“You can stay with me,” he said.
She handed him the umbrella and, waving aside his attempt to help, began stowing things in the trunk of her sporty sedan, which she’d moved out of her carport because it, too, was damaged. “You’re inviting me to move in with you till my roof gets fixed?”
“Why not?” That was one of Quent’s mottos.
“Because…” Amy pushed back a strand of black hair that had draped itself across her cheek. Quent fought down the urge to reach out and stroke that tantalizing wisp. “We’re friends. If I move in with you, stuff will happen, and then we’ll both get self-conscious about it and we might not be friends anymore.”
“Sure we will.” He had a sneaking suspicion she was right, but it didn’t pay to think too far in advance, because you never knew what the future would bring. “Life’s too short to deny yourself.”
“You really believe that?”
Quent shifted the umbrella, trying to keep them both dry. Rain tickled the back of his neck. “Sure I do.”
“Don’t you ever worry about consequences?”
“Not if I can help it.” At least, that had been his attitude until last year, when his niece and nephew were orphaned. Even since then, however, he preferred not to dwell on things he couldn’t control.
Amy shook her head. “Whatever works for you. Anyway, thanks for the offer, but my aunt lives a couple of miles away. I’m hoping she’ll take me in.”
A mixture of disappointment and relief welled up in Quent. Sure, he wanted to take Amy home and ravish her. He’d been fantasizing about it for weeks.
But underneath her gung-ho exterior, he knew Amy was complicated. Around her, he sometimes caught himself thinking about things he was in no way ready for, like a long-term relationship.
“You’re sure?” he said.
“Positive.” She reached out and ruffled his hair. “See you at work on Monday.”
“You bet.”
He handed her the umbrella and waited until she pulled out of the parking lot before taking refuge in his SUV. Quent debated whether to stay and keep an eye on her unit until the condo association got workmen out here. Considering that it was nearly dusk on a Saturday, however, he might have a very long wait. If Amy wasn’t worried about security, she probably knew best, he decided, and pulled away.
He negotiated the side streets to Pacific Coast Highway and swung north onto Serene Boulevard, which ran uphill toward the inland mesa area where he lived. Partially blocked by fallen palm fronds and other wind-blown debris, traffic inched up a steep incline toward the bluffs that separated the beach area from the mesa.
Quent was passing Serene Park, a green expanse with a great view of the ocean, when one of his contact lenses began to smart. It was a sharp, intense itch, as if a grain of sand had worked its way under there. Concerned about driving with such a distraction, he pulled into the deserted park and stopped.
There was no sense trying to fix things under these circumstances, so Quent popped out both lenses. He replaced them with a pair of glasses from the glove compartment.
Water gusted across the windshield and drummed on the roof. The SUV swayed in a burst of wind. Even the tail of a hurricane could pack a lot of force, he mused, and decided to wait awhile before resuming his journey along the clogged street. Maybe this downpour would let up.
Only now, sitting quietly with rain pounding outside, did Quent become aware of the tautness in his body. It wasn’t the pleasurable sexual tension he’d felt earlier with Amy, but an intermittent uneasiness that had dogged him for the past year.
He realized he was having a delayed reaction to the crash of the tree breaking through the roof. It had brought back with vivid clarity the moment when he’d awakened in darkness to the jarring ring of the phone. He’d still been living in San Diego, where he’d grown up, and had been finishing his neonatology residency.
For a disoriented moment, he’d figured one of his roommates would grab the phone. When neither answered, he’d remembered they were both working the night shift, so he’d answered.
He could still hear his father’s voice, almost toneless with shock. “They’re dead,” he’d said. “I should have seen it coming. Why did Jeffrey let her drive?”
Quent’s first reaction had been confusion. “What do you mean, they’re dead? Who’s dead?”
“Everyone,” Bruce Ladd had growled. “All of them. Except the kids.”
Until that moment, the demands of studying and working combined with his own playful nature had kept Quent from paying much attention to his family’s problems. He’d assumed the people he loved would always be around, always be fine, always be able to manage.
He knew that his mother, Alice, drank too much, and that his father responded by withdrawing emotionally. He’d never understood why his older brother Jeffrey refused to acknowledge the seriousness of Alice’s drinking, but then, Quent had tried to persuade her to seek help and knew how futile that was.
That night changed everything, too late. He hadn’t known, at a gut emotional level, that the people you loved could suddenly be snatched away from you. And he’d never imagined the abyss that would open up inside.
At the hospital, he learned that Jeffrey, Jeffrey’s wife Paula, their infant daughter and young son had gone with Alice to a friend’s barbecue in the countryside. Quent’s father, Bruce, had declined, because he had brought home overflow work from his law practice.
At the barbecue, liquor flowed. Afterwards, even though Jeffrey must have known Alice had been drinking, he’d allowed her to take the wheel of her car. It was, sadly, typical “enabling” behavior.
Driving too fast at night, she’d swerved to avoid hitting the back of a slow-moving semi truck. The car had veered off a small bridge and into a swollen creek.
All three adults were killed. The truck driver and a passerby had managed to unstrap the children and bring them to safety, but they’d been unable to save the others.
In the months that followed, Quent had steered his father into treatment for depression while struggling with his own sense of helplessness and regret. He’d also done his best to help the children get settled.
At the time, Quent had been working rotating shifts that made parenting an infant and a preschooler impossible. Since his father was in no condition to raise them and Paula’s mother suffered from severe arthritis, Paula’s sister Lucy had become their guardian.
Single and a bit flaky, she was a good sport, but he wondered now if she’d realized what she was taking on. Although Quent had visited frequently while he lived in San Diego, he had to be on call most weekends since moving to Orange County and it was hard to find time to make the three-hour round-trip drive.
As another blast of rain hit the glass, he recalled with a guilty twinge that he hadn’t talked to his niece and nephew in several weeks. The last time had been when Lucy called to thank him for some gifts he’d sent Tara and Greg.
He took out his cell phone and dialed.
“Hello? Enlighten me.” It was Lucy, who, even at twenty-six, sometimes talked like a teenager. During the week, she was an assistant department manager at a large insurance company that provided child care. On the weekends, her passion was long-distance running.
“It’s Quent. How’s the weather down there?”
“Miserable, which is why I’m working out indoors.” In the background, he heard the squeak of her treadmill. “Man, I hate this humidity. If I wanted humidity, I’d move to Florida.”
“How’re the kids?”
“Going crazy from being cooped up. Hang on.” A moment later, she put Greg on the phone.
Sounding grown-up for a four-year-old, he filled Quent in on his day-care group’s adventures in making something called stone soup. Apparently it included numerous ingredients, although no actual stones.
“We heard this story about it. The man said he could make soup from a stone,” Greg explained. “He talked this old lady into giving him stuff to make it taste better.
You know, like noodles and onions.”
“Very clever,” Quent said.
Next, Tara babbled away happily, interposing a few recognizable words with her baby talk. Child development fascinated Quent. He’d studied the physical and emotional facts of childhood, but it was much more striking to observe them outside a clinical setting, especially when you cared so much about the youngsters.
He wondered if Amy liked kids. As a counselor who spent her life helping people, surely she did, and she’d shown a marked interest in the newborns yesterday. Maybe someday she’d enjoy meeting Tara and Greg.
“I’ll come see you soon,” Quent promised before saying goodbye to each child in turn.
“They miss you,” Lucy said. She didn’t include herself. The two of them had been practically strangers until the tragedy and, although they got along fine, had little in common apart from the children.
“How’re you doing?” he asked.
“Okay. I’m not much of a mother type but we muddle along. Thank goodness they like macaroni and cheese,” she said.
“I’d like to come visit soon. When would be convenient?”
“I’m not sure. We’ve got a lot of changes at work and I’ve had to put in some extra hours,” Lucy said. “I’ll give you a call, okay?”
“Thanks.”
After he rang off, Quent was glad to see the rain slackening. It was growing dark, turning from daytime into Saturday night. After years of overwork, he loved to party, and rarely got the chance. Now where had he put that flier?
He dug through a handful of papers on the passenger seat. There was a staff memo from Dr. Fingger about the Thanksgiving holiday schedule, filled with exhortations not to be late or ask for changes. The guy really needed to loosen up.
Beneath it lay a reminder about the annual pre-Christmas soiree hosted by the Doctors Circle administrator, Patrick Barr, which this year was going to double as his wedding reception. It made sense to Quent that the guy was getting maximum bang for the buck.
Here it was! He pulled out the flier he’d been handed by Rob Sentinel, a new obstetrician at the clinic. Rob was hosting a bring-your-own bottle party tonight, promising loud music, lousy food and nowhere near enough chairs. Perfect!
It would be more fun if Amy could go, but he suspected she’d be busy settling in at her aunt’s. Well, the two of them weren’t joined at the hip.
After the grind of medical school, Quent had sworn to take it easy when he got the chance. He’d had less time for fun than he expected during his residencies, and now he seized every opportunity to blow off steam.
He put the SUV into gear and headed to a convenience store. He’d better pick up some taco chips and spray cheese in case Rob ran short. It wasn’t fair to let one guy shoulder the whole work of staging a party by himself.
Chapter Three
Amy was almost asleep when the cell phone rang on her bedside table. Thinking it might be one of her clients, she shook off her daze as she grabbed it. “Amy Ravenna,” she said.
“Quentin Ladd,” came the response. He sounded utterly mellow. The background noise of conversation and music gave her a clue why.
Amy checked the clock. Nearly midnight. “You went to that party of Rob Sentinel’s, didn’t you?” She tried to quell a spurt of jealousy that came from knowing plenty of single nurses must be present.
“Bingo,” he said.
“And you’ve had a few beers.”
“Two,” he said. “I never have more than two.” He made a point of never drinking to excess.
“Is something wrong?” she asked sleepily, and hoped the ringing phone hadn’t disturbed her aunt Mary or seventeen-year-old cousin Kitty, who’d both gone to bed an hour ago.
“Yes,” Quent said. “You’re not here.”
Warmth seeped through Amy. “I thought of going, but Aunt Mary and I were figuring out what to fix for Thanksgiving.” It was only a few days away.
“Throw on some clothes and come join me.”
She’d rather he took off his clothes and joined her. Uh-oh. She hadn’t said that aloud, had she? “I’d better not,” Amy said. “I’m tired and it’s raining.”
“It’s stopped. Besides, we have some unfinished business.” His tone wasn’t exactly suggestive, and he certainly wasn’t applying pressure. It was more of an open invitation, leaving the decision to her.
Amy knew how she had to respond. “It’s best left unfinished.”
“We’ll see.” A couple of short breaths revealed that he was yawning.
“You’re tired,” she said. “Go home.”
“I needed somebody to tell me that,” Quent admitted. “I hope I’m not getting too old to party hearty anymore.”
“You’re nearly thirty.”
“Ouch!”
“A little maturity will look good on you,” she said.
“That’s encouraging.” In the background, someone turned up the volume. Nearly shouting, Quent added, “That could damage my hearing!”
“You’re definitely too old for that scene,” Amy said. “Go put on your tasseled nightcap and heat a water bottle for your tootsies. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Count on it,” he said.
After ringing off, Amy couldn’t resist picturing what might have happened if she’d accepted his invitation. They’d have ended up alone at his apartment, stroking each other, kissing, sinking onto the couch with no one to interfere and no inconvenient tree to collapse on top of them….
She pushed the image away and picked up a psychology journal from the bedside table. It was half an hour before her eyes drifted shut again.
SHOES. Who knew they could be such a problem?
Amy’s size must have been wildly popular, because on Sunday her favorite department store was out of stock in all the pumps that appealed to her.
She didn’t blame Quent. She hadn’t mentioned packing her shoes, although heaven knew what the guy had been thinking.
Uh, wait. She did know. He’d been thinking about their hot-and-heavy madness on the couch. What else was a twenty-something guy supposed to think about?
Not to mention a thirty-something woman.
Amy tried not to survey the men as she raced down the mall to a specialty shoe store. She didn’t want to compare their butts—unfavorably—to Quent’s, or to notice how their hair lacked the wild springiness of his.
She was not going to view him as a sex object. He was her buddy and her respected colleague. And way too eager to make love to the woman of the world he assumed her to be.
If only they had met in an alternate reality where mindless fun carried no consequences, they could indulge themselves and go right on being friends and coworkers. If that were true, her images from last night would already have become a sizzling reality.
Giving herself a mental slap, Amy entered the store and picked out several pairs of pumps. At last, she found a pair that fit and finished paying barely in time to meet her two closest friends for their appointment at the bridal shop.
Natalie Winford, a blond divorcée with a wicked sense of humor, was getting married in two weeks to the administrator of Doctors Circle. A pediatrician who’d left his practice to work full-time as director, Patrick was the son of the clinic’s late founder.
Natalie, his longtime secretary, had nursed her secret love for years until the two of them got carried away one night after a party to raise money for the center’s Endowment Fund. Now here she was, due to deliver a baby next May and deliriously happy after discovering that Patrick had been secretly in love with her, too.
Several weeks earlier, the attendants had picked out their turquoise bridesmaids’ gowns along with matching hats. The problem, once again, was the shoes.
“I’m sorry,” the store proprietor said, holding up a pair of emerald pumps. “They came out the wrong color. I called you as soon as I saw them.”
“Dye another batch,” Natalie said promptly.
“The company we use is backlogged, and so is everyone
else,” the woman said. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve called all over Orange and Los Angeles counties and I haven’t had any luck.”
“We could wear white shoes,” suggested their friend Heather Rourke, an obstetrician who was on two months’ leave for personal reasons. “Or would we be stepping on the bride’s toes?”
“If that was an intentional pun, I’m going to stick you with a diaper pin,” Amy said.
Heather laughed. “I don’t think they make diaper pins anymore. Everything’s got Velcro or tape.”
“You should know.”
“Just call me Diaper Lady!”
The beautiful redhead had recently admitted to her two closest friends, after swearing them to secrecy, that she’d given up a baby for adoption while in her teens. Following the deaths of the adoptive parents, her daughter Olive had contacted her, and they’d become close. Then Olive became pregnant.
Heather had taken leave to coach her daughter through childbirth while Olive’s fiancé served overseas in the marines. Now the new mother and baby Ginger were staying with Grandma, which seemed to Amy an absurd title for such a young-looking thirty-six-year-old. No one else at the center knew anything about the situation, and Heather, who prized her privacy, intended to keep it that way.
“I wish my sister hadn’t had to work today so you could all pick out your shoes,” Natalie said. “We’re getting awfully close to the wedding.”
“Candy doesn’t have to wear the same shoes we do,” Heather pointed out. “She’s the maid of honor.”
“I don’t see why any of our shoes have to match,” Amy said. “Who’s going to notice? We’ll look weird enough as it is, wearing turquoise at the reception. I assume the Barr mansion will be decked out in red and green as usual.”
Every year, Patrick hosted the Doctors Circle staff and supporters at a holiday party the first week in December. Since he and Natalie had become engaged at the end of October, they’d had such a short time to prepare that they’d decided to let the annual event do double duty.
“I thought about having a Christmas-themed wedding,” Nat admitted. “But red is too far out and I couldn’t stick you guys with bright green dresses.”
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