“He must be drawn to you whether he knows it or not, or he wouldn’t spend so much time hanging around.” Her aunt set aside some scraps for the neighborhood cats. “If he’s as sharp as you indicate, he’ll wake up and smell the coffee one of these days.”
“One of these centuries, maybe.” From the kitchen, Amy heard the timer ding. “Sounds like the apple pie’s done.”
“Where’s Kitty? She’s supposed to be helping.”
“Still in the bathroom.” Amy chuckled. “Oh, let teenagers be teenagers, Aunt Mary.”
The older woman considered briefly. “She can be on cleanup detail.”
Soon afterwards, Kitty came downstairs and the guests began ringing the doorbell. The group of them had a merry time. Conversation flowed and everyone ate seconds, although they made only a dent in the bounty.
Afterwards, seeing the piles of food that remained, Amy decided to take a plate to Quent at the Birthing Center. She found him sitting in the doctors’ lounge eating a candy bar and reading a medical journal.
“I hope that’s not all you had to eat today,” she said.
Quent sniffed the air appreciatively. “If I say yes, will you bring me seconds?”
“Don’t get greedy.” Grateful for her aunt’s multilevel pie carrier, Amy produced two paper plates full of food plus two slabs of pie, one apple and one pumpkin.
“You cooked all this with those shapely hands of yours?” Quent took the flatware with an air of reverence. “It’s beyond perfect.”
“Aunt Mary did most of it.” Amy sat on an adjacent couch. There was no one else in the lounge, only the shiny hardness of snack machines for company. “Have you been busy today?”
“One breech birth and one preemie.” Although as a pediatrician Quent could examine any newborn, his special skills made him most in demand for difficult births. “They’re both doing well.”
While he ate, Amy described the friends and relatives who’d attended the dinner and the welcome phone call that had come from her uncle. Not until Quent was halfway through dessert did she ask, “What time are you off?”
“In half an hour unless they need me.” He reached for his second slice of pie. “Did you have something in mind?”
Through the lingering traces of antiseptic, Amy could smell Quent’s heated masculinity. All it took was one whiff and her body responded with an unfamiliar urgency. She definitely had something in mind, but she didn’t care to mention it.
“Maybe a video game or something,” she said. “Unless you’re too tired.”
“I always have enough energy for a few rounds of video games.” Quent tapped his fingers on his knee, as if a new thought had just occurred to him. “Or how about a moonlit drive instead? We could watch the stars shine over the ocean and listen to the waves splash against the shore.”
Amy waited for the punch line. It didn’t come. “Now I know you’re way past exhausted,” she said.
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re getting spacey.”
“Maybe I’m getting romantic.”
He couldn’t be serious. “If pie does this to you, I’ll keep that in mind for Valentine’s Day.” She began clearing the dirty paper plates and collecting the flatware. “Maybe it’ll inspire you to spring for a box of chocolates.”
“It isn’t the pie…” Quent’s beeper went off. To Amy, it was almost a relief when, after checking it, he announced wryly that he’d been summoned.
Whatever joke he’d been playing, its similarity to her dreams was much too painful. “Have a good time,” she told him, and made her getaway.
ALTHOUGH FRIDAY was a holiday for most people, Amy had scheduled patients because of her heavy case-load. In her office, the smell of paint remained strong, forcing her to keep the window open. The workmen had painted it on Wednesday and she’d hoped it would be back to normal by now, but no such luck.
Disruption must be in the stars, Amy thought, since she’d been affected both at home and at work. She wondered if the heavens had any more surprises in store for her, and hoped they’d be good ones.
Still, she liked the freshness of her walls, which had been painted pale green with two-toned trim. She hoped she could find suitable pictures.
Her last patient of the day was Loretta Arista, the public relations director for Doctors Circle. It was her third session, and this time she didn’t bring her husband.
“It’s my problem, not Mario’s. I’m the one obsessing about not being able to have a baby,” explained Loretta, who looked brisk and businesslike in a tailored suit. The woman, who wore a dramatic white streak in her dark hair, spoke in a forceful manner.
Now thirty-four, Loretta had been trying to get pregnant since her late twenties. She’d been under even more internal pressure since learning that her sister, Rita, six years her junior, was expecting triplets in May.
Although Loretta and her husband had gone through the home-study process, legally required before adoption, they’d hesitated about seeking a baby because they’d heard how difficult it was. Or, at least, that was the reason the P.R. director had given in the past.
Now she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “I come from a tight-knit Hispanic family. All my cousins have kids, and now my sister’s expecting triplets. I’m afraid adopted children wouldn’t fit in.”
“How would you feel about bringing adopted children to a family gathering?” To Amy, Loretta’s emotions, not the reactions of her relatives, were the real issue.
“I’d feel like a failure,” her client admitted.
“Aha,” said Amy.
“Yes. Aha.” Loretta shook her head. “I can’t get past the sense that this is my fault. I ought to be able to overcome infertility if I struggle hard enough.”
“You’re accustomed to taking control of your life.”
“You bet I am,” Loretta said. “Only this time I can’t.”
“And that’s hard to face.”
“Very hard.” The other woman fell silent for a moment before continuing, “Well, Dr. Carmichael will be here in a few months and I want to give him a try. If he can’t make it happen, maybe it’s not meant to be.”
It was the first time Loretta had mentioned the possibility of remaining childless. She grew more cheerful as she and Amy discussed it, perhaps because at least she had a choice about her future.
When the session ended, the two of them strolled down the hall together. The drop cloths and ladders were gone, the workmen having moved to another part of the building, but the place still reeked.
They stopped at the department secretary’s desk. Nan Ryerson, a widow in her sixties, had been on the job only two weeks, hired after her predecessor left to join the Peace Corps. Her good nature and mature competence were proving to be assets.
“Hi, there,” Nan greeted Loretta. “I’ll be right with you.”
She turned back to a young woman with collar-length dark hair. Amy recognized her as a nurse, Cynthia Hernandez, who worked on the second floor. Usually, Cynthia assisted Heather, but during her leave was helping another doctor.
The young woman clenched her jaw so tightly that Amy could almost hear her teeth grinding. Nan handed her an appointment card. “We’ll see you next week.”
“Fine.” The nurse hurried away without meeting anyone’s eyes.
Whatever was wrong, Amy wished Cynthia didn’t have to wait so long for counseling. However, it was five o’clock on a Friday afternoon, too late to see her this week.
One of the most difficult lessons Amy had had to learn was not to take clients’ problems personally. Much as she cared about them, she couldn’t take responsibility for every setback in their lives.
“I don’t think I need another appointment right now,” Loretta said. “Let’s wait until after Dr. Carmichael arrives and see what happens.”
“I’m here if you need me,” Amy said. “Have a great weekend.”
“You, too.”
As soon as Loretta left, Nan, who never s
eemed in a hurry to go home, addressed Amy. “I keep hearing about this Dr. Carmichael. You know, I originally applied to be his secretary, but from what I hear, I’m glad I didn’t get that job. Plus I like working for you.”
“Thanks.” Amy chewed over what her secretary had said. “Exactly what have you heard about Dr. Carmichael?”
“That he has a reputation for being high-handed and short-tempered,” Nan said. “And that he’s great at getting women pregnant.”
Amy laughed. “You make him sound like a stud!”
“That’s not what I meant. But you can never have too many good-looking guys around.” Despite Nan’s gray bun and oversize figure, her keen eyes made it clear she defied any stereotypes about old ladies.
“Bringing him to Doctors Circle is a real feather in our cap,” Amy told her. “He’s very highly regarded. I only met him briefly when he held a press conference here a few months ago, so I can’t give you any first-hand impressions.”
“If you don’t mind my mentioning it, I heard that Dr. Rourke asked for leave right after she learned he was heading the new department. People are wondering if there’s some connection,” Nan said. “Not that I want to spread rumors. In fact, I’d rather squash them.”
“You can definitely squash this one.” Amy suspected her secretary meant quash rather than squash, but she liked the imagery the word presented. “Believe me, Heather’s reasons for taking leave had nothing to do with Dr. Carmichael.”
She declined to mention that, at the reception following the press conference, Heather had pointedly avoided Jason. Apparently the two had met previously and taken a dislike to each other.
They were both professionals, and she was sure they’d get along as colleagues. Since Heather hadn’t mentioned Dr. Carmichael since she’d gone on leave, Amy assumed that whatever had happened wasn’t significant.
“I’m glad,” Nan said. “I’ll spread the word.”
“Thanks.” That should make things easier for Heather when she returned from leave next week. By the time Jason arrived on staff, the supposed rift between them might be forgotten altogether.
All the same, Amy made a mental note to watch what she said around her new secretary. Although Nan had a good heart, she clearly enjoyed being part of the office grapevine.
Amy locked up her office and went out. Quent had mentioned earlier that he was working tonight. A couple of women with high-risk pregnancies had gone into labor.
Well, there was always someone to hang out with at Aunt Mary’s. She had a wide circle of friends, and tonight’s schedule included a potluck supper followed by a video double feature. Amy was almost sorry the roofers were due to fix her condo next week.
On her way out, she glanced into the nearly empty waiting room of the Well-Baby Clinic. Her heart leaped when she saw Quent’s lean body angled against the front counter. For a moment she contemplated going inside to talk to him.
But he wasn’t alone. The pretty young receptionist, Hallie, glowed at him, hanging on every word, and Quent appeared to be lapping it up. Usually he made a joke out of flirting, but now he gazed at the woman intently.
A knot formed in Amy’s chest and she tore herself away. Obviously, there was no shortage of eager candidates for his attention.
Oh, heavens, was she jealous? Amy hated that kind of possessiveness. Nobody was going to put a collar and leash on her, and she had no intention of putting one on Quent, either.
A few steps later, she was startled to find him at her side. “What’s your hurry?” he asked. “Your legs are moving so fast, you look like Road Runner.”
“I always thought of myself as more the Woody Woodpecker type,” she said.
Quent chuckled. “Sorry, I misspoke. I meant to say that suit really brings out the shade of your eyes.”
She glanced down to remind herself of what she was wearing. “It’s blue.”
“I can see that,” Quent said.
“My eyes are brown.”
“They are?” He blinked a couple of times. “It must be these contacts. They’re fogging over.”
“Very funny,” Amy said.
From behind her, Hallie called, “Dr. Ladd? You’re needed in the delivery room.”
“Thanks.” To Amy, Quent said, “Gotta go.”
“I understand.”
“By the way,” he said, “I knew your eyes were brown.”
“Then why…?”
“It was your suit that confused me.” He edged away. “The color. It’s such a brownish shade of blue.”
“Actually, it’s navy.”
“Okay, so colors aren’t my strong point. See you tomorrow.” He waved and beat a hasty retreat.
Now what, Amy wondered, had that been about?
CARY GRANT wouldn’t have made a mistake like that, but Cary Grant had had scriptwriters. Even so, it was impossible to imagine him botching a simple compliment.
Quent’s attempt to be suave had worked great on the receptionist, but he’d bombed the minute he tried it on Amy. He’d have to try again.
Tomorrow morning, after they addressed the Moms in Training, it would be natural for them to go to lunch together. Quent intended to take Amy to a special restaurant.
They could dine at leisure, and he promised himself not to crack stupid jokes. If he acted differently, Amy would see him in a new light. Although he wasn’t sure where this was leading, Quent knew he wanted to be more than her buddy.
His strides slowed as he entered the three-story Birthing Center. The main action, as far as Quent was concerned, took place on the first floor, home to the labor and delivery area. The same floor housed antepartum testing, admitting, the gift shop, the cafeteria, the inpatient pharmacy and radiology.
After delivery, patients were transferred to rooms upstairs and babies went to the regular or the intermediate-care nursery on the same floor. Those requiring neonatal intensive care were airlifted to larger hospitals in Long Beach or the city of Orange.
Quent rarely went to the basement level unless there was a meeting in the auditorium. The rest of that floor was devoted to non-obstetrical surgical facilities.
The nurses in labor and delivery were waiting for him. “You need to scrub up right away,” the charge nurse told him. “The patient is prepped for her C-section.”
“I’m on my way,” he said, and put everything out of his mind except the well-being of a tiny patient who was about to enter the world.
THE MOMS IN TRAINING met at the Serene Beach Community Center in Outlook Park. The one-story building presented a comfortable spot for the teenage girls, many of whom had taken summer classes or played basketball there.
At the moment, there were nine girls in the group, ranging in age from fourteen to nineteen. With the encouragement of the volunteer staff and the community center’s director, all were continuing their educations.
In a many-windowed classroom, Amy introduced Quent, then moved aside. He gave the girls a smile, and their attention sharpened as they drank him in.
“Hi,” he said. “We’re going to talk about those little people inside you and how they’re growing and changing every day. We’ll also discuss what happens to them during the first year after they poke their noses into the world.”
A couple of girls giggled. Amy could see that he’d won their interest.
They were a diverse bunch from varied backgrounds. Some slouched in their chairs, others sat straight. Although jeans and maternity tops predominated, one young lady wore an old-fashioned flowered dress, while another let her oversized belly peep out beneath a short top.
After distributing pamphlets on prenatal development, Quent erected a chart showing the unborn baby at landmark stages. Step by step, he took them through the miraculous processes of conception and growth.
“Your child’s first environment is the one you create inside yourself,” Quent told the rapt group. “If you wouldn’t feed your baby beer, don’t drink it yourself. Just imagine a mother who gave her small child nothing but ho
t dogs and French fries to eat! That’s why you need to drink milk and eat lots of fruits and vegetables, because that’s what you’re feeding junior.”
He went on to discuss the effects of childbirth on the baby and outline the changes that take place during infancy. “We do have yardsticks that warn us if development is lagging, but don’t compare your child to anyone else’s. Some perfectly normal kids walk and talk late. Maybe they’re stubborn, or perhaps they’re deep thinkers.”
When he finished, hands shot up. Patiently, Quent took each question, always showing respect for his audience.
This knowledgeable, steady man was quite a change from the playful friend who boasted when he scored a point at Ping-Pong. There was a tenderness about him that made Amy want to get closer to him. He would make a wonderful father someday, when he was ready for a family. And when he found the right woman.
If only he wanted to settle down now. If only he saw her as a woman to love. If only he weren’t guaranteed to break her heart without half trying.
One of the girls kept waving her hand. When Quent called on her, she said, “What’s a neonatologist, anyway?”
“Good question.” He sat on the edge of a sturdy table. “A neonatologist is a pediatrician who gets an extra three years’ training in treating babies during their earliest months.”
“So, like, how long did you have to go to school?” asked another girl. “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-nine,” he said, “which, if you’ll forgive me for bragging, is young to complete your training in this field. I graduated from high school when I was sixteen.”
“Wow,” said another young mother-to-be. “I wish I could do that. How old were you when you finished college?”
“Barely nineteen,” Quent said. “Then I went to medical school for four years, followed by an internship, a three-year residency in pediatrics and a residency in neonatology. In case anyone’s counting, I’ll be thirty in January.”
Amy was impressed. She’d earned her master’s degree in psychology at twenty-three and her Ph.D. four years later, while working part-time. Quent was way ahead of her.
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