The gift certificate Brian sent me is on the kitchen counter. I haven’t gotten down to Barnes and Noble to use it yet. At first I was disappointed that he’d mail me a generic present instead of coming up to spend the day with me. On second thought, it seemed a perfectly wonderful gift. Thoughtful, too. It’s my son’s way of saying he approves of me volunteering at the juvenile detention center. I think I may start reading the C.S. Lewis books next—once the last Harry Potter is finished. I’ll have to see if that’s okay with Ruth, although I’m sure it will be. I’ll get a copy with the gift certificate—which is fitting because the Lewis stories were Brian’s absolute favorite childhood reading. Okay, that settles it. I’ll use my gift certificate to buy The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, plus a book on knitting and, if there’s any money left, the new Barbara Kingsolver. A satisfactory decision, if I do say so.
The kids called me Sunday morning, but if not for Sean, I would’ve spent Mother’s Day alone. I’ve discovered something about him. All his provocative remarks about women are intended to get a rise out of me. It used to work, but lately I’ve been letting the ridiculous things he says just pass me by and that flusters him so much he doesn’t know how to react.
Well, I’m on to his game. From now on I’ll just pretend not to hear him. Maybe I should occasionally mutter a disparaging remark about men in the medical profession, just to rattle his cage, and see how he likes it.
He still makes cursory efforts to talk me into bed, but I’m not easily persuaded. He’d enjoy a weekend fling, or so he’s let me know. The problem is, I’m confused. He can have his pick of women and he seems to want me.
We’ve gone out to dinner twice in the last week, and I cooked him a meal Sunday night. Afterward, I broke out the yarn and knitting needles and attempted to teach him to knit, which was hilarious because Tinkerbell thought the yarn was for her. I can’t remember a time I’ve laughed more. I know why he chose not to be a surgeon! All his talk about agile fingers was simply that—talk. Sean was all thumbs. Somehow in the process of casting on stitches, he got the yarn completely twisted around his fingers. After fifteen minutes he gave up entirely and suggested we take in a movie. We saw the latest Mel Gibson film and shared a bag of popcorn. After the popcorn was gone, we held hands for the rest of the show.
He asked me not to tell anyone that all we’ve done is hold hands (and kissed once or twice—let’s not forget that). But if word got out that we’ve spent all this time together and none of it in bed, it’d destroy his reputation. I had to roll my eyes but agreed to keep quiet.
I’m actually beginning to wonder if there’s any truth to the rumors about him and all these women he supposedly dates.
The doorbell chimed and Liz set aside her journal. A check of the peephole revealed Sean standing on the other side. Liz was dismayed by the way her heart reacted at the sight of him. He’d come to mean so much to her, and that kind of feeling left her vulnerable. In a split second, she shook off her sense of fear. Seize the moment, she told herself.
“Surprised to see me?” he asked as she opened the door. When she merely smiled, he stepped into the house and leaned forward, kissing her briefly on the mouth, as though this was an accepted practice between them.
He had kissed her before, and both times the kisses had been full and passionate. This casual approach was welcome. But when he started to pull away, Liz stopped him, splayed her fingers through his hair and stepped closer to kiss him herself.
When she lifted her head, she found him staring down at her with an oddly puzzled look. Obviously he didn’t know what to make of this sudden change in attitude.
“You must be really glad to see me,” he whispered.
“I am,” she assured him. He followed her into the kitchen. “Have you eaten?”
“I had something at the hospital earlier. Have you?”
“A while ago.” It was after eight.
“Am I interrupting anything?”
“Nothing that can’t be put off until later. What can I do for you?”
“Now that was a leading question if I ever heard one.”
“Okay, bad choice of words.”
“Have you got an hour or two?” he asked with a grin.
“Of course.”
“Grab a sweater then.”
Curious, she did as he asked, returning from her bedroom with a light sweater and her purse. He held out his hand and she took it.
“Tell me where we’re going,” she said as he led her outside to his Lexus and opened the passenger door.
“You’ll find out in a few minutes.”
A few minutes turned into twenty. He headed toward the freeway on-ramp, drove for several miles, then exited, ending up in a residential neighborhood that was unfamiliar to Liz.
She noticed that the houses were middle-class, with well-maintained yards. Sean eased to a stop in front of a corner house. Nothing distinguished it from any of the others.
“You’re taking me to meet friends?” she asked. Then why didn’t he say so?
“My very best friends,” he said, climbing out of the car.
Liz looked around. “Do you mind telling me where we are?”
“Thirty-fifth and Jackson,” he returned without a pause.
“All right, why are we here?”
“Ah,” he said grinning broadly. “Now you’re asking the right questions. My dear Liz, I’m about to show you what I do to release the tension in my life.” He gestured to the house. “My alternative to knitting.”
“You didn’t mention anything about this earlier.”
He grinned again. “I had my reasons.”
“Does your tension relief have anything to do with Rolfing?” she asked, wondering if this place belonged to some kind of massage therapist.
“Rolfing,” he echoed and laughed.
“Never mind.”
He led her up the sidewalk and gently tapped on the door.
Liz was certain no one could possibly hear his knock. Just when she was prepared to suggest there was no one home, the door opened. A large African-American woman stood there, wearing a stern look. As soon as she saw Sean, she broke into a wide smile, her face brightening with pleasure.
“Dr. Sean, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Come in, come in.”
Sean pressed his hand to the small of Liz’s back and directed her into the large foyer. And Liz saw the babies. What would have been the living room was set up with six cribs and an equal number of rocking chairs. Each of the cribs held an infant, and most of them were crying.
“Who’d you bring with you?” the woman asked, eyeing Liz curiously.
“Clarissa, this is my friend Liz Kenyon. Liz, Clarissa Howard.”
“Hey.” The woman planted her fists on her ample hips. “I thought you said I was the only woman for you.”
“Looks like you’re going to have to share me,” Sean joked.
Clarissa laughed boisterously, then faced Liz, her smile benevolent. “Any friend of Dr. Sean’s is a friend of mine. Welcome to Little Lambs.”
“These are all crack or heroin babies,” he said. “Clarissa and her staff are here to love them through the worst of the withdrawals.”
“Dr. Sean is our favorite physician,” Clarissa told Liz, her gaze adoring. “The babies love him, too, isn’t that right?”
Sean didn’t answer. Instead he walked over to the farthest crib. “How’s little Donovan doing tonight?”
“Not well, not well at all.”
“Rough day?”
Clarissa nodded.
With a tenderness Liz had rarely seen in a man, Sean reached into the crib and lifted the emaciated infant and held him gently. “Only three weeks old,” Sean whispered as he settled into the closest rocking chair. “Poor little tyke came into this world facing one hell of an uphill climb.”
“Little Faye could do with being rocked,” Clarissa said boldly, staring at Liz. “She’s over there.”
Liz knew an order when she heard one. Smiling,
she found the crib marked with Faye’s name. She gathered the baby in her arms and sat in a rocker. The baby gazed up at her, eyes wet with tears, lower lip quivering.
“Poor sweetheart,” Liz whispered, gently brushing the curls from the baby’s brow.
“Like Donovan, our Faye has a struggle ahead of her,” Sean said.
Liz had seen a number of reports on crack and drug babies over the years. Women addicted to any illegal substance tended to neglect everything else in their lives. Their health in general was poor. Statistics showed that they ate junk food and skipped meals and had poor sleeping habits. They abused themselves in a multitude of ways. Studies had indicated that a large percentage of pregnant drug-users also smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol throughout the pregnancy. Consequently, the babies were born with low birth weights and often prematurely. Some had Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Some, as Sean had said, suffered because they’d been born to drug-addicted mothers.
Liz had heard about Little Lambs when it was in the setup stages, but Willow Grove Memorial hadn’t been part of the project. She’d never heard anything about Sean’s involvement.
Clarissa took a third child and settled herself between Sean and Liz, humming quietly as she rocked, the baby cuddled in her loving arms.
Thirty minutes later, the room was quiet. Liz glanced over and realized that Sean’s eyes were closed.
Clarissa’s gaze followed hers. “He falls asleep nearly every time.”
“Does he come often?” Liz asked.
“Quite a bit, but it’s been a week or so since his last visit.”
The man was full of surprises.
“Dr. Sean’s crazy about babies,” Clarissa added. “I don’t understand why he didn’t have a houseful of his own.”
Other than that one mention of his ex-wife and daughter, Liz knew almost nothing about Sean’s life outside of medicine. Although he hadn’t said so, Liz was under the impression that he hadn’t told many people about his family.
“Do you love him?” Clarissa shocked her by asking next.
The question caught Liz unawares, and she wasn’t sure how to answer. “I don’t know.”
“Someone should. He needs a woman, and you’re the first one he’s ever brought here.”
That lifted Liz’s spirits. “Have you known him long?”
Clarissa nodded. “He helped create Little Lambs and recommended me for the job. Far as I’m concerned, there’s no better man than Dr. Sean. If he wanted me to walk over red-hot coals, I’d do it for him, without asking why.”
If Sean was aware of this conversation, he’d be gloating, Liz thought. He must love hearing Clarissa sing his praises. She leaned forward, wondering if she could detect a sassy grin on his face.
“He’s out,” Clarissa assured her. “It’s amazing how rocking the babies calms him down.”
Liz had to agree that was quite a switch. “He told me this is what he does to unwind.”
Clarissa’s chair made creaking sounds as she continued rocking, still humming softly.
“I tried to teach him to knit.” Which, Liz had to admit, seemed a bit ridiculous now.
“Dr. Sean?” The other woman pinched her lips. “He doesn’t need that; you don’t either. Both of you just come see me and my babies.”
“All right,” Liz agreed.
A full hour passed before Sean woke. He yawned, looked in Liz’s direction and asked, “You ready to go?”
“Whenever you are.”
He replaced a sleeping Donovan in the crib, and within a few minutes they were preparing to leave.
Clarissa walked them to the door.
“It was a pleasure meeting you and your babies,” Liz said.
The other woman nodded, then gripped Liz’s elbow. “You find out.”
“Find out?” Liz repeated.
“What we talked about earlier.”
“Oh.” Liz was sure her red face gave her away. She didn’t dare look at Sean, certain he’d know they’d been discussing him. Do you love him? Clarissa had asked, and Liz figured she expected the answer to be yes. Clarissa was openly encouraging Liz to delve deeper into her feelings for Sean.
“What was that all about?” Sean asked as they strolled toward his car.
“Nothing important,” she said dismissively.
Not until they were on the street, driving back to her house, did she chance a look in his direction. From what Clarissa had said, she was the first woman he’d ever brought to Little Lambs.
What she didn’t understand was why. What did she actually mean to him? What did he really want from her?
“You’re frowning,” he said. They’d stopped at a traffic light before heading onto the ramp that led to the freeway. He reached over and squeezed her hand, his fingers lingering in hers.
“Just thinking.” Liz smiled so he’d know she wasn’t upset, only perplexed by the complicated man she was beginning to know.
“Any thoughts you want to share with me?”
“One,” she said, realizing even as she spoke that she was taking a risk. “I think there might be some hope for this relationship, after all.”
Sean gave no outward response for a moment. Then he said, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I don’t know why you women don’t listen to men more often.”
Liz groaned and shook her head, but not before she saw him trying to suppress a laugh. She was smiling, too.
“Life is the first gift, love is the second, and understanding the third.”
—Marge Piercy
Chapter 28
KAREN CURTIS
“Your father and I would like you to join us for lunch next Saturday,” Catherine Curtis informed Karen in her most prim voice. She used the tone guaranteed to set Karen’s teeth on edge every time.
Pressing the telephone receiver hard against her ear, Karen felt as if she’d received a summons to appear in court instead of an invitation from her mother. Whatever Catherine wanted was important enough to add the influence of her father’s name.
Karen knew it wasn’t her company they sought—or at least her mother didn’t. Something was up, and she suspected she wasn’t going to like it.
“You’ll come?” her mother said.
“Don’t go to any trouble, though,” Karen warned. Lunch for her generally consisted of a sandwich on the run or something she could pick up at a drive-through window.
For Catherine Curtis, on the other hand, every meal was an occasion. Karen didn’t know anyone outside her parents’ circle of friends who went to such effort for lunch. It was just lunch, for heaven’s sake. Her mother had built her entire social life around a bridge club that met every Friday at one. The women were constantly in competition, trying to outdo each other with elaborate luncheon menus and fancy centerpieces.
“I’ll see you on Saturday then.”
“Any reason you and Dad want to talk to me?” Karen asked. Better to get a heads-up now than be blindsided later.
“Can’t your father and I invite you to the house without a reason?” her mother asked with a light, tinkling laugh—a laugh that was so forced, Karen had to cringe.
“You always have a reason, Mother,” she said grimly.
Catherine gave a beleaguered sigh but no other response.
“I was just there for Mother’s Day.” Being in close proximity to her mother twice within the same month was above and beyond the call of duty.
“You’ve already agreed to come,” Catherine reminded her.
“Yes, and I will, but I want to know why.”
“Because I asked it of you. Let’s not get into this now. I’ll look forward to seeing you at noon on Saturday.”
“Yes, Mother,” Karen muttered, banging down the telephone receiver. She’d allowed herself to be manipulated again. Would she never learn?
Saturday arrived far too soon, long before Karen was ready. She chose a dress her mother had bought her when Karen was still in high school. Sensible, demure—and a style completely wrong fo
r her. Karen didn’t know why she still held on to it.
By the time she arrived, her stomach was swarming with nerves. She knew from experience that her mother was likely to serve a five-course meal, and Karen didn’t have the appetite to enjoy even one bite.
The first thing she noticed when she pulled into the circular driveway in front of her parents’ home was that Victoria’s car wasn’t there. Always before, her sister had been included in these lunches. Not today, which led to immediate speculation that this conversation had something to do with her sister.
Before she could change her mind, Karen parked her ten-year-old Ford Tempo.
The front door opened and her mother stood in the entrance. Karen’s engine was still hacking and coughing, although the ignition had been turned off. She was sorry her mother was there to hear it. Catherine had never approved of Karen’s car, but to Karen it represented independence and integrity, since she’d purchased and paid for it herself.
She walked toward the door as the old Ford coughed one last time, as if to remind her how badly it needed servicing.
“Could you park your…vehicle over by the garage?” her mother called.
And out of the neighbors’ sight, Karen added mentally. “Sorry, Mom, but I’m having trouble with the transmission. It’d be better if I left it someplace where I won’t need to reverse.”
Her mother started to speak, then seemed to change her mind, and turned away.
Karen followed her into the house. This wasn’t the home she’d grown up in and she’d never felt as though she belonged here. Her father’s chain of produce warehouses had prospered dramatically over the past ten years, and her parents were living off the fruit of his labors. She smiled at the pun.
Status had always been important to her mother, and the big home, fancy cars and children she could brag about to her friends were included in her requirements.
They were apparently having lunch in the kitchen. The kitchen, though, was the size of Karen’s entire apartment. It was newly renovated with oak cabinets, a slate floor and lovely multi-paned windows—a nice traditional look, except that Catherine had added a few too many bits of “country” kitsch. The round oak table held a huge sunflower centerpiece, with sunflower-patterned place mats. Clearly a theme—no doubt based on a magazine article about decorating for summer. Karen glanced around expecting to find her father hiding behind the sunflower display. “Where’s Dad?”
Thursdays At Eight Page 20
