Ellie did her best to support the couple’s birth plan, leaving most of the hands-on support—and one hundred percent of the chanting—to Rose. By the time Ellie’s shift ended, the mother had only dilated to four.
Ellie stopped at Food Mart on her way to pick up the kids and got a call from Frank, who owned the local gas station and garage.
“The copper contacts on your starter are shot to hell. I can replace them for you for one-fifty parts and labor and have the car back to you late tomorrow,” he said.
What choice did she have?
“Thanks, Frank.”
She picked up the kids, drove home, and made spaghetti and salad for supper. After some play time, baths, and stories, she tucked them in bed. She had just poured herself a glass of wine and plopped herself in front of Netflix when she noticed it sitting on the coffee table.
Jesse Moretti’s business card.
She still hadn’t thanked him.
She picked up the card, held it for a moment, trying to decide whether to call or just send a card. It would be less personal to send a card. There would be no chance of the conversation drifting or getting awkward. She could write a few words and be done with it. Then an image flashed into her mind of Jesse stepping through her door, six-foot-plus of man holding Daniel and Daisy in his arms, concern on his rugged face.
She found her cell phone and dialed his number, her pulse spiking when it rang.
“Moretti.”
His voice was rough, as if he’d been asleep.
“It’s Ellie Meeks. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Yeah. Well… No worries.”
Shehadwoken him. “I just called to thank you for everything you did to help us the other night. You made a big difference for us. I know you shoveled my sidewalk, too, so, yeah, thanks for that also.”
Good grief, girl!
She was babbling.
“You’re welcome.” His voice was rough, almost as if …
“Are you ill?” That’s the last thing Ellie had wanted to happen. “Oh, God. You caught it, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got a wicked sore throat and a fever, I think.”
“Have you taken your temperature or seen a doctor?”
“No, ma’am.”
She made a guess. “You don’t have a doctor, do you?”
Or a thermometer either.
“No.”
That meant he had no choice but to go to the emergency room for treatment, where he’d wait for hours. Unless …
“My father is a doctor. I’m sure he’d be willing to come check on you and bring you a prescription for antibiotics.”
“I’ll be fine. I don’t want you to go out of your way.”
“Like you did for me?” He was stubborn. Fine. So was she. “Strep isn’t like a cold. It can permanently damage your heart if it goes untreated.”
“Seriously?” He sounded like he didn’t believe her.