Bring It On Home

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

“I can’t believe they had the nerve to say nothing is wrong with you.” In the backseat of the town car, Genevieve fumed.

Maggie didn’t know how she had the energy. They’d both been up most of the night. Too exhausted to work up much of an argument, she rested her head against the seat, staring out as the quiet streets of L.A. slid past. She wished she could just fall into sleep and avoid all conversation, but the edgy restlessness told her sleep would be a long time coming, if it came at all. And she was afraid of what dreams would bring when it did.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You passed out in the middle of a presentation.”

Humiliating. Roman Lewis had apparently been the one to catch her, just before her head cracked against the floor.

“Which they concluded was from low blood sugar, lack of sleep, and excessive caffeine. Not a brain tumor or whatever else you made them test me for.” She’d lost track of the number of scans and blood draws she’d been subjected to. “And can we talk about how we’re going to salvage the mess I made of the merger?” Anything to avoid further discussion of her health.

“You didn’t make a mess. We postponed the meeting and no one is upset about it. Everybody just wants to know you’re okay.”

“Which the doctors say I am.” And okay, yeah, she was grateful she had that confirmation, even if she did still feel like warmed-over death.

Genevieve snorted. “Narrow-minded, old-school blowhards. You totally have adrenal fatigue.”

This again. Genevieve had already argued this with the attending physician―for half an hour.

“The doctor said that’s not actually a recognized diagnosis.”

“Oh bullshit. They said fibromyalgia wasn’t a real diagnosis for decades until somebody finally figured out how to prove it existed.”

“Why are you so convinced this is a thing?” Maggie had never even heard of it.

“Because I know half-a-dozen people who’ve been through it, and both my acupuncturist and naturopath have been warning me for years that I’m skating the edge. Why do you think I have that weekly massage and take all those hot yoga classes? You think I actually like all that crunchy granola health food stuff? I love pastry and French fries with a religious fervor, but it’s not great for my health, so I drink the damned wheat grass.”

“Gag me.”

“Same. Every morning. But either way, just because Western medicine hasn’t caught on to the fact that there is actually a middle ground between normal adrenal function and failure doesn’t mean the rest of the world missed the memo. You have almost all the symptoms.” She started ticking them off on her fingers. “Chronic fatigue, brain fog, lightheadedness, depression, moodiness and irritability, problems with your sleep, hair loss, decreased libido―”

Maggie interrupted the recitation. “All of which have a multitude of other potential causes.”

“Adrenal fatigue, burnout―whatever you want to call it―the root of all of it is stress.”

“On that we can agree.”

Genevieve’s voice went soft. “You’ve had a helluva couple of years, with your mom dying, your niece’s adoption, Kennedy and Pru’s weddings, and starting the inn and spa, and running the financial side of that from here, on top of your normal duties. It’s a lot.”

Not looking away from the window, Maggie shrugged. “It’s life. I’m dealing with it.”

“You can’t keep going on like this. If you don’t get your health under control, next time it will be something even more serious.”

“I’m dealing with it,” Maggie repeated. Dealing with whatever came up was simply what she did. It had taken everything she had not to collapse into a whimpering puddle of anxiety when she’d woken up at the hospital, but she’d dealt with that, too.

“You’re not dealing with it, not really. But you will.”

The seriousness of Genevieve’s tone roused her enough to look at her friend. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hold that thought. We’re here.”

The town car pulled up in front of Maggie’s building, and the driver came around to open the door, offering a hand to help her out.

“Thanks for the ride, Carlos.”

The older man nodded. “Miss Reynolds. I hope you feel better soon.”

What else could she say? “Thank you.”

“I’m walking her up. I’ll be back down in a little while,” Genevieve told him.

“Yes, Miss Kessinger.”

Neither of them spoke as they crossed the lobby, and that was good. Maggie had to concentrate hard to stay vertical. Each step felt like dragging her feet through molasses. Even if she couldn’t really sleep, she couldn’t wait to get horizontal. She was so damned tired. It had taken so much to combat the renewed sense of helplessness and all the memories of fear, confusion, and powerlessness to stop whatever the hell was going on. To pretend she wasn’t freaking the hell out on the inside so they’d let her simply go. All she wanted was the chance to fall apart in the sanctuary of her own home. Was that too much to ask? Maybe she’d have a nice soak after she kicked Genevieve out. That might unwind her enough to manage a nap.

When they were finally shut into the elevator, Genevieve crossed her arms. “It’s partly my fault you’re in this condition. I suspected you were pushing yourself too hard, working too much, and I let it slide. You’re so damned good at your job, I didn’t realize it had gotten this bad. That’s on me for not pushing, not asking questions. But I’m not gonna let you work yourself into an early grave on my behalf.”

Maggie curled her fingers around the rail as the car moved smoothly up to her floor. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re going to make some serious changes. Starting with taking forced vacation. None of this day or two here every few months. A real vacation. Where you sleep and rest and relax.”

Genevieve rarely played the boss card, so it wasn’t as if Maggie had a leg to stand on to argue. She’d already been thinking of taking time herself, but having it handed down as a dictate rankled. “Fine. I’ll take a week―”

“You’ll take until the end of the year. At least.”

In the mirrored walls, Maggie saw her own mouth gape open like a fish. “That’s more than three months! I can’t not work for three months!”

“You’ll be paid.”

That was a concern, certainly, but that wasn’t her primary issue. Work was her coping mechanism. The thing that kept her sane. If Genevieve took that away, what would happen? “What the hell will I do with myself for that long? More to the point, what the hell will you do without me?”

The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped into the quiet hall. “You have a painfully efficient administrative assistant. Alyssa is as much your right hand as you are mine. We’ll manage. As to you―why don’t you go home and spend some time with your sisters? Be around for the birth of your new niece or nephew and get your dote on?”

Because I don’t know if I can survive it.

But she wasn’t about to mention that to Genevieve. She’d never told her friend about her miscarriage. That pregnancy had changed the course of her whole life, forever branding her in Eden’s Ridge as “that girl who got knocked up in high school.” The boatload of academic accolades and professional accomplishments she’d racked up in the years since then meant exactly nothing in her hometown. Nobody saw the successful businesswoman she’d become, only “that poor Reynolds girl” who’d suffered the same fate as her birth mother. Was it any wonder she’d run to the opposite coast to make a life far from rumor and speculation? No, she couldn’t go home for that long. Not now.

“I can’t just go home for months. I have obligations here. To you, if you’ll remember. I’m in the middle of at least seven different negotiations that I can’t just walk away from.”

“We’ll handle it. None of them are worth your life.”

Maggie slid her key into the lock. “You are out of your mind.”

“I knew you’d be stubborn about this. So I brought in some backup. If you won’t listen to me, maybe you’ll listen to him.”

Beyond irritated, Maggie shoved open the door. “Backup? What are you talking about?”

“Maggie.”

At the sleepy male voice, she shrieked and slapped on the overhead light.

Shielding his eyes, the intruder straightened to sitting on the sofa, sandy hair tousled, clothes rumpled, as if he’d been up all night, as they had. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just me.”

His familiar drawl cut through her instinctive panic, but still she stared, because there was no way he was really here. She was hallucinating. Had to be. There was no other good explanation. But God, if anybody could make her feel better about all this, it was him.

“Porter?”