Page 83 of Moonlit Hideaway
“Correct. Your marriage to Mr. Garrison activated your ownership. I’ve finished transferring everything from your father’s estate to you. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, please contact Mr. Hank Whitman and get his agreement to serve on the Baxter’s Point Nature Preserve board, and tell him I have full confidence in him.” She wished to say more, but the rest would be personal. “Thank you, Mr. Goldstein.”
“Jonathan and it’s my pleasure.”
Watching Marco like a snake coiled up to strike, Sierra backed away from the hospital bed when she spied the doctor coming into the room.
“You must be Mrs. Garrison,” the doctor said, approaching her. “I’m Dr. Amelia Preston, and if I may, I’m a big fan of yours.”
“Thanks, you can call me Sierra.”
“Great. I will run a few checks and give you an update.” The doctor fiddled with the machines and made notes on her tablet. She shined a light into Marco’s eye and ran a wooden tongue depressor over the soles of his feet.
“Can you hear me?” she asked Marco. “Ah, there, you’re blinking. Let me know if you can understand me by blinking twice.”
Sierra clutched her hands together as she watched, not knowing what she hoped. She didn’t relish facing Marco in his full awareness or having him recover enough to be a threat to her and her loved ones, but at the same time, it didn’t look like Marco was going to stay in a coma.
Indeed, Marco’s eyelids fluttered twice, deliberately and slowly.
“Good,” Dr. Preston nodded, her voice clinical yet encouraging. “That’s a positive sign of cognitive awareness. It suggests that he might be aware and able to understand us.”
Meanwhile, the doctor made a few more notes on her tablet and then looked at Sierra with a professional smile. “We’ll keep monitoring him closely. It’s important for him to hear familiar voices and feel the presence of people he knows. It could help in his recovery process.”
“Sure, thanks for letting me know.”
Horror sizzled through Sierra at the thought that Marco might have heard her donating the land he’d just purchased. Even though it was her land and her right, Marco didn’t see things that way. He would cruelly make her pay—if he regained consciousness.
“I’m happy to leave you with good news,” the doctor said. “The MRI shows that his brain swelling has decreased significantly. We believe he hit his head when the yacht floundered, in addition to near drowning. However, he’s a strong young man, and in my professional opinion, he’ll make a complete recovery. The next few hours are critical, so it might be nice if you sat and sang some of your beautiful songs to him.”
Sierra nodded, her mind racing with the implications of Marco’s condition. As Dr. Preston left the room, her gaze fell back on Marco. His face, though motionless, seemed to hold a cruel sneer as if he were a rattlesnake waiting to strike.
What had she signed up for?
She shut her eyes, willing herself back down North Carolina’s coast into Hank’s tender embrace—the safe harbor she longed for—a place to call home.
Chapter Thirty-One
Four years ago, Hank had held a daily vigil at Chloe’s bedside, holding her hand, talking to her, and praying she’d come out of the coma. It had been touch and go, as the doctors were initially optimistic. They gave him all the usual reasons. She was young, healthy, and had a family to return to. If he would talk to her, hold her hand, touch her face, and wiggle her feet, she’d know she wasn’t alone. It had given him time to think and to love her. Time full of regret, and ultimately, time for a partial closure.
Partial because he never understood why that particular gig was so important to her. Until then, she’d been satisfied to sing and play at Maggie’s Mugshots and headline the festival. She was the local girl, and everyone on the island loved her. Beautiful, talented, and so high-spirited that he wasn’t sure he could hold on to her.
In the end, he failed.
As he walked up to the gleaming hospital building, he’d come full circle. Every second he’d spent in the ICU prepared him for this moment. He’d like to believe Sierra wasn’t the grieving wife and that she was doing her duty; however,love doesn’t ask questions.
Love is patient. Love is kind.
Hank stopped by the gift kiosk inside the lobby and bought a bouquet of fresh lilies. He threw the “get well” card in the trash and headed up the elevator to the ICU. His heart was in his throat as the doors opened to the hushed, sterile ward—a marked contrast to the hubbub of the emergency room.
“Hank Whitman here for Marco Garrison.” He presented himself to the nurse’s station.
“Are you a relative?” a nurse named Nina asked.
“Friend. Is his wife present? I want to offer my emotional support.”
“Let me page the room and ask her to step out. She’s been here every day since he was admitted.” The nurse got on the phone and called the room.
Clutching the bouquet, Hank felt old wounds stir, but his steps were resolute—this time, he was here for Sierra. His departed wife had let him go. He was a man who loved too hard and too deep. Seeing Sierra for the first time on that ferry—so unsure and out of place, and yet, trying too hard to appear tough—had spun his world off its axis. He grasped what he couldn’t reach and squeezed too tight.
