Carousel Beach: A Novel by Orly Konig

Author:Orly Konig [Orly Konig]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780765398796
Publisher: Forge Books
Published: 2018-05-08T04:00:00+00:00

Twenty

“You’re a little overdressed for the studio.” Vale takes in my yellow capris, white T-shirt, and the blue sweater wrapped around my waist.

“Going to visit Hank. Unless you need the car?” I stop midmotion, one foot in a flip-flop, the other sandal still in my hand.

“No, I have bathroom duty. George is coming over to help.”

On cue, George knocks on the back door and, with Vale waving him to enter, comes into the kitchen.

“You look lovely as always, Maya.” George gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, kind sir.” I curtsy.

“Just don’t get too close to the hair. I think there may be a squirrel nesting in there. It’s time to get the shower fixed.” Vale winks and dodges when I pretend to smack at him with my bag.

“At your service.” George bows.

I roll my eyes. “I’m leaving the bathroom in your capable hands. Don’t screw anything else up.” I wag a finger at Vale. “George, you’re in charge.”

“Hey.” Vale squeaks, and George laughs.

“Smart woman.” George winks. “No worries, we’ve got this.”

“That’s what worries me,” I say, sliding on my other shoe. I wave good-bye and jog to the car, happily escaping from the discussion of moving water lines, and measurements, and best brand of grout.

* * *

I ease the Audi into the parking lot of Tower Oaks, anxious to see Hank—whichever Hank will be there today. An ambulance, back doors open, stands in the no-parking zone directly in front of the entrance. From my parking spot, I can see the front doors of Tower Oaks and the open back of the ambulance. No gurney.

My knuckles turn white with the pressure on the steering wheel. There’s no reason for the skipping in my chest. No reason to think this has anything to do with Hank. And yet I can’t make my fingers work on the door handle.

Through the frosted glass of the facility doors, I catch movement. I push the car door open and stand, my right leg still in the car, my heart hammering louder than the sound of the TV drifting from the second-floor room with the open window.

The shadows inside Tower Oaks continue to move closer until the large glass doors slide open. A square man with a buzz cut is the first out; the puff of air released by the opening doors ruffles his dark-blue scrubs. His left arm trails behind, pulling the gurney. The white sheet bulges around a human figure. I catch my breath as the other end comes into view. The medic at the head is a slight woman, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her dark-blue scrubs bookending the stark white of the wrapped figure. She tucks a corner of the blanket under the rounded shape where the head is.

Simon follows them out. He stands at the edge of the sidewalk, watching as the medics push the gurney into the waiting ambulance. The square man walks to Simon and pats his upper arm before continuing around and getting into the passenger side.

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