Dr. Dad

by Judith Arnold

  He wished he could think of something to say besides “I’m sorry.” He was a doctor, and he knew about miscarriages. But he’d never experienced one. He was only a man. The science of medicine couldn’t define a woman’s sorrow.

  “Stephen had told me to get an abortion,” she said.

  Toby crossed the room to her. Her voice had changed from sad to bitter, and he wanted to be closer to her, in case she fell apart.

  “He said we weren’t ready to have a baby yet, and it would screw up my career, and my career was so damned important, the most important thing about me. My father said the same thing. He said if I had the baby I’d want to take time off from work, and my career would go down the toilet. It wasn’t as if I was some top-dollar marquee name, he said. I couldn’t afford to take a break right now, while I was still on the rise. They both told me to get rid of the baby.”

  “But you didn’t,” Toby said, reminding her that she’d stood up to all the pressure her supposed loved ones had placed on her. She hadn’t given in to them.

  “No. Mother Nature took care of it. That was the worst,” she said, her voice cracking. “I miscarried, and they were so happy. They were celebrating, because their problem was solved.”

  He understood now—understood why she’d left California, why she’d turned her back on that life, on her acting, on everything that had defined her world for so many years. “So you moved to Arlington,” he concluded.

  “As soon as I could. I fulfilled my contract and then quit. I—” Her voice crumbled a little more. “I wanted that baby so much, Toby….”

  A low sob escaped her, and he took her in his arms. She wept against his shoulder, her body trembling in his embrace, her tears soaking through his shirt. He held her tight, absorbing her grief, wishing he could do something to erase the hurting parts of her past. Doctors could heal only so much. He couldn’t heal Susannah’s anguish.

  After a minute she sniffled and pulled back. “I have no right to be crying like this,” she apologized. “You’ve lost so much more than me. You must think I’m such a wimp. All I lost was the promise of something—”

  “You lost much more than a pregnancy,” he told her. “You lost your faith in the people you loved. That must have been agonizing.”

  She sniffled again, and brushed her fingertips against her tear-stained cheeks. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and handed it to her. She studied it as if it were a precious gift, then patted it against her face. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “No—not just for the handkerchief but for putting up with me.”

  “Putting up with you?” He laughed. Did she think taking her in his arms was such an ordeal?

  “Well…” Her voice sounded watery, and she dabbed the handkerchief to her eyes again. “You spend your working life taking care of your patients, then you come home and take of your daughter. And here you are, taking care of me as if I were another helpless little child.”

  “You’re not a helpless little child,” he murmured, using his thumb to catch a tear that had escaped her and skittered down her cheek. “You’re a woman, Susannah. A woman strong enough to walk away from the life that made you miserable.” He dropped his hand back to her waist, not wanting to let go of her. “I’m not taking care of you. I’m just letting you borrow a handkerchief.”

  She gave him a lopsided smile, wiped her cheeks one last time and returned the square of linen to him.

  “I take care of my patients because it’s my job,” he explained. “I take care of Lindsey because she’s my daughter. I’m not taking care of you.”

  “Yes, you are.” She sighed and lowered her eyes.

  “And it scares me, Toby. I want to take care of myself, but there are times…” She sighed again and lifted her gaze back to him. “There are times I need you. I don’t want to, but I do.” Her eyes looked bluer than ever, their color magnified by the sheen of moisture. “When I cried in California, I needed to be held. But no one held me.”

  “I’ll hold you,” he vowed. “Whenever you need to be held, I’m here.”

  She stared into his face, searching. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Her voice was hoarse from crying, low but certain.

  He gazed down into her eyes and saw only honesty, trust, a mixture of generosity and yearning and need that felt an awful lot like love. And he realized that if ever Susannah needed anything, he wanted to be the one she turned to, the one who gave it to her.

  He lowered his mouth to hers.

  Her lips were salty from her tears. They were soft yet firm, accepting his kiss, welcoming it. Before he could catch a breath she opened to him, and then he didn’t want to breathe anymore. He wanted only to take her.

  His tongue slid deep, needing her as much as she needed him. She parried each eager thrust, reaching up to hold his head steady, threading her fingers into his hair. She tasted hot and rich and wild, and alive. Unbearably alive.

  The kiss so intoxicated him that he wasn’t at first aware of her hands moving through his hair, around to his neck, forward over his shoulders. Only when she reached the buttons at the front of his shirt and plucked the first one open did he break from her. “Susannah…”

  “Yes.”

  “You said you wanted to go slow.”

  “Not anymore.”

  He wanted her, wanted her the way a dying man wanted one more breath. But he didn’t want her like this, when she was emotionally overloaded, when she still had tearstains on her cheeks, when she was seeking comfort more than passion. “I don’t think—”

  “Make love to me, Toby,” she whispered, and his protest died in his throat. Maybe the timing could have been better, the context, the circumstances. But he didn’t care. She wanted him to make love to her, and he couldn’t say no.

  He brought his mouth down to hers again, in joy and resignation, in acknowledgment that he needed this, needed her, needed to be held at least as much as she did. As her tongue tangled with his, her hands slid down the front of his shirt, opening the buttons and pushing back the cloth. Her fingers were cool against his skin. He felt as if he were burning up inside, and he was grateful when she skimmed her hands up to his shoulders and shoved the shirt off him.

  But the light friction of her palms against his chest only made him hotter. The gentle scrape of her fingernails along his sides sent his temperature soaring.

  He raised his hands to the buttons of her shirt. It was a man-tailored shirt, almost identical in styling to his, and he could unbutton it blind. But his hands froze when she pressed her lips to his sternum. He groaned—a soft, desperate sound in the quiet house. She grazed across his chest to his shoulder and his hands fisted around the fabric of her blouse.

  “Susannah…”

  She lifted her face and he had to kiss her again, had to take those full, rosy lips with his. Just once, though. His rationality was battling not to go up in smoke along with his willpower.

  He pulled back from her and inhaled sharply, ordering his mind to remain clear. “I don’t have anything with me. We can’t—”

  “I have protection,” she whispered. “Upstairs.” She ducked her head shyly and added, “I bought it after I met you.”

  The implied compliment touched him—and the knowledge that there was nothing left to stop them caused him to surrender—to her, to himself, to his heart and his soul and the fire raging inside him.

  Her shirt gaped as she stepped back and slid her hand into his. One glimpse of the cream-colored lace cupping the swells of her breasts and he had to summon all his self-control to keep from dragging her onto the floor and making love to her right there. He felt like the starving survivor of a tragedy—and maybe he was one. He’d been without sex a long time, without a woman’s love a lot longer.

  Her hand felt small and delicate in his, but he couldn’t deny its power as she led him through the living room to the stairs and up. He remembered his first time in her bedroom, when he’d stared long
ingly at her bed and entertained the remote fantasy of making love to her there. When they reached the doorway and he once again saw the broad brass bed, heaped with pillows and blanketed with its plush beige quilt, he realized that the bed didn’t do a thing for him. It was only the thought of Susannah sprawled out across the bed that turned him on.

  She clicked the lamp to a low setting, then drew him to her. Her hands roamed over his back while he slid his under the loose tails of her shirt and touched her skin. It felt like silk, smooth and sleek. He wanted to kiss it, to kiss her everywhere, to know if she tasted as heavenly as she felt.

  He brought his hands forward to finish unbuttoning her shirt. She writhed out of it and let it drop to the floor. Her breasts were full and round, straining against her bra. He flicked open the clasp and drew the straps down her arms.

  She was beautiful. Not TV-star beautiful but real and solid and robust. For a brief, shameful moment he thought about the only other woman he’d ever loved, a woman whose final days had left her frail and wasted. Having known illness too intimately, he couldn’t keep from responding to Susannah’s strength, the healthy flush of her skin as he skimmed his hands up to her breasts, the stiffening of her nipples as he brushed his thumbs over them. Her vitality aroused him as much as her beauty.

  She moaned as he caressed her, and moaned again when he lowered his mouth to one breast, moving his lips over the warm, pliant flesh and then flicking his tongue over the hardened tip. She settled back across the bed, bringing him with her. He was surrounded by her, his hands caught in her hair, her left leg wrapped around his right.

  He freed himself so he could remove her jeans and his slacks. As beautiful as he’d found her just minutes ago, she was even more magnificent stripped naked, her body slim yet well muscled, softly curving in some places and taut in others. He explored the taut places and the curves, trailing his hands over her thighs, her bottom, the flat surface of her belly, the exotic boniness of her shoulders.

  She explored him just as eagerly, her hands and lips electrifying him wherever they touched. She stroked his back, his chest, tugged teasingly on the hair of his thighs and followed the ridge of his hipbone. When at last she ran her hand experimentally along his erection, he bit his lip and held his breath. One more caress like that and he would explode.

  He leaned away from her, fighting for self-control, and rolled onto his side. He slid his hand between her thighs and played his fingers over the damp folds. She was as ready for him as he was for her, but she sighed and arched to him and he couldn’t stop touching her. Her skin was tawny in the dim lamplight, her breath shallow, her hair a spill of gold across the pillows. He entered her with his finger, and she cried out, her eyes closed and her hand squeezing his arm.

  He waited until she started breathing again, until her eyes fluttered open and an abashed smile curved her lips. “Oh, Toby,” she said, more a sigh than a sound.

  “Where are the condoms?” he asked, tension mixing with pleasure at the sight of her dazed smile.

  “Oh…” She gestured vaguely toward the night table beside the bed.

  He reached over her, opened the drawer and found the box, still sealed in plastic. He tore it open, readied himself and then sank into her arms, into her heat.

  If ever they were going to go slow, he thought, this would be the time. He wanted to savor each instant, each heartbeat of it. But she brought her hands to his hips and urged him deeper, and his restraint slipped away. She felt too good, too right. Need and want and love fused inside him, turning into something physical, something fierce and demanding and implacable.

  He surged into her again and again, hard and fast. She stayed with him, wrapping her legs around his waist, twining her fingers into his hair. Her hips rose to meet each thrust and he felt her strain beneath him, flexing, reaching.

  She let out another cry, soft and helpless, and her body contracted around him. He let go, releasing himself in a rush so powerful it exhausted and rejuvenated him at the same time.

  An endless moment passed, and his lungs begged for air. He barely had the energy to breathe, but once he managed that, he found the strength to roll off her, keeping his arms around her so when he landed on his back she wound up on top of him. She was surprisingly light, her skin smooth and damp, her hair splaying across his shoulder and chest.

  After another long moment, she stirred against him. She traced a meandering line across his chest with her index finger, and it was enough to turn him on all over again. If he made love to her a second time, maybe he could slow it down, take his time, make it last.

  But he couldn’t make love to her again. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but Lindsey was home alone, waiting for him. “I wish I could stay,” he murmured, hating himself for resenting his daughter.

  Her fingers fell still, then came back to life, journeying across his shoulder and down his arm to capture his hand. He closed it tightly around hers, and lifted their twined hands to his mouth so he could kiss her fingertips.

  “Toby.” She propped herself up high enough to look at him. He couldn’t read her expression—wistful? Replete? Disappointed? Sympathetic? Enormously frustrated?

  He was frustrated, too. But he was a father. “It’s Lindsey,” he explained. “She’s probably wondering where I am right now.”

  “Would it upset her if you were here?”

  “I don’t know.” He absorbed the contours of her hand within his. He didn’t want to let go. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to go home.”

  “Maybe I could come with you,” she suggested.

  He shook his head. It was a Wednesday night. Lindsey was right now stuffing her homework into her backpack, waiting for him to return from Daddy School. Maybe she’d noticed the time and started wondering why he was late. If he walked in with Susannah, who knew how Lindsey would react?

  He wasn’t ready to find out. Not yet. “I’ve got to go alone.”

  She turned away. “Fine.”

  He’d hurt her feelings, choosing his daughter over her. But it wasn’t a choice; it was an obligation. And he loved Lindsey, would love her no matter what, would always love her. With Susannah, love was new, exciting—but unpredictable. He didn’t know what was going to happen next.

  She was right: they should have gone slow. At least until Toby could prepare Lindsey for what was blossoming between him and their next-door neighbor.

  He allowed himself one last, lingering kiss before he pushed himself up to sit. Stupidly, he glanced at Susannah as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and it was all he could do not to turn around, to gather her into his arms and put Lindsey out of his mind for another few minutes.

  He was a father, though. And he had to leave.

  SHE’D BEEN DIDDLING around with her homework in front of the TV when she’d heard her father’s car cruising up the street. She’d turned the volume down way low so she could listen for him. As soon as he pulled into the garage, she would turn off the TV and move her homework into the kitchen, so she’d look as though she’d really been concentrating hard on it.

  But she didn’t hear him pull into the garage. She raced across the hall to his office and peered out the window. He had parked in Susannah’s driveway.

  He must have gone to her house to have it out with her, to tell her to go back to Stephen Yates and her baby in California. Dr. Dad was into parental responsibility in a major way. He had patients whose parents didn’t take good care of them, and it ate at him. He was always telling Lindsey how important it was for parents to give as much love and attention as they could to their children.

  She saw him standing on Susannah’s front porch, ringing the bell. She couldn’t really see him—she saw just his shadow. She needed the binoculars.

  She hurried up the stairs to her bedroom, grabbed the binoculars and climbed onto her bed. Her father must have gone into Susannah’s house, because there was no one on the porch anymore. The light was on in Susannah’s living room, and Lindsey saw Susannah standing
by the window on the side of the house facing her bedroom.

  With the binoculars, Lindsey could see Susannah really clearly. Her face was kind of downcast, and she was dressed in an old, baggy, man-tailored shirt. She looked to be staring out through the window at the hedge separating their properties.

  Dr. Dad must be talking to her, Lindsey thought. He must be telling Susannah he knew about her baby. Maybe he was telling her he understood that famous stars did things differently from normal people, and he wasn’t standing in judgment of her. But he knew they could never be anything but neighbors and friends, because even though he understood about famous stars, he didn’t think it was a good idea to date someone so completely different from him.

  He joined Susannah at the window—two silhouettes with the light behind them. They were facing each other; Lindsey could see their profiles, their noses and chins pointing at each other. Her father put his arms around Susannah, and she buried her face against him.

  Was she crying? Surely she wouldn’t fall apart just because Dr. Dad had told her he wasn’t going to date her anymore. Heck, he hadn’t even taken her to a classy restaurant Saturday night. She’d be better off dating a guy who knew how to treat a star the way she was used to being treated. She ought to be relieved that Lindsey’s father wasn’t going to get all mushy and romantic about her.

  Then she lifted her face. Apparently, she was done bawling her eyes out. They were talking again—Lindsey wished she could hear them, but she couldn’t. She could only see them through the binoculars.

  Dr. Dad bent his head. He kissed Susannah.

  Lindsey gasped. She knew she shouldn’t watch this. She should put the binoculars away, close her curtains and forget she’d ever seen her father kiss Susannah Dawson. But she couldn’t turn her head, couldn’t lower the binoculars. She knelt on her bed, transfixed and horrified as Susannah twined her arms around Lindsey’s father and locked lips with him.

  It was a long kiss. A very long kiss. Longer than the kisses Dr. Lee Davis used to share with Lucien Roche on Mercy Hospital. This kiss was big, massive, epic. It was sickening.