“That’s great,” I’d burbled, trying not to be totally dazzled.
“Not that it’s all on you to hire me and resolve my personal baggage, but . . . I mean . . . if you want to, I won’t stand in your way.”
He’d flushed so adorably that I had flushed too. In fact, I was so charmed by him, I’d barely been able to form a coherent question from that point on. At the conclusion of the interview, Griffin—Griff, he told me everybody called him—stood and gave me a brief appraising look.
“You look like her. Your grandmother, I mean.” He ducked his head, somehow pulling off the most endearing display of manly sheepishness I’d ever seen. “Yeah, I’ve already started on the research. Dug up a few pictures, talked to a bunch of people. She had the same straight red hair that you do. The same . . .” He pointed to his own face absently. “You look like you stepped out of a speakeasy or something.”
The past few months, he and his small crew had been traveling all over the country, documenting the history of Charles and Dove’s ministry and meeting with people who’d experienced—or claimed to have experienced—a brush with God’s healing through them. As a result, we’d only talked on the phone since that initial meeting. But the calls were always fun, full of easy banter and inside jokes, so to say I was looking forward to seeing him in person again was a massive understatement.
I checked my makeup in the visor mirror and swiped smudged eyeliner from under my eyes. “You guys go on in. I need to brief the crew.”
“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?” Danny said.
I gave him a sisterly eat-dirt look as we climbed out of the car, but he winked at me and took Mom’s arm. They joined the crowd that was streaming toward the entrance of the hospital. I straightened my all-purpose black dress and made my way toward the white SUV. Griff met me, PMW-200 camera in hand, on the lawn beside the hawthorn Mom had pointed out. Its branches were studded with long, sharp thorns and wreathed in lacy white blooms. A bird cooed from some unseen top branch.
Griff’s white tee revealed exactly three chest hairs. And although I wanted desperately not to have noticed, I couldn’t help staring. I also wanted not to be enjoying how good he smelled, like coffee and old books. How his grin made me grin immediately, like a reflex.
He broke a small bloom off a branch and handed it to me. “Nice to see you.”
I took it in my left hand. My right arm, the bad one, twinged the slightest bit. Nerves, probably. I tucked it behind my back.
“You too,” I said.
I knew I shouldn’t hide my arm. It was an illogical response, but I always had a hard time resisting the impulse. Just like using that term, bad, was illogical. Constraint-induced movement therapy taught me that arms weren’t bad or good; they were just appendages. Instruments to help us dress ourselves, brush our hair and teeth, write or cook or touch a loved one’s face. I’d gotten in the habit of doing almost everything—opening the fridge, brushing my teeth, blow-drying my hair—with my right. Still, I couldn’t write with it. And it always felt like there was a neon sign on it, blaring its differentness. So at times, I gave into the urge to keep it out of sight. I didn’t want Griff to notice my arm, at least not yet, and that was all there was to it.
“You hear that?” He broke into a delighted grin. “The bird? That’s a dove.”
“Seriously?” The scent of the flower, sweet with an edge of decay, was giving me a headache. It pulsed at my right temple.
“It’s a sign. It’s got to be.” Suddenly, his expression shifted from delight to frantic worry. He patted himself down. “Oh, great.” He yelled over his shoulder, “Liz! Get my phone, will you? I think I left it in the console.” Then he turned back to me. “Probably subconsciously lost it on purpose. My dad’s obsessively calling, practically every ten minutes, wanting a look at the footage.”
I wrinkled my nose. “He is?”
“Oh yeah. Remember? My parents are Dove and Charles superfans.”
I lifted a shoulder. “It’s kind of sweet.”
“Or annoying, depending on who you talk to. So, shot list?”
I scanned the property with a businesslike squint. “You don’t need to get anything from the newer part of the hospital. Just the old place here. You got the grounds, right?”
“Check. Cemetery, outbuildings, spooky underground passage Dove escaped through. We already got lots of the interior too. One of the administrators let us in this morning. Hell of a haunted house.”
“Psychiatric facility,” I said, although I’d seen the pictures from before the reno and he wasn’t that far off. Life here for the patients, for Dove, must’ve been a true nightmare. “People should feel sympathy for where Dove came from,” I went on. “A connection to her. But we don’t want to go too dark or serious; we want to keep things upbeat and inspirational. This is a sales tool, not a hard-hitting investigative piece. We don’t want to bum anybody out.”
“That’ll be a feat of spin. This place is terrifying, even on a sunny day.”
“Later, I’ll introduce you to Darrell and Margaret Luster, our newest donors, and we can do an impromptu interview. Sound good?”
Griff was staring into my eyes, and I could’ve sworn his thoughts weren’t wholly related to the Luster interview. Or at least, it felt that way. But maybe it was just my wishful thinking. I was moving to Colorado, and it was kind of cart-before-the-horse to imagine a long-distance thing when we hadn’t even had our first date. When we’d never so much as held hands. Or kissed.
“Griff!” Liz yelled from the SUV, shaking me out of my romantic reverie. “No phone in the console!”
He groaned. “Shit.”
“Buy a burner at Walmart,” I said. “You can expense it when we get back. Find me during Mom’s speech, and we’ll wrangle the Lusters.” I left him and, telling myself to snap out of it, headed toward the hospital.
I walked up the steps. The massive front door was propped open, but even though people continued to brush past me, I couldn’t seem to propel myself past the vestibule. Goose bumps rose on my arms and all I could do was stare into the huge entryway.
The place was more opulent, more overwhelming, more . . . everything than I’d expected. The marble floors had been honed and buffed to a rich glow. Wainscoted walls gleamed, leaded glass windows sparkled, and in every corner fat ferns burst from atop ironwork pedestals.
A red-carpeted double staircase split and soared around a brass chandelier that cast constellations of light across the coffered ceiling. My gaze rose to the upper balcony that ran along the second floor. Nestled between two stained glass windows was an oil portrait of my grandmother. She stood with a hand on a simple wooden chair, light-blue caftan falling in folds to the floor. It was exactly the way I remembered her. Delicate bones, translucent skin, pure white hair smoothed back into a bun, just like Mom’s. And the red lipstick. Always the red lipstick.
I could practically hear her voice. I’m not the one who can give you your miracle . . . and I looked away. But still I felt those eyes on me. That enigmatic smile an invitation, almost as if she were physically drawing me toward her across the threshold. And so I looked back.