Free Sleight of Hand by Robin Hathaway

mine,” she said cheerfully.
    When she was gone, I took his pulse and listened to his heart. Both were within normal limits. I felt his forehead for fever. It was cool. He grabbed my right hand with his left, turned it palm upward, and kissed it.
    I dropped the pill bottle I was holding in my other hand and bent to pick it up—glad of an excuse to hide my feelings. Surprise, embarrassment, and even a sensual response were jostling for position. I found the bottle and stowed it in my bag. When I finally dared to look at Max, he was almost asleep. Then I understood. The wine, plus the Percocet, was what had prompted the kiss. What was wrong with me? I knew better than to allow a patient to mix alcohol and strong medicines. I also knew better than to mix business with pleasure. I was sure my diagnosis was correct, and I was annoyed at my feeling of disappointment. To my chagrin, I found myself half-wishing the kiss had been caused by something other than chemicals. Or was it simply deprivation? I wondered how long it had been since Max had made love. Six years? I allowed myself a wry smile before tucking him into bed—or, rather, into the sofa.
    Lolly brought the afghan and I got the pillow from the parlor. When we were sure Max was asleep, we took our cake back to the
kitchen. Lolly ate hers, but I only toyed with mine. I was making a decision. Should I spend the night on the parlor sofa? As unappealing as this prospect was, I didn’t see how I could leave Max, in his present condition, with only Lolly in charge. What if the infection flared up?
    I stayed.
    As it turned out, Max slept through the night, but I didn’t. I kept wondering why he had not left the farm, even to perform a simple errand, for six years!
    By morning, the swelling in his finger had gone down. The penicillin was beginning to do its work. I didn’t tell Max I had spent the night. I pretended I was making an early-morning call. I didn’t want him to feel beholden to me. Or—worse—to think I had given his impromptu kiss any special significance. If he remembered it at all—which was doubtful.

CHAPTER 18
    The next few days passed routinely. I went about my business, dropping by to see Max once a day to change his dressing. There were no further alarms. The healing process seemed to be progressing at a normal rate.
    Sometimes I asked myself, Why am I doing this? I no longer felt that Max would harm Lolly. Was it guilt? Did I suspect I had caused the accident by popping in on him that way? That was part of it. I knew I had upset him, and right afterward he had been careless with the press. My conscience wouldn’t let me desert him. I had to do what I could to make amends. But there was something else. Curiosity. I was curious about this man. What was his story? I didn’t believe for a moment he was the stolid farmer-printer he pretended to be. A singular force emanated from him, which he continually tried to suppress. I sensed someone quite different lurked under the ordinary tradesman facade. And, yes, I wanted to know if he had anything to do with that body down the road.
    Each time I came, I noticed a slight alteration in his attitude toward me. He was becoming less suspicious, more friendly. I tread very carefully. I wanted to gain his confidence. That was the only
way I would be able to convince him to get the special reconstructive surgery he’d need once his hand had healed.
    Meanwhile, Lolly and I were becoming good friends. She rushed out to greet me every day and tagged after me like a puppy. And when I left, she looked like she was going to burst into tears.
    I was growing fond of her, too. And I worried about her health. Once, I came in to the kitchen while she was eating lunch. On her plate was a huge mound of potato salad, a generous portion of cold cuts, and a roll. Next to this was a glass of milk, as well as another plate with an enormous slice of chocolate cake. A perfect candidate for