The Unread Scan That Ended Us

Chapter 2

The next morning, the sound of soup bubbling in the kitchen woke me.

Steam rose from a heavy pot. The smell of herbs mingled with the rich smell of chicken broth. Wearing an apron, Vincent patiently skimmed the fat from the surface with a ladle. He turned and smiled when I appeared. "You're awake. Perfect timing. The soup's ready."

For a moment, I was back three years ago. Vincent had just been promoted to vice president. He'd drunk so much to impress clients at business dinners that he'd ended up in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer, unable to eat for two weeks.

I'd gotten up before dawn that time, too. Following a dietitian's recipe, I'd simmered the soup for 4 hours, skimmed off every trace of fat, and taken it to the hospital in an insulated container. He'd leaned against the pillows, drinking it with tears in his eyes. "I swear, Meredith, as long as I have anything to give, you'll never have to suffer."

"The soup..."

"It's for Bridget," he interrupted without a second thought. He took an insulated food container from the dishwasher. "Her stomach lining is damaged. This kind of soup is perfect for her. I had Agnes go out before dawn to buy a stewing hen."

I lowered my hand and slipped it into my pocket.

"What about me?" I asked.

He paused as he ladled out the soup, then glanced at me, amused. "There's bread and milk in the fridge. You don't need this bitter herbed soup first thing in the morning."

"Vincent, I'm going to the hospital today to get my results." I watched him screw the lid onto the container.

"What results?" he asked absently, his eyes on his watch. "Stop scaring yourself. It's Monday. We have negotiations with Sutton Group today. I have to pick up Bridget first, so I'll take her the soup on the way."

I stood by the counter. "Can't you spare 30 minutes to come with me?"

He frowned, reproachful. "You used to be so understanding, Meredith." He came over, opened his suit jacket, and took a credit card from the inside pocket. He pressed it into my hand. "Go to the mall afterward and buy yourself some clothes. Be good. Don't make this harder when so much is riding on it."

His voice was gentle, but the look in his eyes warned me not to get in the way of his real work.

The doorbell rang. Bridget stood outside in a pale beige designer suit, her long hair loosely pinned up. She looked delicate and polished.

"Vincent, my car's in the shop. I'm going to need a ride. I hope I'm not interrupting." When she saw me, she took a nervous step back. "Oh, Meredith. You're here, too."

"Don't be silly. You're practically family." Vincent picked up the food container and went to her. "I just packed the soup. It'll be the right temperature to drink in the car."

She took it, her eyes lighting up. "You remembered how much I love this herbed chicken soup?"

"How could I forget?" He smiled faintly. "Your father used to make it whenever you were sick as a kid."

I stood in the shadow of the entryway, watching them side by side. They looked like a couple.

"Are you coming to the office with us, Meredith?" Bridget asked over her shoulder.

"No. She's going to the hospital to get her results."

Vincent opened the car door and helped Bridget into the passenger seat. That had been my seat. Once, when a client had tried to sit there, he'd smiled and refused. "Shotgun's my wife's. She'd get jealous if anyone else took it." Now Bridget sat there as though it belonged to her.

Before the car pulled out of the garage, Vincent lowered his window and held up his phone. "Text me when you get the results this afternoon, so I know you're okay." The window slid up, shutting me out.

I looked down at the credit card in my hand and tossed it onto the console table by the door.