MIRROR IMAGE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 The nurse gave her a satisfied once-over. "You've got wonderful hair, Mrs. Rutledge."

"Thanks," Avery said ruefully. "What there is of it." During the seven days that Tate had been away, she had fully regained her voice. He was due to arrive at any moment, and she was nervous.

"No," the nurse was saying, "that's my point. Not everybody can wear such a short style. On you, it's a knockout."

Avery glanced into the hand mirror, plucked at the spiky bangs on her forehead, and said dubiously, "I hope so."

She was seated in a chair with her right leg elevated on a footstool. A cane was propped against the chair. Her hands were folded together in her lap.

The nurses were as aflutter as she over Tate's imminent arrival after being out of town for more than a week. They had primped her like a bride waiting for her groom.

"He's here," one of them announced in a stage whisper, poking her head around the door. The nurse with Avery squeezed her shoulder. "You look terrific. He's going to be bowled over."

He wasn't exactly bowled over, but he was momentarily stunned. She watched his eyes widen marginally when he spotted her sitting in the chair, wearing street clothes—Carole's street clothes—which Zee had brought her several days earlier.

"Hello, Tate."

At the sound of her voice, he registered  even more surprise.

Her heart lurched. He knew!

Had she made another blunder? Did Carole have a pet name she always addressed him by? She held her breath, waiting for him to point an accusing finger at her and shout, "You lying impostor!"

Instead, he cleared his throat uneasily and returned her greeting. "Hello, Carole."

Through her finely fashioned nose, she exhaled thin little wisps of air, not wanting to give away her relief by expelling the deep breath she'd been holding for so long it had made her chest ache.

He came farther into the room, and absently laid a bunch of flowers and a package on the nightstand.  "You look great."

"Thank you."

"You can talk," he said with an awkward laugh. "Yes. Finally."

"Your voice sounds different."

''We were warned of that, remember?'' she said quickly.

"Yeah, but I didn't expect the ..." He made a motion with his fingers across his throat. "The hoarseness."

"It might eventually fade."

"I like it."

He couldn't take his eyes off her. If things between them had been what they should have been, he would be kneeling in front of her, skimming her new face with his fingertips like a blind  man,  marveling  over its smoothness, and telegraphing his love. To her disappointment, he maintained a careful distance.

As usual, he was wearing jeans. They were pressed and creased, but old and soft enough to glove his lower body. Avery didn't want to be trapped  by her own feminine curiosity, so she resolutely kept her eyes above the lapel of his sports jacket.

The view from there was very good, too. Her gaze was almost as penetrating as his.

She nervously raised her hand to her chest.  "You're staring."

His head dropped forward, but only for a split second before he raised it again. "I'm sorry. I guess I really didn't expect you to ever look like yourself again. And ... and you do. Except for the hair."