better, the remaining stitches disintegrating. He grunted and pressed the bandage down again. "Well, your heaving isn't from this wound."
"Where's Emma?"
"She's in my big leather chair staring out the French doors toward the bridge. But let me go check." He brought her back up five minutes later.
"Look who I found with her cute little nose pressed to the window?"
"My beautiful little princess?"
"Nah, she's mine, but I'll be willing to share her for a couple of minutes. You can see for yourself, Emma. Your mom's okay."
"Can I stay with her, Ramsey? I'll try to make her laugh. She says laughing always makes anybody feel better."
"Okay, but if she gets sick again, you holler and I'll get somebody over here with some needles to stick in her."
"Yuck," said Emma.
Three hours later, Molly was chewing on some dry toast and drinking hot plain Earl Grey tea. She still looked pale. At least she hadn't vomited again. The nausea had been gone for an hour, but his hand still hovered over the phone. He wanted to call Jim Haversham, an internist with privileges at San Francisco General.
"I don't think we're going anywhere tomorrow," he said at nine o'clock that evening. Both Emma and Molly were lying in the guestroom bed, the brand-new TV on low, providing background noise.
The doorbell sounded. Ramsey turned to leave. "It's just a friend of mine from the San Francisco PD. I called her. She's going to brief me on anything they've turned up."
"About your house being trashed?" Molly asked, moving the wet washcloth a bit to the left on her forehead.
"That and other things. You guys just relax. Emma, if your mom needs anything, you come and tell me. Can I count on you to mind me and not her?"
Emma looked worried. "I don't know, Ramsey, she's my mom. She's been around since I was born."
"I know, but right now she's on the pathetic side. She doesn't know what's good for her. Call me, all right?"
Emma still looked uncertain. She pulled her piano onto her lap. Molly groaned. She groaned again, a big funny groan that made Emma smile.
Good for you, Molly, he thought, gave them a salute, and took off downstairs.
Virginia Trolley was at the door, wearing her signature black boots, black slacks, black turtleneck, and a red blazer. "I'm glad you're home, Ramsey. All hell's broken loose."
He invited her into his study. There was a fire in the fireplace and the new heavy pale gold draperies were drawn, making the room darker, more intimate.
"I love your house. The new stuff looks great. Did they bankrupt you refurbishing
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