Davey had been trying to make an omelet for her and Keith. This from the kid who couldn’t make his own toast. And since Connor hadn’t mentioned not using the oven, he’d used the oven. Put it on broil, stuck the big frying pan right inside. When it started to smoke, he opened it up, flapped a dish towel inside the oven to clear it. The dish towel hit the heating coil, caught fire, and Davey tossed it in the sink, where the curtains caught.
He pulled down the curtains and turned on the water, effectively ending the fire, but burning his sweet face. And hair. And hands. He looked like a sooty chick, and those burns had to throb.
Where the hell was the doctor? The self-important nurse had come in briefly, told Davey in a saccharine voice that he was a brave boy and told him to make himself comfy.
He has second-degree burns on his hands and face, bitch, Jess wanted to say. You get comfy with that.
But Davey did doze right off. Probably the shock.
Her poor honey-boy.
Jess was an EMT. She knew the signs of a third-degree burn. Charred skin, no sensation because of nerve damage, difficulty breathing. Davey had none of that, thank God. But it was bad enough that there were two blisters on his right hand, one on his left, and both hands were a little swollen. The skin on his face was angry and tight.
She hoped it wouldn’t scar.
She took off her suit jacket—oh, yeah, a century ago, she was going to give a presentation—and looked at herself in the little mirror in the exam room. She was as white as her shirt. Her knees stung; she’d fallen getting out of the car and skinned both of them.
She took her hair out of its twist and ran her fingers through it. Pinched her cheeks to bring some color.
Tugged down on her white blouse so the V showed enough cleavage, then tucked it in really tight. Got her bag, dug out her lipstick and put it on. Took a deep breath and went into the hall. Walked toward the nurses’ station, making sure her hips swung.
There were three women and a man sitting behind the counter. One of the women was the useless nurse; the man was sitting with his feet up, eating an apple.
She went to the man. Tucker Simmons, MD.
Perfect.
“Hey,” she said, leaning onto the counter, her arms folded under her chest. “I wonder if you can help me.” She wound a piece of hair around her finger and gave him a little smile.
“Sure!” He tried very hard not to look at her cleavage. He failed. One of the women snorted in disgust. Jess didn’t bother looking at them.
“I know you’re really busy today,” she murmured, “but my little brother got hurt in a fire, and he’s special needs, and we’ve been waiting forever. Do you think you can peek in at him? I bet all he needs is to be checked and maybe get a prescription for some painkillers.”
He nearly fell out of his chair getting up. “Yeah, absolutely, I can do that. Sorry you had to wait so long.”
Jessica Does struck again.
The lump in her throat didn’t matter. What mattered was Davey. That was all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THANKS TO A CAR accident on Route 17, it was after six when Connor’s cab pulled up in front of Jessica’s house.
She hadn’t answered a single text or voice mail.
He paid the driver, got out and went up the walk to her door. Ricky, her neighbor, was waxing the Camaro, and Connor lifted a hand in greeting.
“There you are, dude,” Ricky said. “You hear?”
“A little. What happened?”
Ricky scratched a tattoo on his bulging biceps. “Kitchen fire. I hear the smoke detectors go off, I rush in there. Fire’s already out. The kid has some burns on his hands, but he’s okay. Jess, though...kinda hysterical. It’s good that you’re here, man.”
Connor wasn’t so sure. “I’m glad you were around, Ricky.”
“Me, too.” He grinned and went back to worshipping his car.
Connor knocked on Jess’s door. She opened it right away. Stood there in yoga pants and a cardigan, feet bare, hair wet.
Her eyes were red.
Her face, however, was completely expressionless. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“You smell like beer.”
“Yeah, uh... I spilled some during the presentation.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Yes. At the presentation. Jess, are you all right? How’s Davey? And why the hell didn’t you call me?”
She grabbed him by the shirtfront and yanked him inside.
“This was your fault,” she whispered. “You’re teaching him to cook? To cook, Connor? Jesus!”
“Okay, okay. Let’s just talk. What happened?”
“Keep your voice down. He’s sleeping. He’s on Tylenol with codeine for his burns.”
Connor flinched. “How bad?”
“Bad enough. Second degree, on his hands and face.”
“Oh, Jess...”
“Shut up. How dare you go behind my back—”
“Hi, Connor.” Keith Dunn walked into the kitchen.
“Hi, Mr. Dunn.”
“Jessica, honey, I’ll just...take a little walk, how’s that?”
“Great. Thank you.”
Her father gave him a possibly sympathetic or possibly murderous look. It was hard to tell. The effects of all that beer hadn’t worn off.
The kitchen curtains were gone, and there was a black streak up the wall.
Connor suddenly felt sick, thinking of Davey alone in a fire. “Can we sit down?” he asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Jessica, look. I was trying to do something with him, to...”
“To get him to like you.”
“Yes. Exactly. And to get to know him.”
“And to hook him up with a girlfriend?”
“Oh, Miranda?”
“How do you know her?”
“I went to see him at the candle factory. She was there.”
Jessica wrapped her sweater around her more tightly. Everything about her was clenched.
“You shouldn’t have been sneaking around with my brother,” she said. “You should’ve asked me about teaching him to cook. He’s not capable of that.”
“Look every cook has a fire at some—”
“Connor, his IQ is roughly 50. He could’ve died because of you.”
Connor closed his eyes. “Please, can we sit down and talk about this?”
“No.”
“Jess, he did good, right? He put out the fire. He didn’t panic. This house is still standing.”
“He put the frying pan in the oven because you told him not to use the stove when he was alone in the house. You don’t get it. If you tell him, ‘Davey, don’t eat cookies in bed because you get crumbs on the sheets,’ he thinks it’s perfectly okay to eat cake in bed, because you didn’t say cake. He can’t make the same connections you and I can. You had no right to assume you know what’s best for him!”
“Okay, you’re right about that. But Jess—”
“And this stuff about a girlfriend! You don’t even know Miranda!” Her whisper yelling was scary.
“She seems nice,” he said.
“Based on what, Connor? Your many conversations with her? Have you ever talked to her?”
“No. Doesn’t mean she—”