Read Chapter 10: — REBECCA SHAW

Daniel's nurse was named Rebecca Shaw.

She was forty-three, unmarried, sharp-tongued and more competent than Martin found comfortable.

"Your brother needs someone to turn him every two hours," she told him. "Not someone who arrives with grapes and business news."

"I visit three times a week."

"Excellent. Bedsores are impressed."

Martin disliked her instantly.

Then he watched her clean Daniel, change dressings, argue with a consultant, chase a delayed scan and bring tea to the old man in the next bed whose family never came.

Competence softened insult.

"Can I buy you dinner when Daniel gets out?" Martin asked.

"Why?"

"To say thank you."

"Say thank you. Save the money."

He laughed.

Eventually she agreed to a meal at The Willow Table.

Martin mistook the evening for a date for approximately twelve minutes.

Rebecca corrected him.

"You're old enough to know the difference between chemistry and gratitude."

"I'm not sure I ever learned."

Over cider she told him about the only man she had seriously loved, a young journalist she had met while working on an oncology ward. He died of lymphoma after her parents had pressured her to take leave because they believed she was sacrificing her future to a doomed relationship.

She had missed his final day.

"I forgave them," she said. "I didn't forgive time."

Martin listened without fixing.

That was new too.

When Rebecca later met George at the barn, they argued within five minutes about a product photograph.

"That lampshade looks depressed," she said.

"Lampshades don't have moods."

"That one does."

"Then diagnose it."

She laughed.

Martin saw something pass between them—nothing dramatic, only recognition.

He felt unexpectedly relieved.

Not every woman who entered his life needed to become a verdict on his masculinity.