Dr. Dad

by Judith Arnold

  He had neither the time nor the energy for a distraction like her. He was too drained to entertain anyone—let alone someone who was practically a stranger—over dinner. And he hardly had any food in the house, certainly nothing suitable to serve a guest. During his drive home, he’d fantasized about throwing on some old jeans, pouring himself a cold beer and sending out for pizza. After he and Lindsey had eaten, he’d intended to talk to her about how he could help her turn things around in school.

  But there she stood, wearing a small, defiant smile as she gauged his reaction to her announcement that she’d invited the new neighbor to dinner.

  “Why did you invite her? What happened?” he asked, tossing his jacket onto the nearest chair and rolling up his sleeves.

  “I was walking home from the bus stop, and she was in her yard chasing a cat. And the cat ran straight to me, so I picked it up. It’s a beautiful cat, Daddy. Its name is MacKenzie.” Lindsey let out a dreamy little sigh. “Isn’t that a cool name? I wish I had a cat. I wish I had any kind of pet. Even fish would be okay, but they aren’t as cool as a cat. Especially a cat like MacKenzie, all gray and soft like a dust bunny…”

  Toby steered her back to the subject at hand. “So, you caught the cat.”

  “And Susannah Dawson walked over and said hi.”

  Susannah. That was the name Lindsey had said yesterday. Sue Dawson, Susannah Dawson. Maybe she used her full name professionally, but when she was hanging out in the ’hood she wanted to be just plain Sue.

  “She was so friendly, Dad. It was like she could have been any old person, not this famous TV star.”

  “Are you sure she’s famous?” he asked.

  Lindsey clicked her tongue. “If you ever watched TV, you’d know. Mercy Hospital is like the coolest show. But you wouldn’t know, because you never watch it.”

  He sensed Lindsey was baiting him, but he refused to bite. “She didn’t say anything about being a TV star when I talked to her yesterday.”

  “You talked to her? When? Why didn’t you tell me? What did she say?” Lindsey babbled like a fan possessed.

  “We talked about the garbage pickup.” At Lindsey’s groan of disgust, he added, “And I welcomed her to the neighborhood, more or less.”

  “So you didn’t talk about her show?”

  “Of course not. Why should I? I was taking out the garbage, and I saw her and said hi.”

  “Well, if you already met her, you can’t mind me inviting her over for dinner.”

  “Lindsey, I’ve been working hard all day. And the fridge is close to empty. You know we’re always low on food by the end of the week.” Toby did the grocery shopping on the weekend.

  “I’m sure we can scrounge up something,” she said, circling the table to the refrigerator and swinging it open. It was indeed almost empty. Sighing, she yanked on the freezer door and peered inside. “Here,” she said, digging out a package of frozen shrimp. “You can make something with this.”

  “Are you sure she actually said yes?” he asked, taking the shrimp from Lindsey and staring at it dubiously. “Maybe you misunderstood her.” If she was the celebrity Lindsey seemed to think she was, why would she want to spend her Friday night at a yawnfest at the Cole house?

  “I think she liked me,” Lindsey confessed with a modest shrug. Her shoulders used to be bony, but not anymore. She’d added a layer of muscular flesh to them in the past few months. Her body was more solid, more substantial. The skinny little kid she used to be no longer existed.

  “Of course she liked you. You’re very likable,” he said, although at the moment he wasn’t sure he liked her. He swung open a cabinet door and searched the shelves, hoping for inspiration. “When did you tell her to come?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  He swore under his breath. It was five forty-five now. No time to race out to the supermarket. What could he do with frozen shrimp? “Spaghetti,” he said.

  “She won’t eat that. It’s too fattening. You know what they say about TV—it adds ten pounds.”

  “Ten pounds of what?”

  Lindsey gazed at the ceiling and groaned “Dad,” as if she thought he was just pretending ignorance. But he had no idea what she meant about ten pounds, and he had no time to chisel through her sarcasm. Whether or not the new neighbor wanted to eat spaghetti, that was what he would be serving. It was either spaghetti or pizza delivered from Luigi’s.

  He pulled out the big pot, filled it with water, set it on the stove and turned on the heat under it. Then he tossed the package of shrimp into the microwave to defrost and grabbed a jar of marinara sauce from a shelf.

  Five years ago, no one could have convinced him he could fix a dinner so efficiently. Neither he nor Jane had been particularly talented in the kitchen; they’d cooked edible meals, but they’d never been the kind to experiment with exotic ingredients or collect bizarre appliances—like state-of-the-art garlic presses and vegetable steamers and candy thermometers. Because he’d worked long hours, Jane had done most of the cooking. He’d known the basics of food preparation; during his bachelor days, he’d somehow managed to keep himself from starving to death. But she’d been the boss in the kitchen. He’d been the assistant.

  Now he was the boss, receiving minimal culinary assistance from Lindsey. He used to ask her for help, but lately he’d been hesitant. Asking her for anything meant running the risk of tripping some invisible switch inside her, sending her into one of her sulks or igniting an argument.

  He didn’t have time to argue with her tonight. Sue Dawson would be over in—he glanced at his watch—ten minutes. But it was Lindsey’s fault that he had to throw this last-minute dinner together. She ought to do something to help out. “Why don’t you set the dining-room table,” he suggested in as mild a voice as he could manage. “If we’re having company, we might as well eat in there.” The kitchen table currently held his briefcase, his jacket, Lindsey’s backpack from school, a stack of as yet unopened mail and a dirty plate left over from breakfast. He didn’t have time to neaten up the place.

  Without a quibble, Lindsey exited into the dining room. She had a new way of walking, he noticed—a kind of slinky, slouchy motion, using her hips more than her feet to propel her. He wondered if her backpack was too heavy, damaging her posture, or if this was simply the way preteen girls walked, thinking they looked sexy.

  God, he was tired of worrying about her all the time.

  Right now, he couldn’t spare a minute for worry. He rummaged in the refrigerator for lettuce, tomatoes and a stalk of celery. He didn’t have any Italian bread—he hoped spaghetti with shrimp and a salad would be sufficient.

  Would Sue like wine? he wondered. The thought of lingering over a glass of wine with her appealed to him. He felt guilty about that. And he felt stupid for feeling guilty.

  The wine rack built into the cabinet near the microwave wasn’t well stocked. He’d never considered wine a beverage to drink in solitude, and the last time he’d had guests for dinner was the office holiday party, which he’d cohosted with his partners. The food had been catered, but he’d bought a case of assorted wines, and he had a few bottles left over.

  He found a bottle of Italian table red and pulled it out, then grabbed a couple of goblets from the adjacent cabinet and carried them to the dining room. To his amazement, Lindsey had done a meticulous job of setting the table. She’d spread a dark-green linen cloth over the mahogany oval and rolled matching linen napkins into the silver napkin rings. She stood at the open breakfront, carefully gathering the good china dishes they would need for their meal, and the silver chest was open on the sideboard, the flatware inside glinting in the light. Fresh white tapers were wedged into the silver candlesticks Toby and Jane had gotten as a wedding present from Jane’s aunt Laura.

  Seeing him in the doorway, Lindsey smiled sheepishly. “Does it look okay?”

  “It looks magnificent,” he said, hoping she would accept the heartfelt compliment without rolling her eyes. It did look magnificen
t. He was surprised that she’d done such a fancy job of it. Maybe she wanted to impress the famous TV star.

  “I think the water’s boiling,” Lindsey said. “I can hear it from here.”

  “Right.” He set one wineglass near his chair at the head of the table and the other at Sue’s place. Resisting the urge to give Lindsey a hug, he returned to the kitchen to add the spaghetti to the boiling water.

  He was lifting the lid from the pot when the doorbell rang. Whatever pleasure he’d felt from Lindsey’s efforts vanished in a wave of panic. Spaghetti and salad seemed too mundane to be eaten on fine china. Sue Dawson might think they were trying too hard, or not hard enough.

  “Lindsey, can you get the door?” he shouted over his shoulder as he emptied the box of pasta into the water. Their guest would think whatever she thought. He was doing the best he could under the circumstances.

  He heard Lindsey’s footsteps as she hurried through the living room to the front door. He stirred the pasta, then pulled the defrosted shrimp out of the microwave. Voices floated down the hall to him, Sue’s and then Lindsey’s. He tossed the shrimp into the tomato sauce, gave it a stir and set it on the stove. He wasn’t nervous, he told himself. He wasn’t under any obligation to bedazzle the new neighbor.

  She preceded Lindsey into the kitchen, and for a moment he was the one bedazzled. Again he was reminded of the sun—its light, its heat, its ability to burn. There was no one thing about Sue Dawson that was so bright—her eyes were lively, her hair shimmering as it fell loose past her shoulders, her smile relaxed and her body graceful in a white tunic-style top and slim-fitting gray slacks—but put it all together and she practically shimmered with warmth. Small diamonds winked in her earlobes, discreet and utterly tasteful, and a silver bangle circled her wrist. She carried a plate heaped with something, wrapped in aluminum foil.

  “I brought brownies,” she said. “I hope that’s all right.”

  “Brownies,” Lindsey murmured reverently, hovering near the table and gazing worshipfully at Sue. “I love brownies.”

  “Well,” Toby said, “since I didn’t plan dessert—” hell, he hadn’t even planned dinner “—it’s a good thing you brought some with you.”

  “I’ll put them in the dining room,” Lindsey offered, taking the plate from Sue and disappearing from the kitchen.

  Toby smiled. Sue smiled. The water resumed its rolling boil, filling the room with a gurgling sound. “I hope you like spaghetti,” he said cheerfully.

  “Spaghetti’s great.” Her smile was luminous, altering her cheeks and brow, her eyes, her entire body. Did they teach people how to smile that way in acting school? “It was so nice of you to invite me over. It looks as if you’ve barely gotten home from work.” She gestured toward the tie still knotted tight at his throat.

  He grinned and tugged the knot loose. “It was my daughter’s idea to invite you,” he confessed, giving the sauce a stir. “It happens to be a fine idea, though.” It was, he realized. Now that he knew she thought spaghetti was great, he intended to relax and enjoy himself.

  She gazed around the kitchen, and he wondered whether he should apologize for its clutter. Besides the detritus scattered across the table, the refrigerator was decorated with shopping lists and school calendars. A broom was propped in a corner, left out from when Lindsey had spilled a box of Cheerios yesterday. The pleated shades at the windows had been raised to different heights that morning, and he’d never bothered to adjust them.

  But no, he wasn’t going to apologize for the disheveled state of the room. He wasted too much energy worrying about whether he ought to apologize to Lindsey for transgressions real or imagined. He wasn’t going to worry about his neighbor, too. One difficult relationship with a female was all he could handle.

  “Um…” Sue peered through the doorway into the dining room, then glanced behind her toward the hall. “Will I be meeting your wife?” she asked delicately.

  The question jolted him, although he realized it was a perfectly natural one. She’d met him; she’d met his daughter—why shouldn’t there be a wife in the picture?

  He set down the spoon he’d been using to stir the sauce. “My wife died five years ago,” he said with a wry smile. “So no, I don’t think you’ll be meeting her.”

  “Oh!” Sue looked chagrined. “I’m so sorry—”

  “That’s all right.” There was a great deal he hated about Jane’s death, but one of the worst things—which had never occurred to him until he’d experienced it—was the constant need to break the news to others. For years after Jane had died, he would run into old acquaintances who hadn’t heard, and they’d ask how she was, and he would have to tell them and revisit his grief. And when he met new people, like Sue Dawson, he would have to go through it all over again.

  The pain wasn’t acute anymore; after five years he’d gotten used to the idea that Jane was no longer with him. But whenever he told new people, they would become upset and he’d feel an obligation to comfort and reassure them. Instead of receiving their sympathy, he’d be knocking himself out trying to make them feel better.

  “Am I going to meet your husband?” he asked, in part to direct the conversation away from himself and his loss and in part because he assumed a beautiful supposed celebrity like her had to be married or attached, or at the very least in a hot relationship with the Hollywood heartthrob of the moment.

  “No husband,” Sue said laconically, her voice dipping into the subzero range.

  Okay. No more questions in that direction.

  He found a salad serving utensil in a drawer and placed it in the salad bowl. As he shut the drawer his gaze drifted back to her, standing near the windows, the evening light sloping through the panes and glazing her hair with an amber shimmer. She was single; so was he. Interesting.

  But impossible. She was his neighbor, and becoming involved with a neighbor would be a serious mistake. Besides, Lindsey deserved the bulk of his attention right now. He couldn’t fritter away his time or emotions on anyone else.

  She reentered the kitchen and he thrust the salad bowl into her hands. “Would you take this to the table, please?”

  She eyed Sue. “He treats me like a slave,” she muttered, then headed back to the dining room with the salad.

  Sue grinned. “How old is she?”

  “Almost eleven—physically. Mentally, she’s anywhere from three to forty, depending on her mood.” The sauce had begun to bubble. He eased a strand of spaghetti out of the water with a fork and tested it for doneness. “I’ve got a bottle of wine for dinner, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Great.”

  Lindsey reappeared in the doorway. She glanced at Toby, then turned to Sue, who exchanged a smile with her. He had a sense they were communicating privately in some secret female code. Lindsey was probably saying, My dad is really a jerk, and Sue was saying…what? All dads are jerks, or I’ll teach you how to get around him, or Your dad just offered me wine, so he can’t be that much of a jerk.

  Trying to ignore them, he drained the spaghetti and dumped it into a serving bowl. “Yes, Dr. Dad,” Lindsey singsang before he had a chance to ask, taking the bowl from him to bring into the dining room. He poured the shrimp-laden sauce into another serving bowl—entertaining a guest meant using dishes he hadn’t used in ages, but given how nicely Lindsey had set the table, he wasn’t going to serve dinner in pots and pans. At last, he opened the bottle of wine, then gestured Sue ahead of him into the dining room.

  There, he thought, gazing at the food arrayed on the table, the gleam of silver and china, the teardrop-shaped flames crowning the two candles, which Lindsey must have lit. Either the meal would go smoothly or it would be a disaster. He’d done his best under pressure, which seemed to be the way he did everything these days. No one could ask more of him.

  A REAL HOME, Susannah thought. A father, a child, warmth and love. It was almost enough to make her weep.

  She was an actress, and she knew how to weep—or remain
dry-eyed—on cue. But a sentimental sweetness filled her as she soaked it all in—Lindsey’s sardonic jokes and long-suffering sighs, Toby’s forbearance, the simple, filling food, the tart wine. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten spaghetti. Out in California, it was always pasta, and it was never served in anything as basic as tomato sauce with shrimp mixed in.

  She wouldn’t have come if she’d known this dinner party had been his daughter’s idea. The poor man! He was a doctor; he shouldn’t be entertaining a guest after a full day of racing around, pushing gurneys up and down hospital corridors, barking orders, holding patients’ hands, demanding tests and equipment and facing a crisis every thirteen minutes, just before the commercial break. That was how it worked on Mercy Hospital, anyway.

  After such hard work, he deserved better than to have Susannah appear on his doorstep with nothing more to offer than a plate of brownies that she hadn’t even baked from scratch. She wanted to beg his forgiveness—except that she was through with accommodating everyone else, making others happy, doing what they wanted her to do. It was her turn to do what she wanted—and what she wanted right now was to be eating spaghetti mixed with slightly rubbery shrimp and bland sauce, in this pretty dining room with its old-fashioned furniture and expensive china.

  And the candles. Were they on the table for a reason? Surely he hadn’t been thinking of a romantic dinner, not with his sassy daughter present. And why was Susannah even thinking about a romantic anything with Toby Cole? He was just her new neighbor. An unconscionably good-looking man, but so what? She didn’t want a romance with him or anyone else.