by Judy Baer
The door opened and Clay strode in wearing scrubs, a stethoscope draped around his neck, a file in his hand. “Hi, Emily. So today is the day. How long did you say it would be until Charles’s plane arrives?” He stopped walking so suddenly I thought he’d leave skid marks on the tile floor. “You…” His glare would have frozen water.
“Soon. Until then, Molly is his stand-in.”
“I don’t think—”
“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Emily said. “This is my choice. Molly has been invaluable to me, and I know that she is what I need right now.”
My eyebrow rose involuntarily. I’ve never heard anyone speak to Clay this way. What’s more, I certainly hadn’t expected it to come from the mouth of fragile, ladylike Emily Hancock. Even more amazing, Clay actually seemed to accept it.
“If it’s what you wish, Emily. You already know my views on the subject.”
“I do. And I disagree with them. Molly stays.”
He glowered at me when Emily turned her head.
Well, all-righty, then…
As the hours passed we found a rhythm in backrubs, games of rock, paper, scissors, crossword puzzles and more backrubs. In my bag I had CDs of Emily’s favorite music and a photo of her husband to use as a focal point in case the real thing didn’t make it in time. I also read aloud to her from women’s magazines. The time passed with surprising speed.
Every time Clay walked into the room and saw me his face registered an expression I chose to believe was inspired by the smell of the candles I’d lit and not my presence. He’d told me it would be his way. Until now, I think I’d chosen not to believe it.
“How are you doing, Em?” He leaned over her in the bed like a father might over his child.
“Slow but sure. The contractions are closer, but Molly is great at distracting me, so I don’t think about them too much.”
“She is that, distracting, I mean.”
Emily eyed him and then me. Her patrician face registered something I couldn’t read.
“You are a bit stuffy, Dr. Reynolds,” Emily observed.
I held my breath, waiting for the hammer to drop, but he merely smiled at her.
“I hardly think stuffy is the best word to describe me,” he chided gently.
“Rigid, then. It’s a new day. Even old ladies like me get pregnant—and it’s safe.”
“You can never take too many precautions….”
“All the safeguards in the world can’t stop some things from happening.” Emily looked at him with something that bordered on tenderness.
It was an odd exchange. What was between these two that was not visible to my eye?
“Have it your way,” he said cheerfully. “Just get that baby born.”
Then he turned around and gave me a look so fiery it would melt steel. “And don’t mess anything up,” his expression said.
“Did you and Dr. Reynolds know each other before you became his patient?” I asked Emily once he was gone.
“Why do you ask?”
“You seem to know him rather well.”
Emily was about to answer when her eyes grew round and she clapped her hand on her belly. “Oh! That was a big one. They’re coming faster now.”
An understatement. Within the next thirty minutes Emily began progressing rapidly. Clay appeared to check on her with two nurses following in his wake.
After a brief check he said, “It’s going to be soon, Emily. I’d recommend that we clear the room and…”
“Molly isn’t going anywhere and don’t try to convince me otherwise. Your job is to deliver this baby and….” She winced. “Maybe you should do it now.”
If Clay had had his way, he might have stalled forever. Fortunately Baby Hancock had a different schedule in mind.
Oliver Thomas James Hancock was born at 7:15 p.m. His father, Charles, arrived at 7:35 p.m., as red-faced from exertion as his wife.
He burst into the room to see his wife holding their son. “Emily!” He moved forward slowly, as if the marvelous sight was a mirage that might shimmer and disappear at any moment.
I turned away to give them privacy, and my gaze fell on Clay.
For a moment I saw wistfulness on his features. Then he began to glower at me as if wishing I’d dematerialize and go pester someone other than him.
It was Clay’s bit of bad luck that Charles chose that moment to notice me. Emily’s husband strode across the room and gathered me in a bear hug that lifted me off my feet and nearly suffocated me.
“Emily raves about you, Molly. She’s convinced that every woman needs someone like you in her life. I don’t even know how to say thank you.”
“No need,” I murmured awkwardly, feeling Clay’s gaze boring into my back. “It’s my job.”
“It’s more than that for you, my dear.” Charles patted me fondly on the head like I was his favorite Labrador retriever. “Anyone can see that.”
Clay found me later, in the cafeteria, scarfing down cheesy nachos with jalapeños and a foot-long hot dog.
He threw himself down on the chair across from mine without a word. I kept eating.
“You certainly won that round,” he commented.
“I didn’t know I was fighting.” I dragged a chip through the orange cheese glop and put it in my mouth.
“That’s a laugh. You’ve been fighting me tooth and nail since I arrived.”
“I have not. You are the doctor. I’m just a lowly doula. You are the rooster, and I am at the bottom of the pecking order. How could I fight you?” That approach-avoidance thing I suffer when Clay is around flared up again.
“Maybe not outwardly, but inwardly. I see your disappointment in me in your eyes.”
I held my chip suspended in midair between the basket and my mouth. Was I so transparent?
“Listen, Molly, you know this isn’t about you personally. It’s just that in my experience…” His voice trailed away.
What made him so adamantly opposed to this? I wondered. It wasn’t as if this were a life-and-death thing. Or had he lost patients…
My train of thought careened over a cliff.
“Did you… Have you…”
“I’m not going there with you, Molly. Let’s just say that I have a lot more experience than you do, not all of it good. It will be good for both of us if you aren’t here at Bradshaw so often.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” I joked weakly, even though my knees were rattling and I felt like I might suffocate.
“Maybe.” He smiled, almost gently this time. “But I doubt it.”
Fortunately the upcoming Cassidy bash gave me something to think about other than Clay’s rebuff.
“Molly.” My mother’s voice sounded harried on the phone. “You’ve got to do my grocery shopping for me. Your brothers and father are cleaning the garage and the basement, putting the yard together and setting up a tent. Liam is running errands for me on his motorcycle. I’m in the midst of baking soda bread and won’t be done for hours. I…”
“Just give me the list, Mom. I’ll take care of it.”
A huge sigh of relief gusted across the line. “I knew I could count on you, Molly. I can always count on you.”
Yup, good old reliable me, perfect daughter but menace in the delivery room.
“Remember that I’m making coddle and will need pork sausage, streaky rashers, potatoes and onions…”
As I strolled up and down the aisles of the warehouse store looking for pork sausages and bacon, the streaky rashers my mother had requested, I couldn’t quit thinking of how much Clay’s assessment of me had shaken my confidence.
I had never, not once, questioned my calling until he’d come along. Sadly, last weekend I’d gone online looking for jobs. Yesterday I’d even stopped myself from picking up the phone to call the school at which I’d taught to see if any teachers were planning to leave or retire. Clay’s attitude had me questioning myself.
All I had left to pick up were baked goods. My family h
as a sweet tooth the size of a school bus. I was busy piling sweets into my cart when I looked up and saw Clay Reynolds staring at me.
I dropped an angel food cake into my cart, nearly cracking it in half. “You!”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you aren’t glad to see me.” He wore casual jeans, tennis shoes and a soft blue sweatshirt that had seen better days.
“I didn’t know you shopped in bulk,” I said, a brain-dead remark if there ever was one.
That seemed to amuse him. “I don’t, but this was the best place to find one of these.” He pointed to a large wooden play yard with a tree house, slide and swing. “I’m getting it for Noah for his birthday. I thought an ant farm and a chemistry set might not make up for years of sushi and savings bonds.”
So my thoughts weren’t completely worthless. He was attempting to turn Noah back into a little boy.
He peered into my cart. “There’s enough food in there to stock the hospital cafeteria.”
“My family is having a party.”
“Yes, I remember.”
I was grateful that a clerk with a tape measure interrupted us. “I took some measurements and think the crate will fit into the back of your vehicle, sir. You can pay for it at the front and we’ll bring it out.”
He turned to speak to her and while Clay was otherwise occupied, I grabbed an oversize box of cookies and made my escape. There was nothing left to say to him. Besides, I’m sick and tired of his two personas—affable outside the hospital, surly inside.
Unfortunately he caught up with me at the cash register where the clerk was counting and scanning the many cartons of eggs I’d purchased. “If you don’t mind my asking, miss, what are you going to do with all these eggs?” the woman asked curiously as she ran the scanner over the cardboard cartons.
“Savory pies.”
The clerk looked blank.
“They’re like—” I tried to think of a comparison “—an Irish Egg McMuffin.”
“I see.”
Of course she didn’t see at all.
“Who is coming to this party of yours?” Clay studied the heaps of groceries.
“Just the Cassidys and their families. They’re a hungry bunch. My mother and aunts fix the traditional standbys, someone brings Irish stew and Mom puts a ham in the oven. Occasionally, if there are teenagers present, we order out for the younger ones—pizza, mostly.”
“Is nothing sacred anymore? Pizza? Do they even make a good mutton and potato pizza these days?”
“Very funny.”
“You’re still upset, I see.” He didn’t seem terribly troubled about it.
“You didn’t exactly greet me with open arms at the hospital.”
“I’ve told you…”
“I know, I know.” I was so frustrated I began to splutter. “But I still don’t get it.”
“Calm down. Don’t let that Irish temper get the best of you.”
Translation: Don’t make a scene, Molly.
“We don’t have tempers. We’re the most amiable people on earth!”
“Right. Now pay the lady for the food and let’s get out of here.”
I would have sent Clay packing, but I needed help loading the food into my mother’s van. Fortunately his back is as strong as his stubborn streak and he packed the vehicle with ease. When we were done I turned, hands on hips, to face him.
“Thank you very much. You can go now.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
No? Well, I am!
“What are you going to do with all that stuff?” He tipped his head toward the van.
“Drop most of it off at my mother’s. The rest I’ll take home and turn into salads for the party.”
“Need help?”
“From you? I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on, Molly. Lighten up. I enjoy your company—when we aren’t in the hospital, that is. You’re good for a few laughs.” He sounded more like one of my brothers than my nemesis.
“I’m your own personal I Love Lucy, you mean? What about Noah?” I held up a hand to stop him from saying anything. “No, don’t tell me. He’s visiting his aunt again. You’re off duty and because you lead such a dull and dismal life I’m the only one you can think of who might entertain you. Am I close?”
“Right on the money.” At least he’s cheerful about his pitiable state.
“Clay, that’s pathetic. Here’s the deal. I love my work. It’s what I’m born to do, and you don’t respect it. What’s the point of spending time together when we drive each other crazy?”
“Because it’s better than being alone?”
The words felt like a punch in my chest. He was right. We are two badly mismatched people who don’t have time or energy to look for Mr. or Miss Right. We are only in each other’s company because it’s preferable to being alone.
He picked up on my hesitation. “I make great salads.”
I thought of the heads of broccoli, cauliflower and lettuce in my vehicle. It was going to take me hours to turn it into party food.
“How great?” I felt myself capitulate.
“You’ll be astounded.” He looked boyishly charming. “Wait and see.”
“Don’t think I’m letting you do this for any other reason than that I need the help.”
Frankly, what I really need is to have my head checked. I don’t want him anywhere near me and yet I’d asked him to my home.
“This is strictly business,” he assured me.
Monkey business.
Chapter Twenty-Three
By the time he got to my house, I’d washed the cherry tomatoes, cauliflower and broccoli. All Clay had to do was to chop cauliflower, broccoli and onions into small pieces. That should be a breeze for a doctor. Surely he likes knives. He is a trained surgeon, after all.
He sidled into the house as if he belonged there. Before he could say anything, I put a knife in his hand and pointed him in the direction of my island. “Chop,” I ordered.
Obediently, he did as he was told. Remarkable. I thought it was genetically impossible for him to do that.
Having Clay by my side in the kitchen is altogether different from working beside him in the hospital. He’s pleasant, for one thing. And large.
I stumbled into him on my way to the refrigerator.
Clay grabbed me by the elbow to steady me. “Careful. I haven’t set a broken bone in years. You don’t want to be my practice case.”
“I must have spilled something on the floor.” I looked straight down, avoiding his eyes. I also pulled away from his grasp, which was making me as unsteady as the guilty glob of mayonnaise that had made me slip.
“Did Noah call you? He demanded to have your number,” Clay said casually as he went back to work with his knife.
“He did. I told him I would have to talk to you before I set up a playdate for him and Hildy. I was surprised to hear his voice on the phone. What a sweet child he is.”
“The child is as persistent as…well, as you…when it comes to getting what he wants.”
Clay leaned in front of me to grab a dish towel and his sleeve brushed mine.
“I’m surprised you allowed him to call.”
“He woke me up at five in the morning, and I agreed to it before I’d had coffee, that’s all. You don’t have to do it, you know. He’ll only beg me more for a dog if he gets to spend time with that canine of yours.”
“I told him I’d have to check Hildy’s schedule.”
“A dog with a calendar and social life. Amazing.”
I turned, not realizing that Clay had moved away from the chopping block, and I ran face-first into the front of his shirt. He smelled fresh and masculine, like soap, cologne and fresh air.
I skittered backward quickly. Although the encounter was very pleasant, it was probably wise not to have too many of them.
“Nice.” I picked up a broccoli floret. “Very consistent in size. You could get a job as a sous chef.”
“I’ll keep that in mind
if the medicine thing doesn’t work out.” He reached for the last head of broccoli.
“You look good in an apron, by the way.” I’d made him tie a large white flour sack dish towel around his waist. The one around my waist made me look lumpy, but on him, even a flour sack looked good.
“You are almost done chopping, too.” I peered at the counter.
“There’s not another head of broccoli in the entire state. Did you count the number of heads of this stuff you had me chop?”
“What about those?” I pointed to the onions.
He shivered a little. “I don’t do onions.”
“What?” I took the hands-on-hips, feet-firmly-onthe-floor position I use with my brothers when they are being obstinate. “Were you frightened by an onion as a young child? Force-fed French onion soup?”
“Don’t put your hands on your hips and lecture me,” he said.
I dropped my hands to my sides.
“Onions smell.” He made a face to show his distaste.
“Clay, doctors have cast-iron stomachs. What’s a little onion odor?”
“I don’t do onions. You figure out how to get them to quit smelling, and I’ll chop them.”
“I’ll help you. We’ll get them done quickly.”
“No smell or no chop.” He propped his hip against the counter in a cocky stance. He looks great in my kitchen….
I gave myself a mental slap. Don’t go there, Molly. It would never work and you know it!
Of course I know it. That doesn’t mean I can’t admire the scenery.
I didn’t want to admit that I hate chopping onions, too. They make me gag. Otherwise I wouldn’t have given the job to Clay.
“I’ve got a book of household hints and tips. I’ll bet it will tell us how to do it.”
Clay looked at me as though I’d thrown my oar in the water before trying to paddle to shore. Still, I headed for the bookcase.
I have every recipe book ever published, according to my mother. I had to drag out most of them and stack them on the floor in order to find the one I wanted.
“Here it is,” I crowed, looking for the page indicated in the index. “Onion odor.”
“I’ve been out of circulation too long,” he commented as he picked up a cherry tomato and popped it into his mouth. “I had no idea material had been written on such esoteric subjects.”
