Aftershocks

by Catherine Coulter

  He was aware of every medical student and every resident who passed them providently in the hall. Not to mention the techs and nurses who appeared around every comer. "Dr. Bainbridge," he said steadily, ignoring all the attention directed their way, "heads up the section. He looks as jolly and innocuous as Santa Claus, but he's a tough old bastard, and I'll bet he knows more about tax shelters than you do."

  Dr. Bainbridge was at his most charming. "A pleasure, Miss Hathaway," he said, squeezing George's hand. He proceeded to introduce her to his staff and the residents on the service. He showed her the nuclear medicine equipment, all of which was Greek to George. But she was at her most bubbly and enthusiastic, and Elliot saw the looks that went from him to George and back again. He groaned inwardly. He wondered if he was going to be known as the dirty old man of the department.

  "And here is the CT section. We call it the CT scanner, but the real terminology is cumputerized tomography. The machine has the ability to image through layers of tissue, and it's made radiologists important again. Here is Dr. Dole. I'll let her explain what she does to you."

  Elliot realized when they were with Dr. Dole that George had a gift with people. She made them feel good, made them feel as if what they were saying was the most important thing in the world. They ran into Dr. Randy Hansen in Angiography.

  "George!" Randy exclaimed, rising quickly. "What are you doing here?" He looked at Dr. Mallory and swallowed his Adam's apple.

  "I'm getting the royal tour, Randy. Now, Elliot tells me that Angiography is a lot like surgery. You do procedures and cut people."

  "I don't do much yet," Randy said. "Here is Dr. Kerlaw. He and Dr. Wallace and Dr. Prince are about the best on the West Coast."

  Dr. Kerlaw, the only one of Randy's three heroes in the office, was a tall man in his early thirties with short black curly hair, dark eyes and a very bland expression. He shook George's hand and said in an unnerving monotone, "Actually, Randy lied. We're about the best on both coasts."

  Elliot laughed. "We've no shortage of great doctors with great egos, George. But since Bob here went through our program, I'll have to go along with him. How's the wife, Bob?"

  "Very pregnant," Dr. Kerlaw remarked. "Would you like to see one of our procedures?" he asked, turning to George. "If it's like surgery, then there's blood. Right?"

  "Just enough to make the decor interesting."

  "Count me out," George said on a weak laugh.

  On the way back to Elliot's office, George said, "I think Dr. Kerlaw has the most unaccountable sense of humor."

  "True. You should see the three of them together. It's a circus, and there's no safety net."

  It didn't occur to Elliot until some time later that all the heads of sections and most of the attending physicians had been in their offices. That was unusual. He smiled grimly. Lisa must have phoned every section, warning them that Dr. Mallory was bringing a very important guest around.

  "Fascinating," George said, summing up her visit that evening. "I didn't know what to expect, you know. All of the doctors were so nice and so...chummy, not at all standoffish, or snobby. Thank you, Elliot. Next, sir, you're going to have to visit me on the set."

  George, bless her innocence, Elliot thought, hadn't the foggiest notion that every doctor in radiology had wanted to meet her.

  Chapter 8

  Elliot pulled some socks from his dresser and smiled at the sight of a pair of George's bikini panties nestled in with his shorts. Her favorite knee socks, and his, too, were folded neatly by his housekeeper in with his. Red, white and blue striped. He imagined her naked, wearing only those socks, and wondered wryly when just the thought of her would cease making him as horny as a kid. The thought came unbidden into his mind that he didn't want to stop wanting her.

  "Nothing like an old fool," he muttered to himself.

  But the sight of George that evening was more potent than the thought of her. She met him at the front door wearing a floor-length, wool plaid skirt, topped with a lacy silk Victorian blouse. Her hair was piled on top of her head in the Gibson-girl fashion, with long tendrils curling lazily around her face. She looked utterly exquisite.

  "Knee socks or panty hose?" he asked her.

  "I always wear panty hose for formal occasions," she said, laughing at him. "My, Dr. Mallory, but you look charming tonight." Her eyes darkened, mirroring her thoughts, and Elliot quickly helped her on with a long wool cape and ushered her out to the car.

  "I trust you're planning on stuffing yourself tonight. Doris puts on quite a feed for Thanksgiving."

  "Oh, yes," George said cheerfully. "I lost three pounds and am quite ready to gain one back."

  His hand, of its own will, reached over and lightly stroked over her breast. "Thank God, you still feel the same."

  She giggled and moved closer to him, dropping her hand on his thigh. "Elliot," she said seriously, "when men lose weight, do they lose it...well, I mean... there?" Her fingers lightly glided over him.

  "No," he choked, moving her hand quickly elsewhere. "I'm hungry and I don't want you to wreck us. Now, pick a subject and move your mind to loftier things."

  Her idea of loftier things involved a discussion of a particular tax shelter in condominiums. He found himself asking her to explain terms that she used with the greatest ease. He was no longer surprised that she was so knowledgeable, just a bit dazed. A model and a Wall Street wizard. He didn't know whether to be intimidated.

  David and Doris lived in St. Francis Wood, a comfortably elite section that George thought particularly un-San Francisco. No proud old Victorians, and all the houses detached with yards. Lights were blazing from both floors when they arrived. "I think from all the cars," Elliot said, helping her out, "that we're going to be making an entrance."

  "Will you make me one of your famous wine spritzers," George asked, "so I won't feel like a sore thumb?"

  "You got it, sweetheart. One teaspoon of wine in soda water."

  "And a twist of lemon."

  He was kissing her on the top of her nose when Doris opened the front door.

  "Well," she said, giggling, "it's about time! George, how lovely you look tonight. Do come in, both of you."

  The Davidsons' house was furnished with early American antiques. "Oh," George said, "hooked rugs! Campbell, aren't they? And an Adams lamp? How lovely, Doris!"

  "Yes, yes, and thank you. We like it," Doris said comfortably, her eyes on Elliot's face. "Let me fetch David."

  "Campbell rugs and Adams lamps? Is that something else you know about, George?"

  George leaned closer to Elliot and said in a whisper, "Actually, I made up the names. Doris just went along with me. And, doctor, up until a very short time ago, there was a very big something I was totally ignorant about.'*

  Elliot refused to be drawn in. "Are you referring to me specifically or the general subject of sex?"

  George squeezed his arm, and said mournfully, "I thought I had you on that one."

  "I'd head for the Neptune Society if I thought that would ever happen."

  '' Well, for your information, my mom's very much into early American. I couldn't help but absorb something."

  "Here's our celebrity," David said, smiling widely at George. "You were on tv, George, just about two hours ago. I spotted you myself and promised Doris a bottle of that perfume you were pushing."

  "Don't go that far, David," George said, laughing. "Although the stuff isn't that bad."

  "Congratulations, George," Elliot said. "If Doris's dinner isn't up to snuff, I'll go watch TV with the kids and try to find you."

  Suddenly, George wasn't smiling. "Please, David," she said quite seriously, "don't say anything to anybody. I'd just as soon not be gawked at."

  "Okay, lady," David agreed. "Sorry I missed you last week when you were visiting the hospital. Why didn't you bring her around, Elliot?"

  "Just Radiology. How did you know I was visiting, David?" George asked.

  Elliot groaned, and David grinned. "George," he
said, "everyone knows you were there. In fact," he added with a wolfish smile toward Elliot, "my male residents are still talking about you."

  "David," Elliot said, interrupting him, "are you going to introduce George around, or do I have the pleasure?"

  About fifteen minutes later, Elliot was standing by the fireplace with Dr. Paul Erikson, a gynecologist. Paul, a man of infinite good taste and dry wit, said to him in a bland voice, "Well, old man, it appears you finally understand my standards, at least in one area." He was looking toward George, who was standing in the center of a small group, laughing, then listening intently, all in all, a marvelous addition to the party. "Lovely girl. If only I were fifteen years younger and not so blasted married."

  "I've thought something like that myself," Elliot said, with a long pull on his Scotch.

  "Come on, Elliot, you're practically a spring chicken—rooster, rather. My, there's Eileen Raeburn, only this time she's with Alex Amery. She seems to be looking this way quite a bit, Elliot."

  "Ah, the table looks about ready for us," Elliot said. "With any luck, Paul, you'll have the first course before you're called to deliver a baby."

  "Age does have some privileges, Elliot," Paul said. "Only triplets could tear me away this evening."

  Elliot excused himself and made his way to Eileen. He hadn't seen her since the previous summer, since before he had met George. "Hello, Eileen. You're looking lovely tonight."

  Eileen Raeburn smiled and placed her hand in Elliot's for a moment. "I've missed you, Elliot," she said.

  "It has been a while," Elliot said evenly. He nodded toward Dr. Amery. "Where did you meet Alex?"

  "Actually, I handled his divorce. He's finally recovering, I think. What have you been up to?"

  "This and that, you know, much the same as usual."

  One of Eileen's eyebrows shot up. "Not from what I hear," she said, her gaze going for a moment toward George.

  David's voice suddenly rang out over the noise. "Dinner is served. Everyone get in line."

  Saved by the turkey, Elliot thought with a grin.

  Dinner was a buffet on card tables set about the living room to accommodate the thirty-plus guests.

  "Elliot," George said, savoring a big bite of dressing, "isn't that cumin I taste?"

  "Doubtful," Elliot said. "It's usually found only in Mexican food. But try some fresh Parmesan."

  Eileen Raeburn's stomach was in a jealous knot at a neighboring table. She said to Maggie Smith, "Elliot seems to be robbing the cradle, I see. Male menopause is hitting him early."

  "Try the giblet dressing, Eileen," Maggie said. "It's delicious. Alex," she continued without pause, "was just telling me about his research grant. It's quite interesting."

  After dinner, Elliot sat back watching George, amused at the few moments' doubt he had had about bringing her. She was the youngest person there, and he had thrown her willy-nilly into a group of doctors and spouses, most of them in their thirties and forties. He found himself wondering if he hadn't planned the evening as a sort of test for her. More fool he! At the moment she was listening to Mrs. Krantz talk about her needlepoint, her young children and how the two didn't go together very well. George was the very soul of interest. When Dr. Albert Krantz mentioned that George looked familiar to him, George said easily, "Perhaps. I smile a lot and push makeup and perfume. It's my job."

  Mrs. Krantz promptly forgot about her needlepoint, and grilled George for a good ten minutes.

  "George," Elliot finally broke in, "can I get you some more wine?"

  "Why don't I come along and make myself a spritzer?" She excused herself charmingly. "Phew! Thanks for the rescue."

  "You done good, sweetheart. You're something of a celebrity. You've got to expect people to be fascinated."

  "I suppose so," she said on a small sigh.

  "What is this? Don't you like all that attention?"

  "Well, not really. I already know all about me. I like to talk about other things."

  "Sometimes," Elliot said slowly, "I don't believe you're real."

  He was speaking to Donald Harley, a GU radiologist, listening to the garrulous man with half an ear, when he saw Eileen make her way over to George. He cursed softly and excused himself. It was his intention to sidetrack Eileen when Doris caught him.

  "No, Elliot," Doris said quietly, "let George deal with it. Does she know about Eileen?"

  "I've mentioned her, but that's all."

  Eileen had consumed four glasses of wine, but her legal mind was as clear as ever. "So," she said in her best lawyer's voice to Georgina Hathaway, "you're a model."

  George turned friendly eyes to the woman and smiled, nodding.

  "My name is Eileen Raeburn. I don't believe we've met."

  George's smile did not slip. "I've heard you're an excellent lawyer. Have you practiced long in San Francisco?"

  "Yes," Eileen said, her eyes glittering. "Law requires a lot of practice. There's very little flitting around. Have you been modeling long?"

  "Since I was eighteen," George said agreeably.

  "I understand that a model's working life doesn't last all that long. Beauty fades, and all that."

  "Yes, that's true. I've always thought it a bit unfair. Female models must be flawless, which translates to very young, whereas male models can be forty. Ad agencies want the 'grainy' look in men, but it's out of the question in a woman. If I wanted to start modeling now, no one would pay me any mind. Most women start at eighteen, or even younger."

  "I suppose it's wise of you to look to the future. A husband, now, that would be a reasonable thought, I suppose. A steady source of income in an uncertain future."

  Gloves off, George thought, sighing to herself. "Models work very hard, Miss Raeburn, incredibly hard as a matter of fact."

  Eileen shrugged elaborately. "Perhaps, but the first qualification is a very pretty face, isn't it?"

  "Let us say an interesting face, one that photographs well. You, for example, would photograph quite dramatically, I think."

  "I'm not a brainless blonde, Miss Hathaway."

  "Eileen," Elliot said, interrupting smoothly, "I see you and George have been getting acquainted. Have you told her about that antitrust case you're working on?"

  Things hadn't gone as Eileen had envisioned them. The wine was beginning to muddle her thinking, and here was Elliot asking her about that ridiculous case!

  "Yes, Eileen," Dr. Amery, her escort for the evening, said pleasantly from behind Elliot's shoulder, "you haven't told me what you think is going to come of it."

  "A disaster averted, and very smoothly, doctor," George whispered quietly to Elliot a few minutes later. "She's very nice, I think, but jealous. She doesn't like me at all."

  "No, probably not."

  "It is too bad," George said, looking toward Eileen Raeburn. "She is a good lawyer, isn't she?"

  "One of the best," Elliot gravely assured her. "You're sure you're not brainless? All that blond hair..."

  George slanted him an intense look, her eyes turning nearly violet. "I lied to you," she whispered. "I'm wearing knee socks."

  "Under a dress?" He looked skeptical.

  "Yes. The ones with all the orange splotches against black."

  "I can't handle the thought. Let's get out of here."

  Chapter 9

  Elliot had always enjoyed spending Christmas with his parents, his sister and brother-in-law and their three children in Connecticut. But staring out of his bedroom window onto the snow-coverd front lawn, he knew that this year was different. George was in England, of all places, shooting an ad for Braden-Tyrol in Warkwickshire, the backdrop of a medieval castle. He missed her, and the admission alarmed him. He smiled vacuously at his two nephews, who wouldn't have a prayer of finishing their snowman if they didn't stop arguing.

  He looked down at a handsome new wristwatch, George's Christmas present to him. Engraved on the back were the words "To the only man in San Francisco." He wasn't quite sure just how she meant that. H
e grinned, remembering her response to his gift, a dozen pair of handknit knee socks, each with a design and colors more outrageous than the last. A muscle jumped in his cheek, for the thought continued to their last night together, her slender legs, covered to the knees in pink wool with black stars, wrapped around his flanks. He could feel himself inside her, all his, and his rational thoughts scattered like autumn leaves to the wind. It was that night he had agreed to spend the first week in February with her and her family in Aspen, skiing. "It's our yearly family get-together," she had told him, lightly kissing his ear. "Lots of skiing and lots of noise from all my nieces and nephews. There's five of them, all under seven years old. A real madhouse."

  He knew he shouldn't meet her parents or her family. He was thirty-eight years old, and she was twenty-three. Nothing could change that. She would thank him, he told himself, for not taking advantage of her infatuation with him—at least, he amended silently, not more advantage than he had already taken. He could not allow himself to forget that, despite all her sophistication, she was still painfully young and in need of a man closer to her own age, a man of her own generation. And she was well on her way to being famous. She had an exciting life before her, and Elliot had no intention of curtailing it by making her his wife. It simply wouldn't be fair to her. February, he thought. He would speak to her in February. It was just so damned tough. She was out of town perhaps two weeks of every month, and seeing her after a week's absence was like a drink of water to a thirsting man. He couldn't seem to get enough of her, selfish as he knew he was being.

  Just as she had visited him at the hospital, he had been with her at a shooting session in Monterey. Even though he had believed her when she told him she worked hard, he supposed he had still pictured her prancing about in lovely clothes, kissing a perfume bottle. But that afternoon on the wharf in Monterey, he had watched a group of at least a dozen thoroughly professional men and women orchestrate a thirty-second commercial. It had taken close to four hours. George had sat patiently as various artists fiddled with her face, her hair and her clothes. He could see the weariness begin to tell on her as it went on and on, but she didn't complain. During each take, a dazzling smile appeared on her face as she acted out the nuances the director called for. She was, he realized, as much a professional as the rest of them. He had seen her exhaustion and hadn't pressed to return to Carmel, to the Brittany Inn, where they had spent the previous night. She had fallen asleep almost immediately and had not awakened until they had finally reached San Francisco.