His search was not going well. He’d just read, sometime in the very recent past, an interesting article about the new procedure and, now that he had a patient who looked very much like an excellent candidate for it, he couldn’t find the information anywhere. He tossed the medical journal aside as he pawed through the pile of publications, his black mood growing by leaps and bounds as success continued to elude him . . . . . . . .
“Kell?”
Aggravated, Kelly Brackett tossed a momentary glance in the direction of her voice as he sighed in exasperation at the interruption. Not bothering to cover his annoyance, he grunted, “What is it, Dixie?”
“I made some lunch . . . . . . . .” she submitted hesitantly as she stood in the doorway of the study.
Vexed, he muttered, “I’m not hungry,” promptly dismissing both her proffered meal and her presence without further thought as, preoccupied, he returned to his search.
“Can I help?” she offered softly.
He did not answer her. After a minute, she turned and slowly walked away.
* * * * * * * *
Unable to concentrate, Dixie tossed the book aside with a sigh. She briefly considered going back down the hall to the study, but dismissed the idea almost at once. Kell wouldn’t give up until he found whatever it was he was searching for . . . . . . . . she wasn’t sure if it was single-mindedness or just plain old stubbornness, but the end result was still the same. And once he found whatever it was he was searching for, he’d be over his grump.
Once, she would not have been so understanding.
Once, she would have called him on it . . . . . . . . would have forced the issue . . . . . . . . would have . . . . . . . . had they really changed that much?
Used to be they would argue about all sorts of things . . . . . . . . they’d crossed swords over the paramedic program . . . . . . . . his adamant refusal against her support . . . . . . . . they’d nagged each other over procedure . . . . . . . . his propensity to scaring the student nurses with his grumbling against her protectiveness of her staff . . . . . . . . his impatience . . . . . . . . her dogged stubbornness . . . . . . . . his . . . . . . . . hers . . . . . . . . somehow they’d moved past all of that and were now . . . . . . . . where?
All the time they’d spent . . . . . . . . each making the effort once more . . . . . . . . apologizing for failing to see the other’s point of view . . . . . . . . smoothing over yet another dispute . . . . . . . . working to repair the relationship once again . . . . . . . . each trying to protect their own position . . . . . . . . finally agreeing to disagree . . . . . . . without realizing it, somehow they had shifted to another level, becoming . . . . . . . . what?
“I’m sorry,” he offered sheepishly as he came into the sunroom where she was sitting with her book. “I finally found it,” he continued in an effort to repair the hurt feelings his suspected his earlier short-tempered grouchy mood might have caused.
“You know, we aren’t the same people any more at all.”
“What’re you talking about?” he asked in concern.
She shrugged diffidently. “We used to fight with each other all the time . . . . . . . . we were . . . . . . . . passionate . . . . . . . . about everything. Now . . . . . . . .”
He came and sat beside her, softly asking, “Is that a complaint?”
She sighed as she shrugged. “No,” she replied, “I don’t think so. It’s just . . . . . . . .”
“It’s just what?”
Pensive, Dixie looked at him. “What happened to those people we used to be?”
“We still are those people,” he reassured quietly, putting his arm around her shoulder and pulling her close. “I think we . . . . . . . . just . . . . . . . . got a little smarter.” He brushed his hand through her soft, golden hair. “When I thought you were going away for good,” he told her, “it forced me to face some facts . . . . . . . . and I realized that it was much more important for me to admit that I needed you than to go on pretending that I didn’t.” He smiled as he kissed the top of her head and continued playing with a strand of her hair. “Why? Wish things hadn’t changed?”
“No, no . . . . . . . . it’s not that at all,” she responded with a sigh. “It’s just . . . . . . . . well . . . . . . . .”
“Dixie,” he questioned, suddenly fretting, “aren’t you happy?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied as she shifted around to look at him. “Of course I am. You’ve made my life happier than I ever dreamed it could possibly be . . . . . . . . and having you and the children here is all I ever . . . . . . . .”
“Then what?” he asked, not at all sure he wanted an answer.
“I was just wondering how we shifted . . . . . . . . how we ended up being . . . . . . . . oh, I don’t know . . . . . . . . less individual, I guess . . . . . . . . Any more, we most always see things the same way, always find ourselves on the same side . . . . . . . .”
“I don’t think we exactly ‘shifted,’ Love . . . . . . . . and we’re not always on the same side of things,” he replied, taking a cue from her and turning pensive. “We’re still very much the same people we always were, I think, except that perhaps our priorities are the things that shifted,” he told her. “Somehow, we just . . . . . . . . I don’t know . . . . . . . . grew up, maybe.”
She sighed.
“Maybe we just finally recognized that we were better together than we were apart,” he speculated as he tightened his arm around her shoulders and returned to playing with a strand of her hair. “You make me . . . . . . . . complete.”
“Sometimes, I’m not at all sure that we’re even separate people any more,” she pondered aloud. “It’s as if the ‘you’ and ‘me’ somehow managed to get all blurred around the edges and turned into ‘we’ . . . . . . . . and now . . . . . . . .”
“There’s still a ‘you,’ Sweetheart,” he said softly. “A capable and caring ‘you’ who is the world’s best mother . . . . . . . . a ‘you’ who is still passionate about her nursing career . . . . . . . . a ‘you’ who continually manages, even after all these years, to surprise me . . . . . . . . a ‘you’ that I love more than anything in the whole world . . . . . . . .” He slid his arms around her, tightening his hold and drawing her close, pulling her into a kiss.
She temporarily abandoned the thought, putting more than a little of her own passion into the kiss as she gave in to the feelings he aroused in her.
* * * * * * * *
“Well,” she teased softly as she cuddled in his embrace, “that’s a pretty sneaky way to get out of a discussion!”
Kell chuckled as he drew her into another kiss. “I thought,” he murmured with another kiss, “we’d . . . . . . . .” and another, “finished . . . . . . . .” and still one more, “that . . . . . . . .”
She sighed softly, working to concentrate on something besides his kisses. “I suppose; it’s just that sometimes I wonder if . . . . . . . . are you disappointed?”
“Disappointed?” Surprised at the question, he propped himself up on his elbow and looked into her eyes. “Disappointed in what?”
“I don’t know . . . . . . . . in how our lives have turned out?” she postulated, “or in me?”
“Why would you even think that?” he whispered. “I could never be disappointed in you . . . . . . . .”
She smiled at him, ignoring the gathering of tears in the back of her eyes. Reaching up, she gently brushed her hand across his cheek. Her voice was gentle; her tone, self-deprecating. “You deserve the best and I’m not at all sur- . . . . . . . .”
“Hush!” he demanded as he covered her mouth with his hand.
Her eyes widened in surprise as her voice drifted into silence.
He bit back his rising temper as he fought to keep from raising his voice. “That’s enough!” Turning away from her, he moved his hand as he sat up. “Dix,” he queried softly, his back still to her, “what the devil is this all about? Why are you suddenly being so . . . . . . . . so . . . . . . . . so damned introspective?”
She blinked back her tears, determined not to cry. “I thought maybe you were . . . . . . . . unhappy,” she whispered sadly.
Surprised, he turned to look at her. “Why would you think that?” he demanded. “Have I ever said I was unhappy?
Sniffling, she admitted, “I heard you talking to Joe last week; you said . . . . . . . . I . . . . . . . . was . . . . . . . . different . . . . . . . .” Rolling on her side and putting her back to him, she whispered, “We hardly ever have time to just sit and talk any more . . . . . . . . and I thought maybe it was because you were disappointed in me . . . . . . . . or with how things turned out with us.”
If he hadn’t been positive it would have hurt her feelings even more than they already were, he would have laughed. He settled for a sigh as he shook his head and turned around to face her once more. He leaned over and gently put a hand on her shoulder. “And,” he speculated softly, “you’ve been fretting about it, getting all worked up over it, ever since then. Right?”
She offered no protest; he knew he had it pegged.
“Dix,” he said softly, “you’re right . . . . . . . . I did say that. But you’ve got it all wrong.”
She was silent; he worked at ignoring the tears glistening on her cheek.
“Joe was talking about getting flowers for Julie for her birthday. I suggested that flowers alone might not be the best idea, that, well, after awhile, they wilt . . . . . . . .”
Dixie turned her head to look at him, still silent, but intrigued. He figured he was on a roll.
“I suggested jewelry, but Joe said he was sure Julie would like to have flowers. He reminded me how much you liked flowers.” He paused to offer, “Especially daffodils,” with a smile. In spite of herself, she smiled back. Yep, he was most definitely on a roll.
“I reminded him that I always got you flowers we could plant in your flower garden; I agreed that you liked flowers, but I said you were different, meaning, well, we were talking about getting flowers in a pot that we could put in the flower garden.” He gently brushed his hand across her cheek as he smiled softly. “And that’s all I said about you, that’s all I meant . . . . . . . .”
He was determined to put this to rest, once and for all. “Dix,” he said softly as he put his hands on her shoulders, “you’re right --- we really don’t sit and talk much any more. I guess we’ve gotten too caught up in all the other stuff that’s part of having a family and all the responsibility that goes along with it. But we should talk, and we will. I promise.”
She offered a silent smile, which he returned. “I think you’re right, too, about us; in some ways, we are different. But that’s not necessarily bad, Sweetheart.” He sighed; he could get lost in those deep blue eyes. He brushed a hand through her hair, catching a lock and entwining his fingers in it. “Life’s thrown us a few curves, but we’ve come through . . . . . . . . together. We’ve learned to be strong for each other, to be gentle with each other, to love each other. Loving you has made me a better person, and I happen to like the person you are, just the way you are . . . . . . . . I happen to love the person you are, silly ideas and all.” His voice faded away as the emotion overwhelmed him; he pulled her into a hug and cried with her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered after a time, still snuggled into his hug, still comfortable with her head resting on his shoulder, still safe within his arms. “I should’ve talked to you right away . . . . . . . .”
“Stubborn!” he laughed softly.
“Yeah,” she whispered with a twinkle in her eyes as she casually shifted, suddenly reaching over to tickle him. “And you’re still short-tempered,” she giggled.
Their conversation dissolved into fits of laughter.
* * * * * * * *
“Dix,” Kell called out from the living room. “Can you come here? We need to talk.”
Teary-eyed, she finished cutting up the last of the onions, then dumped the vegetables into the pot of stew and stirred them down into the gravy. “Now?” she sniffed. Onions always made her eyes cry.
“Now.”
She sighed, concerned by the tone in his voice. She turned the stew down to simmer, put a lid on the pot, and worriedly headed for the living room.
“What’s wrong?” she queried as she came into the room, swiping at her teary eyes with a tissue. Apprehensive, she walked over to stand beside the sofa where he was sitting.
“We just need to talk, to settle things,” he replied evasively as he took hold of her hand and gently pulled her down to sit beside him.
“Settle what?”
“The other day . . . . . . . .”
“Kell, you’re right,” she interrupted. “I made a mistake . . . . . . . . I overreacted to something I misunderstood . . . . . . . . I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
“No excuses? No argument? No defensive stuff?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Still holding her hand, he reached down beside the sofa; smiling unassumingly, he turned and handed her a bouquet of flowers.
Yellow roses and Shasta daisies. Definitely beautiful. Definitely cut flowers. Smiling, she sniffed at the bouquet, then looked at him, puzzled. “Cut flowers? No flower pot? No roots? No planting in the flower garden?”
Smiling, he shook his head. “Not this time.”
“But they’ll wilt . . . . . . . .”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
She looked at the flowers once again, then at him. His eyes sparkled; the love she found there flowed over her like a river, effortlessly carrying her along in its current. She laughed lightly.
The sound of her laughter filled his soul with joy. He looked into her eyes, suddenly lost in the love spilling over him from deep blue pools.
“I love you,” he offered simply. Tears gathered in his dark eyes.
“I love you.” She reached out to brush her hand across his cheek, catching a tear in the process. “I’ve got something for that,” she smiled softly.
“Probably,” he murmured.
“Want to know what?” She laid the flowers on the coffee table.
“Probably.”
Blinking fast to dispel the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, she leaned forward to brush his lips with a gentle kiss.
“Think that’ll do it?” she whispered.
“Probably,” he whispered, pulling her into his arms and returning the kiss. “Probably.”
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