by Joan Hohl
Before many minutes had passed, Helen reached the conclusion that the affection these people obviously held for each other was a holdover from childhood. They accepted her without question because she was with Marsh, it was as simple as that.
Marsh slipped into a chair and the conversation with an easy camaraderie. Letting (he conversation .swirl around her, Helen observed him, as she had the evening she’d been at his parents’ home. All traces of his earlier tension and anger were gone. He laughed often, a delightful sound that drew a reciprocal response from the others. It soon became evident to Helen as she watched him that, although he genuinely liked all of the guests, there was a special bond between him and Grant.
Their banter back and forth, as they argued over a recent Philadelphia 76ers game, was much the same as Marsh indulged in with Moe. Listening more to the tone of their voices rather than their words, Helen glanced up in surprise when Grant asked, “Don’t you agree, Helen?”
“I’m sorry,” Helen smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I wasn’t listening.”
“Grant said that it looks like the 76ers may have a winning year.” Marsh’s tone held a faint trace of annoyance. “He asked if you agree with him.”
“I have no idea.” Helen met Marsh’s cool glance with equal coolness before turning to Grant with a warm smile. “I don’t follow basketball at all,” A teasing note covered her serious tone. “Does that make me a traitor to my city?”
“If it does, you have plenty of company,” Mary Ellen answered for her husband.
“I thought you liked basketball.” Grant’s pleasant, ordinary face held an injured look that matched his tone.
“I do.” Mary Ellen laughed. “I also like watching the Eagles play football, the Flyers play hockey, and the Phillies play baseball, but not necessarily as a steady diet.”
Grant turned to Marsh with eyebrows raised exaggeratedly high. “Do you get the feeling our conversation has been boring the ladies?”
“The thought has occurred,” Marsh replied dryly. “Perhaps we should hit the ball into their court and let them choose a topic.”
It was all the encouragement Mary Ellen needed. Eyes bright with amusement, she launched into a hilarious account of a comedy-of-errors skiing trip she and Grant had taken the previous year.
During the course of the evening Helen learned, from Mary Ellen, that her assumption about the closeness between Marsh and Grant was correct. They had been friends from grade school, were in fact closer than most brothers. Marsh had been best man at their wedding and was their son’s godfather. A sudden stifled, closed-in sensation feathered over Helen when Mary Ellen finished, “Both Grant and I unashamedly adore Marsh and would love to see him content and happy with a family of his own.” Her eyes sought the man in question, a gentle smile curved her lips as she studied him. “Marsh will be thirty-one next month,” she said softly. “And though he claims to be having a ball in his bachelor existence, everyone who loves him knows it’s a lie. He’s a steady, roots-deep-in-the-ground sort of man; he’s ready to settle down.” Her eyes swung to Helen’s face, her smile deepened. “The problem has been finding the right woman.”
Unease joined the stifled sensations rippling along Helen’s nerves, and changing the subject quickly, she figuratively backed away from Mary Ellen’s none too subtle revelations.
Midway through the evening Kris announced that a light supper had been set out on the dining room table. After serving herself sparingly from the wide assortment of food, Helen followed Marsh back to the living room and allowed him to draw her down onto a large pouf beside his chair.
“What do you think of Grant?” His bland tone didn’t deceive her for a second. She could actually feel the intentness with which he awaited her answer.
“I like him.” She answered with frank honesty. “And I think the easygoing manner he shows to the world is a facade that disguises a very determined man.” She glanced up at him, smiled slightly. “I think he could give a woman a very bad time, if he was so inclined.”
“Couldn’t we all?” Marsh slanted her a wicked glance and laughed softly. “But I’m inclined to think that Mary Ellen could probably give him a damned good run for his money, if she was so inclined.” His grin was every bit as wicked as his glance. “You want to try me on?”
Ignoring the lightning shaft of excitement that zigzagged through her, Helen returned his stare thoughtfully, then replied coolly, “You’d lose, you know.”
His soft laughter was a gentle assault on her senses. “Not on your stethoscope, sweetheart.”
Even though his tone had been teasing, Helen felt a chill of warning replace the excitement deep inside. She had no time to analyze the feeling however as he went on quietly. “I’ve invited Grant and Mary Ellen to join us for dinner at my apartment Saturday night.” He arched an inquiring eyebrow at her. “All right?”
“Yes, of course,” Helen replied, “But right now I think I’d better go home. I have a full schedule tomorrow.”
After the usual time-consuming flurry of leave-taking and when they were finally in the car, Helen asked curiously, “Were you planning to cook dinner yourself?”
“And poison some of my best friends?” Marsh asked seriously. “No, love, I’ll let Moe do the honors this time. Unless”—he shot her a teasing glance—”you’d like to do it.”
For one insane moment Helen was actually tempted, then common sense reasserted itself. “I’ll pass, thank you.” As he stopped at a stop sign at that moment, she turned to look at him directly, her eyes coo!. “I’m not in the least domestic.” Another card, unplanned, was placed onto the invisible table between them.
Marsh played a trump. “It doesn’t matter, I can always hire domestic help.”
They both knew they were no longer talking about the upcoming dinner, and thinking it judicious to play her cards more carefully in future, Helen remained silent. Could he, she wondered, be aware that she’d dealt herself a hand in this game he was playing? The thought nagged at her for some minutes, but she dismissed it as ridiculous. He was far too sure of himself to ever consider the possibility.
Helen was late arriving for dinner. Marsh had said they’d eat at seven thirty but, as Grant and Mary Ellen were coming at seven for pre-dinner drinks, he’d pick her up at six thirty.
Just before five Helen received an emergency call from the hospital. A self-induced abortion case had been brought in, she was informed. A young girl, still in her teens. As the girl’s mother, frantic with worry, was a patient of Helen’s, she had insisted, hysterically, that Helen be called.
Helen recognized the woman’s name immediately and said she’d be there as soon as possible. She left the apartment without a thought to Marsh’s dinner, her mind on the possible physical damage to the girl, and the mental damage to the mother.
The woman had come to Helen with a minor problem the same week she’d opened her office and returned for twice-yearly checkups ever since. Honest, hardworking and unassuming, she had made a career of taking care of her husband, raising her family. Helen knew what the young girl’s action could do to the woman. So much for the joys and rewards of family life, Helen thought cynically as she drove to the hospital.
It was not until she had parked her car, illegally, in the emergency entrance and was striding toward the wide glass doors, that she remembered Marsh.
Stopping at the nurses’ station, Helen asked where the girl was, if someone could take care of her car, and would the nurse make a phone call for her. In that order. The nurse, a middle-aged veteran, echoed Helen’s brisk tone. The girl was being prepped for O.R.; she could rest easy about her car; and, certainly, the phone call would be made.
Helen asked for a piece of paper, on which she scribbled Marsh’s name and phone number, then she told the nurse tersely, “Just tell him there’s been an emergency and I’ll get there as soon as I can. And thank you,”
The nurse’s quiet “You’re welcome, Doctor” floated on the empty air where Helen had stood
. Moving at a fast clip toward the elevators, Helen glanced at the large wall clock. It was twenty-three minutes since she’d received the call.
It was messy and touch and go, and the hands on the O.R. wall clock moved inexorably from number to number, but Helen saved the young girl’s life.
Exhausted, filled with rage and bitter frustration at the idea that in an age of almost instant legal abortion on demand, a young girl, terrified at the results of her own foolishness, would inflict such damage on herself rather than go to her parents, Helen cleaned up and went to the lounge where those parents waited.
On entering the room, Helen’s eyes went first to the girl’s father. Of medium height, stocky in build, the man held his face in such rigid control, it looked as if it were carved in stone. Shifting her gaze, Helen’s eyes met the anxious, tear-drenched eyes of his wife. Lips quivering, the woman whispered, “Doctor?”
“She’ll live,” Helen stated bluntly, steeling herself against the fresh tears that ran down the woman’s pale cheeks.
“Thank God.” The low, choked-out prayer came from the husband. “May we see her?”
Helen’s eyes swung back to his, now suspiciously bright with moisture. “She’ll be in recovery for a while.” Compassion tugged at her heart, softened her tone. “You both look on the verge of collapse. Why don’t you take your wife down to the lunchroom, have some coffee and something to eat.” She underlined the last three words heavily.
“Was there much damage, Doctor?” The woman had gained control of herself. Her eyes were clear, steady.
“Some,” Helen sighed. “But she is alive and will recover. We’ll discuss the damage, both physical and mental, later. Right now I prescribe a strong shot of caffeine for both of you.” She was rewarded with a weak smile. “The nurse at the floor station will tell you when you can see her. If you can arrange to be in the hospital tomorrow morning when I make my rounds, we’ll talk after I’ve examined your daughter.”
“We’ll be here.” The man beat his wife into speech.
After again advising them to have something to eat, Helen left the room and went to collect her coat and bag, not even bothering to repair her makeup.
Marsh opened the door seconds after Helen touched the bell and, after a quick glance at her face, murmured, “Was it bad?”
“Yes,” she answered simply as she entered the apartment’s tiny foyer.
Standing behind her, holding her coat as she slipped out of it, he asked, “A hard delivery?”
“No.” Helen turned to face him, waited until he’d hung up her coat and turned around again before adding, “A young girl tried to commit suicide the hard way.”
“Abortion?” Incredulity laced his tone.
“Yes.”
His eyes, tinged with concern, searched her face. “Is she all right?”
“She’s alive,” Helen sighed wearily. “Oh, Marsh, it was grim.” Without hesitation, without even thinking, she walked right into him, rested her forehead against his chest.
For a split second he was still, then his arms came around her, tightened protectively. “It’s all right, love,” he murmured against her hair. “You’re home.”
Too tired, for the moment, to think, she barely heard his words, let alone the meaning behind them. His hand moved and tugged at her hair to turn her face up to his. In fascination Helen watched his firm mouth lowering slowly to hers, lost to the presence of the two people sitting in the living room unashamedly watching the tableau with interest.
Marsh’s mouth was tender, gentle with hers. As the kiss lengthened, deepened, Helen felt the tensions and frustrations of the last hours drain out of her. Sighing deeply, she returned his kiss fervently. Her hands were moving up his chest to his neck when he suddenly stepped back, a rueful smile curving his lips.
“We have guests, love,” he said softly. “Come have a drink and relax a little before dinner.”
Marsh turned her toward the living room, his arm, angled from shoulder to waist across her back, holding her close to his side. Helen felt the warmth of embarrassment mount her cheeks on encountering the expressions of concern for her, written clearly on the faces of Grant and Mary Ellen.
“Come sit by me, Helen, while Marsh gets your drink,” Mary Ellen invited warmly. “You look completely shattered.”
With a tired smile Helen sank onto the sofa beside Mary Ellen, accepted the glass of wine Marsh handed her, took a small sip, smiled her appreciation and thanks to him, then turned her attention to what Mary Ellen was saying.
“We couldn’t help but overhear what you said when you came in. What a horrible thing to do.”
“Yes,” Helen agreed. “It was pretty horrible for her parents too. I am of the opinion that raising children can be heartbreaking at times.”
“But rewarding as well,” Mary Ellen assured firmly. “Grant and I have had a few bad moments with our two boys, but I wouldn’t give them up for the world.” She turned her serious gaze onto her husband. “Would you, Grant?”
“No,” Grant answered simply. “I think that by the time they are fully grown the good times will have, by far, outweighed the bad.”
“I think on that profound note, we’ll go have dinner,” Marsh said, quietly reaching for Helen’s hand.
Conversation was easy and relaxed while they ate Moe’s expertly prepared veal scaloppini.
“Do you ski, Helen?” Mary Ellen asked suddenly, pausing in the act of spooning up the rich dessert Moe had concocted.
“Yes,” Helen admitted, adding, “not expertly, but well enough to handle the smaller slopes.”
“And I know Marsh is very good.” Mary Ellen’s eyes lit with an idea. “Grant and I, along with several other couples, are going up to the Poconos next Thursday for a long weekend of skiing. Why don’t you two join us?”
“I don’t think—” That was as far as Helen got with her refusal, for Marsh quietly interrupted her.
“Sounds good to me.” He lifted an eyebrow at her. “What do you say, Helen? Do you think you could get someone to fill in for you? You could stand a break, especially after today.”
“Well, I suppose I could, but—”
‘The hospital won’t fall apart in four days, Helen,” Marsh urged.
“Well—” Helen hesitated, then gave in. “Let me see if I can arrange something.”
Leaving the table, Helen went to the phone in the living room, dialed and spoke quietly a few moments. When she turned back to the others, she was smiling.
“All set.” Helen’s eyes sought, found the blue ones. “Dr. Munziack will be on call for me. He owes me one.” Her smile deepened. “As a matter of fact he owes me several. I can be ready to leave as soon as I’ve made my rounds Thursday morning.”
The remainder of the evening was spent in making plans and generally getting to know each other. Marsh went to the stereo and placed a record on the machine, then waited for the music to begin to adjust the volume. Helen glanced up in surprise on hearing the opening strains of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony. Marsh grinned at her, shrugged.
“What can I tell you?” His grin widened. “I’m a Tchaikovsky nut.”
Helen managed to keep a straight face, but her amusement came through in her tone. “And all this time I thought it was a ploy you used when—ah—entertaining.”
Laughing softly, he strolled across the room to her, placed a hand on her shoulder, and gave her a punishing squeeze, blandly ignoring the confused glances Grant and Mary Ellen exchanged.
It was not until later that night when Helen lay on her bed, tired yet sleepless, that the closed-in feeling returned. Only now it was so much stronger, so cloying, Helen sat up quickly, breathing deeply. Marsh was drawing her slowly, but inexorably, into his life. His words of earlier that night crept into her mind. “It’s all right, love. You’re home.”
She slid down onto the pillows again, her mind worrying at his words. Calmer now, her thinking process coolly detached, Helen reached the conclusion that Marsh had decided to
pull out all stops. He had every intention of winning this particular game. And you, she told herself dismally, are playing right into his hands. Her last coherent thought as she drifted into sleep was that the last thing she should be considering now was a long weekend in the mountains with him.
* * *
Chapter 8
That same thought nagged at her all day Monday and Tuesday, kept her unusually quiet during dinner Tuesday night. When, over coffee, Marsh finally commented on her preoccupation, she pleaded fatigue, lack of sleep. It was a perfectly legitimate excuse, as she’d had a late delivery Monday night and it had been after three when she’d dropped onto her bed to fall asleep immediately.
“You really do need a rest,” Marsh said softly. “I’m glad we decided to go. You can take it easy for four whole days.”
“On the slopes?” The “we” got to her, put a slight sting in her voice.
“There’s no law that says you have to ski, Helen,” Marsh admonished softly. “You can laze around the fireplace all day if you want to.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “You look like you’ve about had it. I’m going to take you home so you can have an early night.” His tone lowered, caressed. “We have the long weekend to be together.”
Maybe if his tone hadn’t been quite so caressing, hadn’t held that hint of what he expected from their weekend away together, Helen would not have bolted. Oh, most definitely she had to get away. But from him, not with him.
It seemed that whenever Helen got a break between patients on Wednesday she had a phone call to make. The first one to Dr. Stanley Munziack who assured her it would be no hardship for him if she extended her four-day weekend into a full week. At her lunchtime break she called the airport and was informed there was a seat available on the late-night flight to Phoenix. In mid-afternoon she called her mother and was told, “Of course your father will meet the plane.” And finally, after her last patient had left, she called her answering service.
After a light supper that she barely touched Helen packed her suitcase, her eyes going to her small bedside clock every few minutes. Although they had agreed not to see each other that night, Marsh had said he would call. When the phone rang, Helen’s hand clutched, crushed, the blouse she was holding and with a muttered “Damn,” she let it drop into a silky heap on the bed before, taking a deep breath, she reached for the receiver.
