Same Place, Same Time by C.J. Carmichael - Same Place Same Time

Author:C.J. Carmichael - Same Place, Same Time [Carmichael, C.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Romance, Contemporary, Contemporary romantic suspense, Fiction, Harlequin Intrigue
ISBN: 9781426860898
Amazon: B003T0G764
Publisher: Harlequin Men in Uniform
Published: 2010-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

I SHOULDN’T HAVE BROUGHT her to the hospital, Morgan berated himself even though he knew he’d had no choice. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might react like this. It was, after all, a different hospital. But similar enough. When she’d had the car accident, she’d been in a room not unlike this one, with a bad concussion and the possibility of internal damage. Then, as now, at the moment she regained consciousness, he’d been by her side.

With the worst news that either of them could have had. It had been the hardest moment of his life, but he’d tried to be strong for her. Not that his supposed strength had done anybody any good. There was nothing he could do to save his baby, and nothing he could do or say to provide any comfort to his wife.

He’d lost more than his son in that terrible accident four years ago. He’d lost his wife too, although mercifully he hadn’t realized that at first. It was only thoughts of Trista that had helped him get through those first few days and weeks. She would need him. He had to be strong for her. That was what he’d told himself.

But she hadn’t needed him. Not from the moment he told her that Andrew had died in the accident. She hadn’t cried then, like she was now. Her eyes had grown blank, her face, expressionless. She’d turned away from him without a single word. It was as if she had died, too. In everything except body.

In the weeks and months that passed, he kept waiting for her—the real Trista—to come back from whatever hell she was visiting and inhabit the body of his still-beautiful wife, but she never did. Her face kept that look, that blank expression where her eyes never really seemed to be in focus.

They lived in polite silences, pretending to sleep during long, dark nights, and avoiding each other when they were awake. Moving about in the same house, sharing meals and a bed, but not talking or touching. If he so much as placed a hand on her shoulder, she would wince, as if in pain.

And she never did cry. At least, not when he was in the house. He remembered many nights when, unable to sleep and unable to share his thoughts with his wife, he’d gone into his son’s bedroom. He would touch the crib, the blankets, the stuffed toys. He’d open the books he’d once read for hours: I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them Sam-I-am.

And then he would cry. Quietly. So as not to disturb Trista. Muffling his sobs with the flannel blanket they had wrapped around Andrew after he was born and they took him home from the hospital.

This time they hadn’t been able to take him home from the hospital.

Trista’s sobs were losing their intensity and he lowered her body back down on the pillows. All that crying couldn’t have done her injury any good, and he wished the doctor would come in and examine her.

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