Page 1 of Knot in Trouble
Prologue
Rose
“Ma’am…”
“He’ll be here.” I smile at the dark-haired, college-aged server whose patience levels have been decreasing by the minute. “Please, just wait two more minutes.”
He glances at the couples waiting in the lobby of the packed Italian restaurant. If he weren’t so nice, he’d have already kicked me off my table for two, which he only seated me at when I told him Simon was literally just behind me.
That was twenty minutes ago.
He lets out a sigh that I barely hear over the classical music muffling the conversation from the nearby packed tables. “Two minutes. No more.”
As soon as he walks away, I rummage through my purse, take out my phone, and hit redial.Again.
Simon said he’d meet me at the restaurant for our sixth anniversary dinner while my parents watch our son, Ben. With the accountancy firm he works at in downtown Memphis only a thirty-minute drive from Weldon, the small suburb where I was born and raised, he should have arrived soon after I did. Instead, I’ve been hogging this table like nobody’s business.
I’m getting ready to end the call and hit redial when the phone stops ringing.
Thank God.
Smiling, I sit up in my seat. “Simon, you better get your ass down here or the server?—”
“Ma’am,” an unfamiliar male voice interrupts.
I’ve met most of Simon’s co-workers over the years, but maybe this guy is new?
“Is Simon running late? Tell him the server will only hold the table for?—”
“Ma’am,” the man cuts in more firmly. “There’s been an accident. You need to come to Weldon Hospital. Soon as you can.”
I hang up my cell phone in a daze.
Grabbing my black silk clutch that matches my dress, I rush toward the exit. Any words the server says go right past me and hit someone else instead. I have a cloakroom ticket burning a hole in my purse, but I couldn't care less about my coat.
I’ve never snapped at a person the way I snap at the valet attendant when he takes forever with my car.
I’ve never sped before, but I edge so close to the speed limit that only the fear of being pulled over keeps me on the right side of legal.
For fifteen minutes, my sweaty fingers squeeze the steering wheel, and I whisper my new mantra: “Simon is fine. This is just a misunderstanding. Simon is fine.”
There are no parking spots near the hospital entrance, so I find the closest spot in the parking lot, kick off my heels, and scramble out of my car.
Whoa.
My world tips sharply off its axis.
I stagger, going down hard on my hands and skinning my knees. The ground is cold, and my cheeks are wet, but I can’t remember when I started to cry.
Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
Though my knees shake, I push myself to my feet and lean against my car for a second, closing my eyes as I force my racing heart to slow.
You’re okay. Simon is okay. You’re lightheaded from not eating enough today. That’s all this is. Stop. Panicking.
When I’m sure I won’t fall again, I hurry toward the hospital entrance, a sick churn in my belly and ice in my veins.
With each step, my urgency grows.
