by Robin Kaye
She used to have to tie Chip’s ties for him on the rare occasion she got him to wear one. She’d always wondered if he was pulling her leg. A kid who’d spent his life in prep school should have known how to tie a tie in his sleep. Maybe that was why he’d refused to wear one as an adult.
Mike cinched the knot up to his throat and didn’t even make a face. Chip always looked as if he were being garroted. How weird was this? Here she was watching Mike get ready for work. Well, he hadn’t specifically said he was going to work, but if her fuzzy memory was accurate, he’d said he was a doctor, and doctors had to take care of emergencies. She shuddered as the memories of times she’d taken Chip to the hospital spilled over the dam she’d built in her mind to hold them back. She remembered all the times she’d waited for the doctor to give her more bad news.
Watching her with concern, Mike tugged her into his arms. “Hey. What’s this about?” He tipped her head up and stared into her eyes. She opened her mouth to tell him it was nothing, but before she could press the words out, he cut her off with a kiss. A coffee-, cream-, and sugar-flavored kiss that packed so much heat it stole her breath.
He didn’t taste like Chip, he didn’t smell like Chip, and even with their uncanny resemblance, he didn’t feel like Chip. When in remission, Chip had been hard and strong. He’d been a marble statue, beautiful to admire, but uncomfortable to lean against. She’d found out the hard way that when you leaned on a statue, he either wobbled until he dropped you or took you down with him, shattering when he hit, and leaving you lying bruised and bleeding on a pile of rubble. Alone.
Mike was comfortable, firm but not chiseled, strong and solid, and he held her. She didn’t have to lean. He drew her to him, pulling her weight against his body and steadying her. For a second, she rested in his arms, her eyes closed as she savored what was a false sense of security.
“As much as I’d like to stay and find out what’s going on in that busy mind of yours, I really do have to run. I hope it won’t take long.” Annabelle opened her mouth to ask if he was coming back, but he kissed the thought away, turned, and walked out.
Dave sat on his bed with Mike’s jockey shorts hanging from his mouth and whined. The dog might weigh a good one hundred and fifty pounds and look like a cross between Cujo and the Black Stallion, but he was nothing more than a puppy in the body of an ox. She sat on the couch and stared at the door. Dave sauntered over and rested his enormous St. Bernardish head on her lap. The jockeys seemed to staunch the flow of slobber, thank God. Dave’s deep brown eyes stared into hers, and he let out a plaintive whine.
Annabelle absently rubbed his big head. She wasn’t sure what she felt, but she felt something. Too much. Was it better to spend life in a vacuum or to be shot through a veritable galaxy of feelings, unable to identify them? The vacuum of emotion she usually swam in was a lot more comfortable.
Annabelle struggled to move a crate of canvases from the storage area in the basement of the apartment. Before Rosalie had gotten engaged to Nick and rented her apartment to Annabelle, Rosalie had offered Annabelle storage space when she’d moved back from Philadelphia. It had been two years since Chip’s death—past time to go through her things. Johnny wouldn’t have understood her hanging portraits and nudes all over the house, especially since most of the paintings were of Chip. She’d keep a few of the small portraits for herself, offer the others to Becca, and destroy the nudes. Well, all but one. She couldn’t part with the first. No, no matter what, even if it stayed wrapped in paper in the back of her closet until the day she died. She’d never be able to part with that.
“Annabelle!” Wayne yelled when he saw her sliding the crate up the basement steps to the first floor. “What are you doing? Henry, come out here and help me.” Wayne, Rosalie’s—no, make that her—neighbor, slid beside her and picked up the crate. “Why didn’t you give us a holler? We’re right upstairs, and we’re always here to lend a helping hand. We’re so thrilled you’ve taken over your sister’s apartment. You call us if you need help moving anything. Anything at all. I can’t tell you how Henry and I have been dreading the thought of losing touch with our Rosalie. Now, with you here… Well, we’re just so thrilled to have you. You have to come to dinner so we can get to know you. Was that handsome gentleman I saw leaving this morning your boyfriend? Girl, you have almost as good taste in men as your sister. Isn’t he just too cute? I mean really, if I were ten years younger, and if he wasn’t straight, I swear he’d give Henry a run for his money.”
Wayne finally took a breath. Annabelle stared at him blankly. “Um… What was the question?”
Wayne put his arm around her. “Dinner, then boyfriend.”
“Oh, yes, well, I’d like to have dinner with you and Henry. Rosalie has told me so much about you both.” She flipped her hair and pasted on her best smile. “Rosalie gave me your number in case I can’t get home to feed Dave. I hope that’s okay.”
“Nice try, gorgeous, but that only works on straight men. Now dish. Tell me about Mr. Big, Blond, and Beautiful.”
“That’s Dr. Big, Blond, and Beautiful to you.” Annabelle followed him into her apartment and directed him to the small room that was labeled a den but looked more like a walk-in closet with a window. “You can put the crate up against that wall.”
Wayne positioned the crate and then followed her to the kitchen. He watched as she rooted around the junk drawer.
“Whatcha looking for while you’re avoiding talking about Dr. Good Love?”
“A hammer so I can pry the crate open. You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“No.” Wayne went to the door. “Henry, bring a pry bar and a hammer when you come down, will you, sweetie?” he hollered up the stairs.
Wayne sashayed back, not even waiting for Henry’s response. Rosalie had spoken a lot about her neighbors, and Annabelle had always wondered if she’d exaggerated. So far, she had to admit, Rosalie was dead-on. Knowing all the stories, and seeing firsthand proof, she wondered how Wayne managed to wrap Henry around his little finger.
He came up beside her and bumped her with his hip. “You won’t be sorry you’ve confided in me. Just ask your sister. If it weren’t for Henry and me, Rosalie and Nick would still be pretending the other didn’t exist. Just think of us as your Fairy Godfathers.”
That was it. Annabelle couldn’t keep a straight face no matter how hard she tried. By the time Henry joined them, she and Wayne were laughing so hard, she was having a difficult time catching her breath. She wrapped her arms around her aching sides and tried to breathe. God, it had been so long since she’d laughed.
Henry saw the two of them and scoffed. “Wayne, look at her.” Henry handed Wayne the tools, took his crisply ironed handkerchief out of his pocket, and dried the tears from Annabelle’s face. Henry was tall. She didn’t often look up to men, but she had to tip her head back to stare into his eyes. Kind eyes. Wayne had good taste. Henry was very hot if you went for the metrosexual type. Not to mention the gay type.
“What’d I miss?”
“Wayne was just teasing me.” Annabelle wasn’t used to people touching her, and Wayne and Henry were definitely touchy-feely people. She stepped back and noticed Wayne was gone.
The sound of hammering filled the apartment and then the squeaking of nails being pulled from wood. She ran to the den, but before she could stop him, Wayne had the crate open. There it stood for all the room to see—a thirty-six-by-sixty oil of a very naked Chip. Oh God. She hadn’t imagined it. Mike looked exactly like Chip.
“Well, lookie here.” Wayne put his hands on his hips and let out a wolf whistle while he examined the painting. “My, my, my, it seems you know Dr. Big, Blond, and Beautiful better than I thought.”
He didn’t take his eyes off the nude, shaking his head and tsking. “If this painting is accurate, we have to rethink the big part of the good doctor’s moniker. Such a shame. No matter what Cosmo says, we both know it ain’t just how a man uses it that counts.”
Ann
abelle sputtered and pointed to the painting. “B… but, that’s not Mike.”
Chapter 2
AFTER HENRY AND WAYNE LEFT, ANNABELLE WENT back to bed and tried to get her bearings. She needed to go through the few things she’d been able to bring from Philadelphia and somehow turn Rosalie’s apartment into her own.
Rosalie and Nick had leased the apartment to her furnished, which was nice. They didn’t need Rosalie’s furniture. Nick’s castle of a brownstone held the stamp of a professional decorator. One who Rosalie said had dated Nick and decorated it to her taste—stuffy, showy, and uncomfortably fake—nothing like Nick. There wasn’t one room in the entire brownstone she’d call relaxing. Even the bathrooms looked as if you could break them, which was one reason Dave stayed with her until Nick and Rosalie redecorated and doggy-proofed their love nest.
The phone rang, and she contemplated not answering it. No one had her new number other than her parents, Rosalie and Nick, and Becca. She didn’t think Rosalie would call today, and she’d already spoken to Becca. That only left her mother. Shit.
“Hello, Mama.”
“Annabelle. Why aren’t you here for dinner?”
Dinner… damn, she’d forgotten all about Sunday dinner. She peeked at the clock. It was a quarter to one. “Um, I’m sorry. I, um…”
“Oh, you have a date with that nice doctor friend of Nick’s, don’t you? It was so cute the way he tackled that young man about to catch the garter. I saw him watching you all night, not that you did anything to encourage him. But then your aunt Rose said he took you home.”
“Yeah, he did. He’s… nice.”
“Don’t forget single and a doctor. You know—”
“Yeah, Ma, I’m not getting any younger. I know the drill.”
“After the disaster you’ve made of your life by canceling your wedding, you better make the most of Nick’s circle of friends. There were several very nice, successful men at the wedding. Speaking of the wedding, you should be thankful it wasn’t a total loss. It was wonderful how Rosalie saved the day by marrying Nick quickly. They had a beautiful wedding.”
“Yeah, thanks to me.”
“What did you have to do with it?”
“Gee, I don’t know, Ma. Other than planning every detail of that entire affair—I spent a year of my life working on that wedding.”
“Thank goodness Rosalie had the time and money to change it to suit her and Nick’s needs.”
“They didn’t change a damn thing other than the invitations and the head count. Hell, they even used my seating chart for our side of the family.”
“No wonder you can’t find a nice man to marry. Listen to the language coming out of that mouth of yours. You better go to confession. Besides, we all know you’re not capable of organizing anything more complex than your closet. Stop trying to take the credit away from Rosalie.”
“Look, Ma, I’m tired, and I’m not up for dinner. I’m sorry I didn’t call before, but I’m just going to take a nap.”
“Okay, get some beauty sleep. You need it. Remember to look your best—”
“Yeah, I know. I’m not getting any younger. Bye, Ma.”
“I can do it. I can do it, damn it!” Tom Mullany wheezed, the crackle in his lungs loud enough to be heard down the hall.
Mike held up his hands in surrender.
“You!” Mr. Mullany pointed his arthritic finger at the poor nurse trying to hold the wheelchair. “Put the break on and get the hell away. I don’t need you looking at my bare, bony ass hanging out of this damn hospital gown.”
A cross between Walter Matthau and Oscar the Grouch, Tom Mullany was one of Mike’s most challenging patients on a good day. This was not a good day—not for Tom at least. The poor old guy was scared. He’d never smoked a day in his life, but after spending his whole career in the bond room of a Wall Street giant where everyone else smoked, Tom Mullany suffered from chronic COPD and emphysema. He’d had a bout with pneumonia, and now, a relapse. Since his wife’s death last winter, Tom had never been more alone or more sick.
Mike stood close by, allowing Tom the dignity of getting into bed by himself, but not too far away in case the old man teetered. Moving around would be difficult since he had both IV and oxygen tubing tethering him.
Waving away the nurse, Mike figured he might as well play nurse and orderly. After all, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do than help the old guy protect his pride.
After Tom managed to get into bed under his own steam, Mike put the side rails up on one side, replaced the pulse oximeter, positioning it on his pointer finger, and checked his blood oxygen level—82 percent. Still low, but since he’d been moving around, not surprising.
“I still don’t see why you won’t let me go home.” Tom ripped the oxygen tubing off his face and held it in the trembling hand he pointed at Mike. “I’d be better off there where I can get some rest. Here they poke and prod me all the damn day and night.”
Mike took the tubing from Tom and draped it back over his ears, to position it under his nose. “If I did that, I wouldn’t have you to keep me company.”
Tom’s hand went back up to the tubing, and Mike shot him a hard look. “I can replace your tubing with a face mask and a big orderly if that’s what it takes to keep you breathing.”
Ignoring the old man’s grumbling, Mike went to the window and opened the blinds so Tom could look out onto the courtyard below.
“So I’m suffering because you don’t have anything better to do than sit here torturing an old fart like me?” Mr. Mullany laughed, wheezed, and coughed. “You need to get a life, boy.”
“I’m working on it.” Mike sat back on the chair beside the bed, stretched his legs out in front of him, and crossed them at the ankles.
Tom pressed the button to raise the head of his bed and stared at Mike over the plastic tubing. He was an ornery old cuss. He licked his dry lips and smiled. “I hope to hell your door don’t swing both ways because I for one ain’t interested. But it would give me an excuse to get a new doctor and see if I could get myself out of this place.”
“No such luck. I was talking about a woman. It looks as if you’re stuck here until I release you.”
Tom stared at Mike. “You know you’re missing two buttons on your shirt, Doc.”
Mike smoothed down his tie, which he’d thought covered the evidence of last night’s extracurricular activities.
“That new girlfriend of yours try to rip your shirt off?” Before Mike could deny it, Tom continued. “Why the hell are you here if you could be with that hellcat of yours?”
“Because I got a page that you were being brought into the ER, and believe it or not, I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Some color came back to Tom’s face. Mike checked the monitor, Tom’s O2 levels were up to 85 percent, and he looked more relaxed with little or no retraction. The IV steroids and breathing treatments were doing their jobs.
“You’ve got yourself a girlfriend then?”
“I hope so.”
“A woman ripping the buttons off your shirt is a pretty good sign—at least it was in my day. I hope to hell things haven’t changed that much.”
“We’ll see.” Mike didn’t feel comfortable talking about his private life with patients—not that he’d had much of one to talk about, but since the death of Tom’s wife, he and Mike had gotten pretty close.
“Where did you meet this girl—you did say she’s a girl, right?”
Mike rolled his eyes. “I met her at a wedding. Her sister married my best friend.” He saw no reason to tell him that the wedding took place just yesterday.
“Well, I hope you like her. You know, I met my wife at a wedding some fifty-odd years ago. When you pick up a girl at a wedding, chances are she’s wishing she were the one wearing white. Don’t be surprised if she gets ideas about more than just ripping the shirt off your back.”
Mike pretended to look over his chart and made a few notes.
“Heat like that
is pretty hard to find. You don’t just leave a woman who ripped off your shirt the night before. Do you have another date with her?”
“Tom, come on, I’m your doctor.”
“Doctor, schmoctor.” He waved his hand again, dismissing Mike’s attempt to keep his love life out of it. “You’re young enough to be my son… make that grandson. And let me tell you, boy, I’ve had more sex in my lifetime than you will ever hope to have.”
“Mr. Mullany—”
“You just got up and left?”
“No. I went out, brought back coffee and breakfast, and then I got the page—”
“Did you at least kiss her good-bye and make another date?”
Great, he was getting a sex talk from an octogenarian. “I’m not stupid. I kissed her good-bye and kept a spare set of keys.”
“Well, at least you’ve got a little bit of a brain. Seeing as how you’re my doctor, I’m glad for that much. Still, you shouldn’t leave her wondering if she’s going to see you again. Send her flowers, call, and ask her out to dinner. That is, if you want to see her again.”
Mike checked his watch. He definitely wanted to see Annabelle again, but no matter what Tom said, it had been fifty-five years since the man’s last date. Things had changed. “I have a few minutes before I go. Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”
“You got a new pair of lungs lying around?”
Mike shook his head, but he did have a few other things in his bag of tricks. What Tom needed couldn’t be found in a hospital—not yet, anyway.
“I’m going to give these orders to the nurses, and I’ll be back to say good-bye before I leave.”
Tom waved him away. The old guy was tired—not that he’d ever say so.
Mike went to the nurses’ station and dialed the emergency contact number he’d found in Mr. Mullany’s file. Tom wasn’t the only one who could give advice. While he waited for an answer, he tossed an empty coffee cup in the garbage, collected the pens lying on the desk, and put them neatly into the pencil holder where they belonged.
