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  Witnessing Elle’s pain had etched lines beside Dean’s mouth. He’d never been good in the face of helplessness. If he cried, Mya’s heart would break.

  Letting another ice chip melt into Elle’s parted lips, Mya said, “You aren’t going to believe who called today.”

  Elle didn’t move, but Mya knew she was listening.

  “Who?” Dean asked for her.

  “The people at Good Morning America.”

  “No shit?”

  Mya figured Elle couldn’t have said it better herself. “Your Grandma Millie took the call. Evidently, Katie wants us to be guests on the show next Friday.”

  “What did your mother say?” Dean asked.

  In a voice barely loud enough to hear, Elle said, “She probably told Katie’s people to call her people.”

  Mya’s gaze flew to Dean’s. She’d been wrong. It wasn’t him crying that had the power to break her heart. It was Dean, struggling not to that did it.

  Three days in a row, a single flower was delivered to Elle’s hospital room. Each time, the accompanying card contained only one word. The first day it had been hierarchy. The second was coxswain. Today, it was penurious.

  Certain Elle was being stalked, Millicent said, “Who could be doing this? I’m calling the police.”

  Elle stirred only enough to whisper, “Don’t. I know who they’re from.”

  She didn’t share the knowledge, but it was the only time Mya had seen Elle smile since treatment began.

  Dean, Mya and her mother were taking turns dividing their time between Kaylie and Elle. School was out, and Claire and Suzette had taken over responsibilities at Brynn’s. Grady was handling the Laker Construction renovation project on the island. Everyone was doing everything they could. Mya didn’t know how to thank them, and yet she feared everything everyone was doing wouldn’t be enough.

  She and Dean had gone to New York last week. They’d told their story on live television. Viewer response was overwhelmingly supportive. Cards, flowers, letters and gifts poured in. Sylvia had set up a Web site to handle the overflow.

  And yet no match had been found.

  Yet, she told herself. No match had been found yet.

  Dean went home with Mya every night. Together, they cared for Kaylie and Elle. They spoke with the medical staff. Mya organized bone marrow donor rallies. Elle remained in the hospital. Every day, she grew weaker. And every night Mya and Dean became more terrified. Mya didn’t know who was winning, the chemicals or the cancer. And when night was darkest, she stared at the ceiling, dread filling her soul, for she didn’t see how Elle would last until a match was found.

  The door to Elle’s hospital room was closed when Mya and Dean stepped off the elevator. Hoping to cheer Elle, and to restore at least a small portion of her fighting spirit, Mya had brought Kaylie with her today.

  They weren’t the only ones visiting. Elle’s family from Pennsylvania was here. Call her selfish, but Mya was glad she had the baby to hold, for it gave her something to do with her hands other than scratching Elle’s stepmother’s eyes out.

  Dean and Mya hadn’t known the Fletchers were coming. They’d arrived before Mya, Dean or Millie usually got here. Evidently, Elle had seen her father and stepmother both briefly, then had asked to speak to her father alone.

  Roberta Fletcher was both petite and pretty, or she would have been if her smile hadn’t been as fake as her devotion to her stepdaughter. Evidently the reporter interviewing her liked saccharine, for he seemed to hang on her every word. While her mother blabbered on, the little girl meandered to Kaylie.

  “Hi Kaylie,” Lauren said. “Remember me? I’m your aunt.” Perhaps nine or ten, the child giggled, as if she thought it sounded pretty preposterous.

  Setting Kaylie on the floor to play with Lauren, Dean and Mya paced. What was happening in that hospital room? Why had Elle needed to see her other father precisely now?

  Whatever was said was private. It must have been very emotional, for Richard Fletcher was wiping his eyes as he left Elle’s room. With his graying hair and tweed suit, he looked more like a college English professor than an attorney.

  His little boy, Trevor, ran to him. Looking up at his father as if at a mountain, the child said, “Daddy, is Ellie going to die?”

  Everyone gasped. Even Brunhilde.

  He picked up his son. His gaze going to Mya and Dean, he said, “Not if we can help it.”

  The two men each sized up the other. And the local news team captured it on film. Shoving a microphone in Richard’s face, a reporter said, “We’re all rooting for your daughter. How is this affecting the rest of your family?”

  While he lowered the boy to the floor, Roberta swooped into the limelight. “We’ve all been so worried. Her father and I have tried to shield Lauren and Trevor from the horror of what poor Elle is facing. But I know they’re as worried as we are about their big sister. Poor thing. Bless her heart, you know?”

  Mya could have puked.

  Perhaps the reporter was savvier than she’d given him credit for, for without missing a beat, he said, “I understand people everywhere are being tested as potential bone marrow donors. Have you been tested, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  Mya bit her lip when Brunhilde, er, Roberta paled. Richard let his wife stammer for another moment before saying, “The children and I have been tested. It was a long shot, we knew, but sadly we don’t match, either.” He looked directly into the camera. “We have to find a match. Please. I challenge every adoptive parent watching to be tested. For my daughter’s sake, I’m begging.”

  Mya hadn’t planned to like him.

  Elle’s Pennsylvania family, the camera crew and reporter had gone when Dean and Mya tiptoed into Elle’s room, Kaylie in tow. Mya intentionally had dressed the baby in the Harley shirt Kaylie had been wearing the first time Mya saw her. It was difficult for Elle to concentrate these days, so Mya wasn’t sure the girl would notice.

  Kaylie stared at all the machines and the stainless steel, and her young mother in the midst of it all. The baby didn’t babble, or smile, or reach for her mama.

  Drugs, illness and horrible chemotherapy notwithstanding, Elle noticed. Watching through glassy eyes, she said, “I want you two to take Kaylie.”

  A long time ago, last month, Mya would have said something flippant, such as “Take her where?”

  Dean cradled Elle’s hand gently in his. “We’ll take her, love her, raise her, baby, if it comes to that. But it won’t come to that. Do you hear me, Elle? It won’t.”

  Elle didn’t argue. That alone sent a renewed dread all the way through Mya.

  “Mya?” Elle whispered.

  At first, Mya couldn’t answer. Her throat convulsing, she finally managed a hoarse whisper. “I’m here, Elle.”

  “I want to go to the island.”

  Mya didn’t ask questions. She didn’t argue, either. Elle was nearing the end of her first round of aggressive, vicious treatments. Three weeks on chemotherapy, two weeks off. If Elle wanted to spend those two weeks on the island, by God, Mya was going to find a way to give her precious girl what she wanted.

  “All right,” she whispered. But then her voice grew stronger. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  CHAPTER 17

  D ean swung his feet over the side of his bed and carefully rose. Looking back to make sure he hadn’t jostled Mya awake, he pulled on his jeans and left his bedroom.

  As he had the two previous nights, he stopped at Kaylie’s room. From the doorway, he heard the baby noises she made in her sleep.

  He paused at Elle’s door next. Dr. Andrews hadn’t wanted to release her to the island. Even as sick as she was, Elle was a force to be reckoned with. The oncologist had been in contact with Sylvia, who ran the island’s medical clinic. After ordering more lab work, he’d finally given Elle the okay to leave. “Under one condition,” he’d said, his gaze going to Dean’s. “If she develops a fever, a rash or bruises, if the nausea returns or her appetite doesn’t, if something doesn�
��t feel right to you, I want her back here within the hour. Understood?”

  Dean had nodded. He’d understood all too well.

  Elle’s nausea had finally subsided when the treatments stopped. The act of transporting her to the island had exhausted her so thoroughly she’d slept twenty hours upon arrival. She looked so fragile without her hair. She continued to be weak, her skin so pale, her eyes too large in her thin, haggard face. Looking at her both broke him in half and filled him with a sense of pride he hadn’t known he was capable of feeling.

  Dean kept up his vigil. Beneath the cloak of darkness, he waited at her doorway, listening for a sound that—he swallowed—a sound that she was alive. She slept so utterly still, he had to wait minutes for his proof. When it finally came in the quiet whisper of her breathing or the barest rustle of her sheet, or slightest movement of the mattress, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to breathe.

  He needed a drink.

  He always needed a drink. But last night and the night before, he’d managed to return to his bed where Mya lay sleeping. Tonight, he went silently into the kitchen, opened the tall cabinet, and quietly placed the dusty bottle on the counter.

  The clear liquid sloshed invitingly.

  Dean tried to wet his lips, but his mouth and throat were dry. Wrapping his hand around the bottle, he lifted it up. He tried to close his eyes, to block out the image, but couldn’t. His fingers shook, for he knew he held oblivion in his hand.

  Sweat broke out on his brow as he removed the cap. With the sound of his heart roaring in his ears, he felt Mya’s arms go around him as the Scotch glug-glugged out of the bottle and seeped down the drain. He didn’t know if he’d slain the dragon once and for all, but he’d slain it for tonight.

  Bringing Mya around to the front of him, he gathered her close. They stood wrapped in each other’s arms, listening to the sounds of night. Taking his cue from the crooning wind, he kept his voice low as he said, “I’ve been waiting for the right time to do that. There’s something else I’ve been waiting a long time to do.”

  He released her long enough to walk across the room and remove something from a drawer. Mya missed his arms around her. But he returned to her immediately. Barefoot and shirtless, faded jeans slung low, he looked as haggard as she felt. Worry etched in his handsome face as he stopped directly in front of her, and held out his hand. Turning it palm side up, he slowly opened his fingers.

  Both of Mya’s hands covered her mouth. Her eyes were on the ring.

  He held the ring between his thumb and forefinger. “Will you marry me, Mya? Live with me, laugh with me, argue with me, grow old with me? I promise I won’t let you down again.”

  In the dim light over the stove, the sapphire matched Dean’s eyes. Although the stone had been placed in a different setting, she thought she recognized it. “Is that the same sapphire?”

  He nodded.

  And she all but whimpered, for he’d sold his car to buy it that long-ago summer. He’d been drunk the night she’d flung the ring at him from across the room.

  Tonight, she was too emotion filled to speak. But by God, she wasn’t going to cry.

  As if he understood that she needed a moment to shore up her emotions and regain her control, he pointed to the new stones on either side of the blue sapphire. “This is Elle’s birthstone. And this one is Kaylie’s.”

  Forget holding her emotions in check. Tears ran freely down Mya’s cheeks as he slipped that simple ring on her finger. The Star of India wouldn’t have held a tenth as much meaning or worth.

  “I’ll marry you, Dean. Tomorrow if you want.”

  Their gazes met and held. And with a sense of urgency that drove every waking thought these days, they checked on Kaylie and Elle, then returned to bed where they quietly made love, and then planned their hasty, long-awaited wedding.

  “Well?” Mya asked, meeting Elle’s gaze in her reflection in the mirror. “How do I look?”

  Since Mya hadn’t asked Elle how she was feeling—Jesus Marie Christmas, if one more person asked her that, she was going to scream—Elle surveyed Mya.

  Actually, she’d seen her looking a hell of a lot better. Her face was drawn, her eyes sunken, dark circles rimming them. The poor woman was worried sick. And there wasn’t a damn thing Elle could do about it. There wasn’t anything Elle could do about any of it, except smile weakly and tell Mya the truth. “You make a beautiful bride. How about me? Does my hair look okay?”

  Mya stopped fussing with her necklace, with her dress, with her lip gloss and slowly turned. Looking Elle over closely, she said, “Not a hair out of place.”

  As Elle patted her bald head, Mother and daughter shared a wobbly, watery grin.

  A quiet knock sounded on the door. Poking her head inside, Millicent said, “You girls ready?”

  They both nodded.

  Grinning and sniffling at the same time, Mya’s mother settled Kaylie on Elle’s lap. The youngest flower girl to be in any wedding on the island, Kaylie grinned beguilingly and pointed. “Da.”

  Elle carried the single yellow rose delivered that morning bearing a single line. “Mythical, with a lisp.” It meant nothing to everyone else, and so much to Elle.

  Pushing the wheelchair that held the two girls she loved most in the world, Mya walked regally to the living room where Dean, his family, Claire, Suzette and the new preacher from the church on the hill waited.

  Mya would have been satisfied to pay a quick visit to the Justice of the Peace. But she and Dean had so wanted Elle to be present, so they’d brought the local pastor to Dean’s house.

  Mya Donahue was married in a cream-colored silk sheath Suzette had brought with her from Brynn’s. Her maid of honor wore a similar dress in pale pink and a matching scarf to cover her baldness. Dean wore his best and only dark suit, a brother on each side serving as co-best men. The ocean breeze stirred through the curtains, carrying the scent of seawater and dandelions and late-blooming lilacs on this, the first truly warm summer day.

  Precious, precocious Kaylie wanted to get down halfway through the short ceremony. Dean didn’t even hesitate to take the baby from Elle’s weak arms. There she remained, the quietest witness of all, perched on his arm as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Do you, Mya Donahue, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to honor him, cherish him, love him and respect him for as long as you live?”

  Millicent sniffled as Mya said, “I do.”

  And then the minister turned to Dean. “Do you, Dean Laker, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? Do you promise to honor her, cherish her, love her and protect her for as long as you live?”

  Everyone sniffled when Dean said, “I do.”

  Even Pastor Pete.

  Placing a hand on his Holy Bible, the young preacher said, “With the power vested in me by God and the State of Maine, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

  Dean kissed his bride with Kaylie in his arms. The Laker cousins elbowed each other. Gretchen snapped pictures. All around Mya, she heard clapping. Bending down to hug Elle, she smiled. Then gasped.

  “Congratulations,” Elle whispered.

  Without conscious thought, Mya placed her hand along the side of Elle’s face. Handing Kaylie to his brother, Dean leaned down, too. “What’s wrong?”

  Elle shrugged.

  And Mya said, “She’s burning up.”

  The rest of the congratulations would have to wait. A few months ago a buzz would have resounded through the room. Today, everyone swooped down in silence, helping, hindering, getting in the way. Loving.

  Dean and Mya rushed Elle back to the mainland, back to the hospital, back to Dr. Andrews. It seemed it was going to come down to a miracle.

  CHAPTER 18

  A nother week had passed.

  Elle was giving up. Mya couldn’t even blame her. The entire staff in the oncology wing at Portland Memorial was scrambling, as were Dr. Andrews’ colleagues in distant hospitals. It seemed
everyone was working to come up with a chemotherapy cocktail that would send Elle’s lymphoma back into remission.

  They weren’t even pretending that the new drugs they searched for might cure her anymore. They were trying to buy her some time, and perhaps send her into remission long enough for a bone-marrow donor match to be found.

  Mya hadn’t heard much of their story on the news lately. It seemed most people had given up hope.

  Including Elle.

  Mya and Dean didn’t have the heart to bully her. They’d spent the first week of their marriage keeping vigil. With every passing day, Mya left the hospital less often and with greater reluctance.

  Dean knew why. And he understood. He shared her fear that every time they left Elle might be the last time. He’d never felt such dread, had never been so completely helpless, not even on that long-ago day when Mya had told him their unborn child deserved better than either of them could give her, not even the day Millicent had called Dean’s mother, and Dean’s parents had told him the papers had been signed, and the newborn baby he’d never seen had become a part of another family.

  He’d gotten blind drunk that day. Getting blind drunk hadn’t helped then, and it wouldn’t help now.

  Nothing short of a miracle could help now.

  It was taking its toll on everyone. God, his precious Elle. He was worried about Mya, too. She didn’t eat. She rarely slept, and when she did, it was fitful and restless.

  Elle was asking for Kaylie.

  As he and Mya brought the baby up the elevator, he knew Mya was hoping that seeing Kaylie totter her first steps would give Elle renewed courage to keep fighting. Dean was glad he didn’t have to spit. He couldn’t have, for he knew Elle had asked for Kaylie to say goodbye.

  Up ahead, they could see Dr. Andrews coming out of Elle’s room. Dean not only felt Mya’s panic, he shared it. They hurried faster, their gazes on the face of every nurse and doctor they passed, watching for an indication that they were too late.