Page 172 of The Pansy Paradox
Chapter 78
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
Pansy’s front parlor is crowded with people and a herd of unspoken elephants. Really, it’s a wonder there’s any room left at all. At least everyone is now fully dressed. Henry in field gear, because he knows what comes next. Pansy in something that looks incredibly soft because she’s still unconscious.
Gwyneth managed that task herself, a fact that surprises Ophelia. True, Gwyneth ordered Jack to retrieve those soft sweats and ordered everyone from the front room. Ophelia found herself complying, as if seeing Pansy so vulnerable was too much, even for her, who has seen how all this ends.
They gather in the hallway. No one speaks, although the air is filled with recriminations and rancor. Ophelia notes, alarmingly, that neither Henry’s nor Pansy’s umbrella is currently in the stand next to the door. She wants to go search for both but doesn’t dare.
Gwyneth emerges, a corner of that blood-soaked flannel shirt pinched between index finger and thumb. Her gaze takes in the three men hovering outside the door. For a moment, it appears to stray toward Ophelia as well.
“Burn this,” Gwyneth commands.
When no one comes forward to do so, she lets the shirt drop to the floor.
Of course, her presumptive sister-in-law realizes this is no fainting spell. She is like the strategist who anticipates the cold war while the hot one still rages. She’s several steps ahead of everyone else, on a path that clearly involves Pansy.
Except Gwennie should really pay attention to the here and now. Because the allies won’t be storming the beach at Normandy, and the here and now will come to an abrupt and rather unpleasant end.
They all flow into the front room, crowding each other. An elbow jab here, a hip check there. Pansy is on the floor, a pillow beneath her head, a blanket tucked around her. The sun has set, and lamplight bathes the room in a gentle glow. Yet the bruise on Pansy’s cheekbone blooms unnaturally bright, and Jack sucks air through his teeth.
“I’m going to assume all three of you know what to do,” Gwyneth says. “I suggest one of you do it.”
Henry steps forward, but Mortimer shoots out an arm and shoves him against the fireplace. Framed photographs rattle on the mantelpiece. One teeters and then falls, glass cracking against the stone hearth.
“Not. You.”
“I have her consent,” Henry replies calmly, as if Mort isn’t pinning his shoulder to the chimney.
“You don’t have mine.”
Ah, yes, Mortimer. So fond of pulling rank.
Mort swings his head around, gaze bulleting toward Jack. “See what you can do.”
Jack rushes forward, his movements smooth, tender, but tense. He eases Pansy’s head to his thigh, adjusts her position, and whispers encouraging words.
“I know you’re in there, sweet pea.” His voice is almost teasing, as if this is a game between the two of them. He pulls in a breath and then lets his fingers come to rest on Pansy’s temples.
A guttural cry emerges from Jack’s throat. He jerks his hands back as if they’ve been burned.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” Mort lets up on Henry, who immediately slips from Mort’s hold and moves to Pansy’s other side, well out of reach.
Jack is shaking his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. It feels wrong.”
“Try again.”
Jack nods, licks his lips, and then sets his mouth in grim determination. But the moment his fingertips light on Pansy’s forehead, his expression twists in pain, in despair. He looks like a man who has no choice but to press his palms against a stove’s hot burner.
With a gasp, he pulls his hands back, head shaking again, shoulders hunched and trembling. “I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.” He looks not at Mortimer but straight at Henry. “There’s nothing there, like with Ophelia.”
The proclamation tumbles Ophelia, sending her reeling backward toward the hearth, where, she imagines, the chimney might draw her upward, out into the air, the sky, to somewhere far away.
“No,” Mort says, his voice distant. “She can’t be. She must still be?—”
