The Apple Orchard. Сьюзен Виггс

this situation?”

      “Magnus redrafted his will recently, naming me executor.”

      She narrowed her eyes. “Why you?”

      “He asked,” Dominic said simply. “I’ve known Magnus since I was a kid. And I’ve been his neighbor and his banker for a number of years.”

      She felt an irrational stab of envy. How was it that this guy—this banker—got to know her grandfather, when she’d never even met the man?

      Dominic’s penetrating stare made her uncomfortable, as if he saw some part of her that she didn’t like people to see—that needy girl, yearning for a family.

      “Maybe he’ll recover,” Dominic said, reading her thoughts.

      “Maybe? What’s the prognosis? Is there a prognosis?”

      “At the moment, it’s uncertain. There’s swelling of the brain and he’s on a ventilator, but that could change. That’s the hope, anyway.”

      Her stomach churned, the way it had the night before in the elevator. “I feel for you, and for everyone who cares for him. Really, I do. But I still don’t see a role for me in all this.”

      “Once he recovers, and you get to know him—”

      “Apparently getting to know me is not what he wants.” She glanced away from his probing gaze.

      “Magnus didn’t just decide...” There was an edge in his voice. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

      “Really? What kind of man refuses to acknowledge his own granddaughter except on a piece of paper?”

      “I can’t answer for Magnus.”

      She softened, felt her shoulders round. “It’s terrible, what happened to him. I just wish I understood. Mr. Rossi, I really don’t think there’s anything to discuss.” She was dying, dying to get in touch with her mother now. Shannon Delaney had some explaining to do. Such as why she’d never mentioned Magnus Johansen, or Archangel, or the legacy of an estate. A man she’d never known had included her in his will. She let the words sink in, trying to figure out how it made her feel. Her grandfather—her grandfather—was leaving her half of everything. As she shaped her mind around the idea, an obvious question occurred to her.

      “What about the other half?” she asked.

      “The other... Oh, you mean Magnus’s estate.”

      “Yes.”

      “The other half will be left to your sister.”

      She nearly fell over in her chair. She couldn’t speak for a moment, could only stare at her visitor, aghast. “Whoa,” she said softly. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Give me a minute here. I have a sister?”

      “Yes,” said Dominic. “Look, I know I’ve thrown a lot at you....”

      “You think?” Tess struggled to assimilate the information, but she felt flooded by all the revelations. Her heart jolted into overdrive. It wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning, and she’d learned her estranged grandfather was in a coma he’d probably never come out of, and she had a...sister. The word—the concept—was completely foreign to her.

      “What sister?” she managed to ask, although she couldn’t hear her own voice over a rampant pounding in her ears. “Where is she? Who is this...oh, my God...this sister?”

      “She’s at Bella Vista, and she— Hey, are you okay?” he asked, again with that oddly penetrating look.

      “Just peachy,” she said. Her hands clamped the edge of the desk in a death grip. How could this be happening to her? In the middle of her perfectly normal life, this person had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to tell her about a legacy she didn’t realize she had coming to her.

      And a sister she’d never even known about.

      Feeling trapped, Tess looked wildly around the office. Her pulse went crazy, hammering away at her chest with a vengeance. It was even worse than it had been the night before. Was she dying? Maybe she was dying. Inanimate objects started to blur and pulsate as though coming to life. Her throat constricted, and she felt her heart thudding against her breastbone. She made an involuntary sound, a gasp of distress and confusion.

      “Miss Delaney...Tess?” asked Dominic.

      “I...” Her throat felt swollen and clogged. Sweat broke out on her forehead, her upper lip. “Not feeling so hot,” she managed to mutter.

      “You look terrible, like you’re going to pass out or something.”

      His voice sounded very far away, as if he was shouting down a long tube.

      She pressed her hands against her chest. Her fingers felt as cold as ice. Breathe, Tess told herself, but her throat kept closing up.

      “I need to...sit down,” she managed to force out.

      “Uh, you are sitting down.”

      She pressed her hands against the chair. Dear God, what’s happening to me?

      Dominic went to the doorway and stuck his head out into the hall. “Hey, we could use some help in here. I think she’s getting sick.”

      Tess tried to protest. I’m not sick. Her voice was lost somewhere inside her, and besides, she couldn’t swear the guy was wrong.

      People gathered in the small space outside the office. Her blurred vision pulsed harder. A couple of faces pressed close.

      Jude: “Jesus, Tess, you look like death on a cracker.”

      Oksana: “Maybe it’s a heart attack. Tess! Can you hear me?”

      Brooks: “Or a panic attack. Give her a paper bag to breathe into.”

      Jude: “I’m calling 911.”

      No, said Tess, but no sound came out.

      “Where’s the nearest emergency room?” asked Dominic. He took her wrist, and she felt his fingers, delicately feeling for her pulse. Of them all, the stranger was the only one who touched her. She trembled as though stepping into a freezer.

      Emergency room? Was she having an emergency? No ER, she thought. That was where people went to have their chests cracked and ended up in the morgue with a tag tied to their big toe.

      “Mercy Heights is just across Comstock,” said Jude.

      “Then that’s where we need to go.”

      “Should I call—”

      “No, that takes too long.” Arms that felt as strong and solid as a forklift hoisted her up out of the chair. Dominic Rossi held her as if she weighed nothing.

      “Grab her purse, will you?” he said. “And someone get the door.”

      * * *

      Tess lay on a gurney covered with a crackly, disposable fabric. A thin hospital gown lay over her, and someone had given her a pair of bright yellow socks with nonskid dots on the soles. Little sticky things attached to wires led from her chest to a beeping monitor. More wires led to the tips of her fingers, attached by clear plastic clothespins. Flexible plastic tubing snaked behind her ears and blew chilly, strangely scented oxygen into her nostrils. Someone had left an aluminum chart lying across her thighs.

      Bells and announcements went off. Hurried footsteps squeaked across polished floors. There were sounds of conversation, weeping, praying in at least three languages. Someone was moaning. Someone else was cursing fluently at the top of his lungs, and somewhere a patient—or inmate, perhaps—was barking like a dog.

      A group of people in lab coats clustered around Tess. Mercy was a teaching hospital, and most of the coat wearers were young and appeared to be incredibly interested in her.

      Tess felt limp and defeated, battered by the events of the past two hours. Dominic Rossi had