“Get out, damn you.” Maggie waved a limp hand and fought the next wave of nausea. “Can’t a woman retch in private?”

Saying nothing, Shannon walked to the sink and dampened a thick washcloth with cool water. Maggie was too busy heaving to resist when Shannon held the back of her head and pressed the cloth to her clammy brow.

“Poor baby,” Shannon murmured when Maggie sagged weakly. “Horrible way to start the morning. Just rest a minute, get your breath back.”

“I’m all right. Go away. I’m all right.”

“Sure you are. Can you handle some water?” Without waiting for an answer, Shannon walked over to fill a glass, then came back to crouch and ease it to Maggie’s lips. “There you go, nice slow sips. It probably tastes like you swallowed a sewer.”

“This child best be a saint.” Because it was there, Maggie leaned against Shannon’s shoulder.

“Have you seen your doctor?” To soothe, Shannon took the cloth and ran it gently over Maggie’s face. “Isn’t there something you can take?”

“I’ve seen the doctor. Bloody swine. A couple more weeks, he says, and I’ll be right as rain. Couple more weeks,” she repeated, shutting her eyes. “I nearly murdered him on the spot.”

“No jury in the world—if they were women—would convict you. Here, come on, let’s get you on your feet. The floor’s cold.”

Too weak to argue, Maggie let herself be helped up and guided in toward the bed. “Not the bed. I don’t need the bed. I just want to sit a minute.”

“All right.” Shannon led her to a chair. “Want some tea?”

“Oh.” Desperately relieved the spell was over, Maggie let her head fall back and closed her eyes. “I would. If you could call on the phone there down to the kitchen and ask if they’d mind sending some up, and some toast. Dry. I’d be grateful.”

She sat still, while her system leveled off and the chill faded from her skin. “Well,” she said when Shannon replaced the receiver. “That was pleasant for both of us.”

“A lot worse for you.” Not quite sure Maggie should be left alone yet, Shannon sat on the edge of the bed.

“It was kind of you to help me through it. I appreciate it.”

“It didn’t sound that way when you were swearing at me.”

A grin twisted Maggie’s mouth. “I’ll apologize for that. I hate being . . .” She gestured. “Out of control of things.”

“Me, too. You know, I’ve only been drunk once in my whole life.”

“Once?” The smile turned into a sneer. “And you, Irish as the Rings of Kerry.”

“Nevertheless, while it had its liberating aspects, I found, on hindsight, that it was debilitating. I couldn’t quite hit the control button. And there was the added delight of being sick as a dog on the side of the road on the way home, and the wonder and glory of the morning after. So, I find it more practical to limit my intake.”