by Judy Baer
My brothers taught me to in-line skate. I didn’t ask to be taught but I didn’t have any choice in the matter. They sat on me, put on the blades, stood me up and shoved me back and forth between them like a hockey puck. Each time they pushed me, they backed up a bit until finally I was actually skating between them, arms flailing, mouth wide but so terrorized that no scream came out.
The memory cheered me, and I began to run faster. If I could withstand my brothers, I could withstand anything. Clay Reynolds was a mere blip on my radar screen, like a crack in the sidewalk. He could take me down, but not for long.
Then to my amazement I saw Dr. Reynolds loping toward me as if he’d materialized out of my thoughts. He was wearing a sweaty T-shirt, perspiration ran down his forehead in rivulets and his tanned face was ruddy with exertion.
I turned to escape, but Hildy inexplicably lost her mind with excitement at the sight of the good doctor and tugged on the leash so hard I thought she might pull me over. Usually she’s such a good judge of character, too.
“Hello, Ms. Cassidy.” He greeted me properly despite his less-than-formal attire.
“Sir.” I’m not very good at being aloof, but I gave it my best shot.
“I didn’t know you were a runner.”
That’s because you know absolutely nothing about me except what you’ve made up in your mind.
“I try to do five miles a day when I can. I enter a 10K occasionally.”
“Impressive.” He looked at me as if he were seeing me for the very first time. Then he disappeared behind a big, furry, brown and black head.
Hildy, tired of waiting her turn for attention, jumped up, put her paws on Clay’s shoulders and began to lick the salty sweat off his face.
By the time I got her off him, he was sputtering and using the hem of his T-shirt to wipe dog slobber off his face.
“Sorry about that. I thought I’d broken her of the habit. She’s a perfectly trained dog when she’s working, but off duty she lets her excitement get the best of her.”
He spluttered and spit into the grass a few times. Hildy must have landed a wet one on his lips. “The dog has a job? What’s it in, real estate?”
“She’s a therapy dog.”
“Oh, that. I remember seeing her at the nursing home.” He eyed her from stem to stern. “What do you feed her? I’ve never seen a dog that big.”
“I call her a German shepherd, but I suspect there’s Alaskan malamute hiding somewhere in her lineage. They can grow to be eighty-five pounds or more.”
Hildy, satisfied now that she’d had her taste of him, sat down beside me, the picture of ladylike decorum.
We shuffled out of the way of the other runners and a wave of awkwardness flooded through me. Though Clay was someone I never wanted to speak to again, I’d certainly done a bad job of avoiding him.
“Would you like to sit down?” He gestured to a place on the grass.
“I’d rather keep walking, if you don’t mind. I need to cool down.” I looked at the T-shirt clinging to his body in wet patches. “So do you.”
He nodded and we set out. I have long legs but his are longer and I found myself loping to keep up with him. “Slow down. I can’t cool off if I have to run to catch you.”
He turned to look at me and smiled with no hint of frostiness in his expression. “Feisty, aren’t you?”
I tried, but couldn’t manage to take offense. His blue eyes twinkled and I realized that he could be quite charming when he tried. Clay shortened his stride to match my own.
“I try. Sometimes it works better than others.”
“I do owe you an apology, and you didn’t hear me out the other night.”
I stopped in my tracks, jerking at Hildy’s leash so that she turned to look at me inquiringly.
“Just because I’m opposed to having doulas—or anyone but medical midwives for that matter—in a birthing room, that doesn’t give me the right to be rude. I apologize. I was upset.” He appeared genuinely contrite, the expression in his blue eyes mesmerizing.
There’s a different man buried in there somewhere, I realized, someone compassionate and vulnerable. Maybe it’s okay that I don’t see that hidden part of him very often. It’s a little too appealing.
We crossed the street and walked on the sidewalk in front of the large old homes across from the lake. When I was a child, my father drove us down this particular street on Sunday afternoons, and we would make up stories about the people who lived in these extraordinary homes. Back then I was convinced that princesses lived inside and every one of my brothers always spun stories about Dr. Frankenstein and crazy hunchbacks warehoused in the attics. They’d watched too many old horror movies when Mom and Dad weren’t home to catch them at it.
We came upon a gigantic, Italianate house with elaborate, well-manicured gardens and a heavy wrought-iron fence, which rimmed the yard. Even now, as an adult, I try to imagine what kind of people might live in such an imposing home. The only family I could think of was that of Queen Elizabeth, Prince Phillip and brood.
A small boy on a diminutive bike with training wheels pedaled around the corner of the house and started down the sidewalk toward the gate. He was dressed in what looked like Little Lord Fauntleroy’s play clothes—crisp navy shorts, a pristine white shirt, knee socks and a tie—yes, a tie. The boy also wore thick round glasses and a serious expression more suited to archaeology professors than children at play. His dark hair threatened to curl if the humidity rose one iota, and he had incredibly large and serious blue eyes and a sweet, rosy mouth. There was a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
Before I could comment on this darling child, he leaped from the bike, let it topple to the ground and came running toward us, legs churning and yelling loudly.
“Daddy, Daddy!” He grabbed the bars of the fence and peered at us through them like a man too long on death row. “You came back!”
“Daddy?” I turned to stare at Clay but he’d squatted down to eye level of the child.
“Of course I came back. Don’t I always?” His tone was as smooth and reassuring as the one he used with his patients.
“But what if you didn’t?”
“You shouldn’t worry about that, buddy.”
The child suddenly changed tracks. “Who’s that?” He stared at me and pointed a finger through the fence.
Clay gently pushed the finger down. “Don’t point.”
The boy retracted the offending finger but held the eye lock with me. “Who’s that?”
“This is Ms. Cassidy.”
“Where is she from?” The boy should be a detective.
“I met her at the hospital.”
The child’s eyes narrowed and he stared at me. “Are you having a baby?”
I felt blood rush toward my cheeks. “No, I’m not.”
“Then why did my daddy meet you?”
“Her job brings her to the hospital sometimes, Mr. Twenty Questions,” Clay said.
That seemed enough to satisfy the child and he swiftly changed gears. “Can I pet her dog?” Hildy put her nose through the curlicues and sniffed curiously in the boy’s direction.
“It’s a big dog, Noah. I don’t think…”
Noah. A nice name. It means “peaceful.”
“Hildy is a therapy dog,” I assured Clay. “She’s perfectly safe.”
He wouldn’t trust me with a grown woman doing something as natural as having a baby, so I suppose it was only logical that he’d be suspicious of his child and my dog.
“We’ll walk around to the backyard,” he finally said with a sigh, beaten by Noah’s pleading expression. “This gate is locked.”
“I’ll be right there!” Bike forgotten, the little boy headed toward the mansion.
Clay turned to look at me. “My son,” he said unnecessarily. “He’s six.”
“Do you and your wife have other children?”
“No…she’s… I’m not…married, I mean. At least not anymore. My wife pass
ed away.”
“I’m so sorry.” If Noah is six, Clay’s wife has been gone less than six years. Perhaps part of his prickly demeanor is unhappiness rather than bad temper.
He didn’t say anything as we entered the park-like backyard. I wonder if weeds even dare to grow here.
Clay pulled the gate shut. “You can let your dog off its leash, if you like. It can’t get out of the yard.”
I bent to unsnap the leash from Hildy’s collar. Her tail began to wag like a furry flag as Noah barreled toward her.
He flung himself at Hildy and threw his arms around her neck.
“Noah.” Clay’s voice was sharp. “Don’t run at animals like that. You could have been bitten.”
The little boy backed away, tearing up beneath his glasses.
I bent down until Noah and I were at eye level, and the child gave me a tentative, watery smile. “She’s a therapy dog and trained not to snap at people, even if they pull her fur,” I told him gently. “Everybody loves her and wants to hug her, just like you do, but I wouldn’t try it with a dog other than Hildy, if I were you.”
“Does she ever bite you?” Noah asked, his gaze scanning my face in much the same way his father studies his patients.
“No, but she’d lick my skin off if I let her.”
He giggled now, trying to imagine it. Then he approached her again, more cautiously this time, and reached out to pet her fur. Hildy dropped to the ground with a thud, rolled onto her back, let her tongue loll out of her mouth and begged for Noah to scratch her stomach. What a clown she is. The little boy chortled with delight.
Noah beamed up at me. “She likes me!”
“She loves you.”
For the first time I felt Clay’s approval rather than disapproval directed my way.
Both Hildy and the child were in their element.
Engrossed as they were in each other, Clay and I no longer existed for either of them.
“He’s an adorable child,” I commented as we moved out of earshot of the enamored pair.
“Yes.” Fatherly pride practically oozed from him.
“You’re good with children.”
“Others have said that, as well. I have an affinity for kids. I suppose that’s why I’m in the field I’m in. I like the idea of ushering them safely into the world. I haven’t got a clue what their reasons are for liking me.”
Maybe it was because even just thinking about little ones softened his features. He must draw them toward himself as they sensed the magnetism of strength, safety and acceptance he radiated. Of course, we were talking about children and not adults. And especially not doulas.
Clay’s expression took a far-away cast. “He looks just like his mother.”
Then his jaw tightened and I noticed that tic in his cheek I’d seen in the birthing room and knew enough not to respond. His wife was forbidden territory.
“Would you like something to drink? Lemonade, iced tea or a soda?”
“I don’t want you to go to any bother.”
“It won’t be. There is a small refrigerator in the garage with beverages. Otherwise the butler can bring it down from the house.”
“A bottle of water is fine. No use disturbing the help.”
He ignored that. “The staff is always looking for something to do. This is my grandparents’ home. Since they are rarely here, the only ones working right now are a husband-and-wife team who have been with my grandparents since I was small. They get bored so I stop here and pretend to check on things even though they keep the house immaculate. Cook fixes us a great dinner while Henry, the butler, plays with Noah. Then we all watch television until Noah falls asleep.”
So that was his fun night out—partying with his grandparents’ cook and butler. Whew. I’m not sure I could keep up with all of that flash and dazzle.
We stepped through the door to the garage. In the dimness I could see the outline of a car—a Rolls Royce, maybe, or a Daimler. Tony would know. He’s the car enthusiast. To the right of the door was the refrigerator. Clay reached in and pulled out two bottles of water.
“Nice digs,” I said bluntly. I’ve never been known for hiding my thoughts too deeply. “And nice wheels.”
“Not my taste or style,” he rejoined. “I lean more toward a basic three-bedroom, two-story and a staid Mercedes.”
I reminded myself never to show Clay my home, which is exceedingly simple and, due to Geranium, is a literal pig sty. It would not be a good idea for this man to darken my doorstep. He probably couldn’t survive the culture shock.
We returned to the yard where Hildy still lay on the grass. Noah had snuggled close beside her, and Hildy’s paw lay protectively across his shoulder.
“What did they do, fall asleep?” Clay marveled.
“Hildy’s sleep trick. Whenever she’s around small children and wants them to calm down, she lies down and lets the kids stroke her. It’s soothing.” I thought of the dozens of times I’ve used the dog as my own personal sedative—no cost, no side effects and non–habit forming. Well, maybe Hildy is a little habit forming….
Clay gestured to wicker lawn chairs with red-and-white-striped cushions on a redbrick patio. It was obvious that the chairs had cost a whole lot more than all the furniture in my living room.
As we were getting comfortable, one of Noah’s eyes sprang open.
“I thought you were asleep, buddy,” Clay commented.
“I was thinking.” His eyes were sharp and clear behind the thick little lenses.
“Yes?”
Noah scrambled to his feet and flung himself into his father’s lap. “Can I have a dog? One like Hildy?” He put his hands on Clay’s cheeks. “Puleezee?”
“I’ve told you before, son, that we don’t have time for a dog. I’m at work and you’re in school. Who’d play with a dog?”
“I could stay home from school and do it,” Noah offered generously. “I don’t mind.”
“Bighearted of you, Noah, but no way.”
“Daddy!” He sank into his father’s chest and made a moaning sound, the kind that’s a cry for attention, not first aid.
Clay scowled at me over the top of his son’s head and I shrugged helplessly. As I did, I added one more infraction to the list, causing trouble between him and his son by putting the idea of getting a dog into Noah’s head.
So sue me. A playful puppy might loosen the man up.
Unfortunately, words spilled out of my mouth and I spoke before I took the time to realize what I was saying. “Maybe you can play with Hildy again sometime.”
“Tomorrow?” Noah squirmed off Clay’s lap and came to stand in front of me. “You could bring her to my house after work. Daddy will give you the address.”
Clay glared at me with a stern now-see-what-you’ve-done expression that made me wince.
“No, sweetie, I didn’t mean that. I just meant that if you were visiting your grandparents’ house and we ran into each other at the lake…”
“Daddy, tell her what time you’re going to run tomorrow.” The child could organize rings around me, I decided. Maybe I could hire him to straighten out my life.
“That’s not what she meant, either, Noah. Molly meant that if we accidentally see each other, you could play with Hildy.” The curl of Noah’s lip, very much like that of his father, told us both what he thought of that lame idea. But the child wasn’t done yet.
“Then can I have a playdate with her?”
Noah looked me over with a sophisticated six-year-old eye. “You could play with Molly while I play with Hildy.”
I covered my mouth with my hand to hide my smile.
“You already have playdates with your friends on Tuesdays and Thursdays, remember?” Clay choked out. “Your sitter takes you there. Have you forgotten?”
“I know, but I want a playdate with Hildy on Friday.”
“People don’t arrange playdates with dogs, Noah.”
“Can I be the first?”
“A trailblazer, too,” I comm
ented, beginning to enjoy seeing Clay squirm under the little negotiator’s persistence.
“Ms. Cassidy and I will talk about it and I’ll let you know what we decide. Now, no more discussion, okay?”
It wasn’t okay, but Noah knew it was as good as he was going to get for the moment.
I stood up. “We’d better move on. Thanks for the water.”
Clay stood, too. “Is my apology accepted?” he asked quietly.
Turn the other cheek…even if you know you’ll be slapped on it sooner or later.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” He looked at me quizzically, as if there was a little CAT scan in his head and he was studying my innards.
I fastened Hildy’s leash and we sped off, in dire need of a mind-clearing, emotion-purging run.
Chapter Eleven
“The baby is coming, Molly!” Mandie’s voice was terrified even through a bad cell-phone connection.
“I’ll be right over.” I kicked the blankets off my feet and rolled out of bed. Before I hit the floor I was already tugging off my pajama bottoms.
“You don’t understand! It’s coming fast. My roommate called an ambulance to take me to Bradshaw Medical Center. I feel another contraction coming—” The line went dead.
I tripped over Hildy on my way to the bathroom where I ran a cold washcloth across my face, brushed my teeth and pulled on the clothing I’d set out before going to bed. I glanced in the mirror and saw a wild-eyed, wild-haired woman staring back at me. I’d been sleeping hard, and my face was creased with pillow marks. There was one that bordered on permanent across my cheek.
I grabbed a ponytail band, tugged my curls away from my face, put a comb and makeup compact into my pocket and hoped that I’d at least have time to tame my hair before Mandie’s baby arrived. I wouldn’t want one of the first faces it sees to be mine while I’m looking like this.
