by Dianne Drake
“Where Michael Morse is concerned, it is like me. I don’t like him, Dimitri. I didn’t when he was my instructor in Seattle, and I don’t now. But I’m not going to make an issue over it because I don’t want to hurt Maggie. She doesn’t deserve that.” She tugged on her own lab coat and checked the pocket for her stethoscope. Finding it, she pulled it out and looped it around her neck. “I really do like her and I promise I’ll do my best not to let her know that I absolutely despise her son.”
“You’re protesting awfully hard, aren’t you? I seem to recall an old saying about the lady protesting too much.”
“Trust me, he’s worth the protest.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but he certainly has captured the protester’s attention, hasn’t he?”
“He’s like a light switch, Dimitri. Off and on. Problem is, you don’t know when he’s going to make a switch. And I know this puts you in a spot, because Maggie is probably telling you one thing about him while I’m telling you another, but she’s his mother. She has to say nice things.”
“And you don’t. So why the fuss, Alek? Because all this bother about someone who will be gone in a few days seems rather reactionary to me.” He grinned. “Olga hated me at first. Did I ever tell you that? She thought I was blustery and pompous, which I was. And she fought me…Dear God, how that woman fought me.”
“So how did you two end up together?”
“Our parents were from the old country. It was an arranged marriage, and our parents forced us to go through with it.”
That was a surprise, because while Alek couldn’t remember Dimitri and Olga as a particularly happy couple, she’d always seen true devotion between them. Which, for them, could have been their happiness, she supposed. “How long did it take you two to, well…work it out?”
“I’d like to say our wedding night, but the truth is she locked me out of the bedroom.” He chuckled. “And she was smart enough to nail shut the windows. Next morning, though, she did her wifely duty…”
Alek held up her hand to stop him.
“Breakfast,” he said hastily. “Her wifely duty was breakfast, and I complimented her, even though it was an abominable failure—burnt toast, runny eggs. I think that was the first time I’d ever seen her smile. Then I complimented her on supper, and breakfast the next morning. And for the way she tidied the house and fixed her hair. It took a while, but we finally became friends—talked in the evening instead of glaring across the room at each other, went for walks. Eventually it turned into love.”
“And the moral of the story is?” she asked, even though she knew. Dimitri was up to his matchmaking again. In spite of her feelings about Michael Morse, he was pairing the two of them.
“No moral. I thought you should know that love happens in different ways. Since you’ve never put yourself out there to try it—”
“You’re wrong,” she interrupted. “This isn’t one of your different ways of love.”
“Well, let me say that the last time I saw you in such a flap was when you came home from his wilderness classes. You were just like you are now…ready to wrestle a Kodiak bear with your bare hands, and pity the poor Kodiak.”
“He rubs me the wrong way.”
“Maybe the problem is, you’ve never given him a chance to rub you the right way. But I suppose you’ll tell me what this is about when you’re ready, won’t you?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“You’re not a good liar, Alek.” He stepped closer, then pulled her into his arms. “Always so brave and defiant, aren’t you? Through all the heartache you’ve had, you’ve always tilted your head up and faced whatever there was. No tears, no complaints and always daring the world to try and come at you again. Someday, though, you’ve got to stop fighting. Someday you’ve got to allow yourself to let someone in—someone besides me. And also give yourself permission to let yourself out.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE clinic was so quiet and yet so alive. Alek always marveled at the changes from day to night when she stepped through the doors. She loved it this way because it felt intimate and safe. The traumas of the day, whatever they might have been for her patients, were over and now it was time to settle in.
Hospitals big and small had their own distinct rhythms—some charged ahead full steam twenty-four hours a day. Others, especially in the harsher urban settings, sprang to life at night when the trauma departments became the hub of unfortunate activity. And Dimitri’s little hospital woke up in the morning to a steady, laid-back pace—not fast, not frantic, not unyielding—and continued that way throughout the day with minor surgeries, tests and other diagnostic procedures, an array of therapies, routine patients needing shots and other supportive care.
Then in the evening, the hospital settled down to rest. Visitors wandered in for a friendly chat, routine tests were put away, shades were drawn, lights were dimmed. Maybe this was why she loved this time of the day in the tiny hospital best of all, and why she took night duty much more than her share. It fit her own natural rhythm. She chuckled. Of course, there were those weeks of the midnight sun when the light of day was endless, as well as those months of endless night when the tiny specks of daylight were a welcome relief. That was a rhythm unto itself, and one she loved as well. But now, at the time of year when the days and nights were more equal, she enjoyed the change from one to the other but found her greatest comfort in the quieter hours.
Tonight was a normal night and there were only ten patients in the wards, none of them very ill. One was on watch for an ulcer, another for a migraine headache. Two were in for general gastric upsets, and there were three children in the children’s ward who were being looked over for respiratory difficulties. The rest of the patients were merely general aches and complaints, and Dimitri gave them beds more as a placebo than from any medical requirement, because they needed to know that somebody cared.
In the Romonov Clinic nobody was ever turned away, not even for a simple hangnail. It was the old country doctor way—the way Dimitri had always practiced. Take care of more than the complaint—take care of the whole patient. And sometimes that care turned out to be nothing more than a warm bed for the night and an attentive ear when one was needed.
Alek was spoiled by this kind of medicine now, and listening to the many lectures at the conference from which she’d just returned reminded her that medicine wasn’t done this way in too many places these days. It was rushed and overcrowded and often impersonal. But here it was still a kinder, gentler way, and it was the only way she knew how to practice. Or wanted to practice. For all her years in medical school, Dimitri was the best teacher because he taught her true compassion and humanity—medical attributes that could not be gleaned from a textbook.
“Anyone need anything?” Alek asked Mariska, who was scurrying her way down to the children’s ward to tuck them in with sugar cookies and a bedtime story.
“Fine for the night, Alek,” Mariska replied. “I’ve got two patients still up and playing chess in the waiting room and another one watching television. Everybody else is in bed, reading or sleeping, except the kiddies, who are fussing for their story.” She handed Alek a cookie. “And these.”
Alek took a bite of the cookie, and smiled. “Can you blame them? I’d be fussing for one of these, too.”
Mariska, with her stark black hair pulled back tightly into a knot, was a large-boned woman who lumbered her way through the clinic with the authority of a military general. But she was a real softie with her nighttime cookies and stories and usually it wasn’t only the children who partook. “You haven’t changed, Alek. Not since you were a little girl, always coming around to beg my cookies.”
“And you always gave me one or two, didn’t you?”
Mariska chuckled. “You wouldn’t have gone away until I did because you were as stubborn then as you are now.”
“Well, I’m going to take my stubborn self down to the wards and have a look, then go to Dimitri’s office to cat
ch up on that stack of charts he doesn’t like to mess with.” Anything to avoid going back to her cabin, back to Michael, in case he was still there.
“Hiding from that man in your house?”
“What makes you think there’s a man in my house?” Other than the fact that news spread fast in Elkhorn.
“There’s got to be something keeping you from going home when you take to figuring out Dimitri’s charts. I was guessing it was that man you dragged back here from Beaver Dam. The good-looking one who came around looking for you a little while ago.”
“I didn’t drag. He followed,” she protested, trying to sound more indifferent than affected.
“But good-looking is good-looking. And you’re missing out on all that for some lousy paperwork.” She clucked her tongue. “Those charts won’t keep you warm on a long, cold Alaska night, Alek.”
“But I have a nice woolen blanket that will.”
“Stubborn, like I said. And the older you get, the more stubborn you’re becoming. We’re all worried about you, Alek. Sometimes you look so unhappy.”
“I’m not,” she whispered. Not really. But sometimes she did wish for…she wasn’t sure what. “One more cookie?” she asked, forcing a smile.
Two hours later, sitting at Dimitri’s desk with half the waiting folders now in the “work completed” pile and the single light from the desk lamp the only thing keeping her from falling asleep over the remaining charts, Alek finally shut off the light, then almost crawled over to the small sofa in the corner of the office and curled up on it. Sure, she could go home and be more comfortable, but why bother? If he was still there, she’d have to see Michael, have to talk to him, have to deal with him in some fashion, and she simply didn’t want to. So maybe avoiding him was only a temporary solution, because at some point she’d have to face the inevitable. However, right now she was too tired to come up with a better idea.
Alone. He’d come here to find his mother. That’s all he’d ever intended. Find her, take her home, put this whole Alaskan experience behind them. And now here he was, alone in Alek Sokolov’s cabin, washing dishes for a dinner he hadn’t eaten, while his mother was off with Dimitri, doing who knew what. And so far he hadn’t even met Dimitri. That was the kicker. His mother was protecting the man as much as Alek was. “And here I am, standing at the sink scraping dried potato pancake off a stack of plates. So it’s not going according to plan,” he muttered, as he submerged a large cast-iron skillet into the sudsy warm water.
The other thing that hadn’t gone according to plan had been the look on his mother’s face. She looked happy. Positively radiant. He hadn’t seen that spark in her eyes since before his father had gotten sick, hadn’t seen her smile so much since then, either. What had he expected to find? Well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Maybe a dull look, or one of confusion, or the unmistakable look of someone being duped. But now he was in the indecision of a rethink over his pots and pans. Maybe he’d get to know Dimitri before he tried convincing his mother to leave because maybe, just maybe, Alek was right about him. “Which would make me wrong.”
Yes, that was it. Have a chat with the man and try to see through his intentions. That would be fair to his mother, if nothing else. Stay here another day and actually see what it was about Dimitri Romonov that was making her happy.
And face Alek. He did owe her that much, he supposed.
Michael glanced up at the woodblock clock on the wall as it was audibly clicking its way from minute to minute. He was a late-nighter, and it was still early. Too early to settle in, even if he did have a place in which to settle down. “So what do they do for fun in Elkhorn?” he mused, as he tossed the apron he’d been wearing over onto the counter and rolled down his shirtsleeves. There was no one on the street, he noticed as he glanced out the kitchen window. No one there at all. Not even a stray dog, looking for a full garbage can. And naturally it was snowing again. Not hard, but quite steadily, probably adding another few inches to what was already there.
“Any ideas?” he asked one of Alek’s team dogs lurking outside the window. Earlier, he’d tossed the pelmeni out to the pack, and now they were huddling about, waiting for the oladi, which he had finished himself. “Other than going to bed and figuring it out tomorrow?” He smiled over the thought of taking Alek’s bed. She would rile up quite nicely once she found him in it. “Then make me sleep in the kennel with you,” he said through the window to the pack as he turned out the kitchen light and strolled into the front room.
Alek’s bed…her sheets. Yes, he could almost see himself stretched out between them. They would be practical white, of course. Nothing about Alek was impractical. But pink would suit her…he could almost see her black hair against a pink pillowcase. Beautiful contrast.
She would never indulge in pink, though. Pity, because it would suit her. And now that he’d thought about it, he wanted to have a look—only to see if he was right about her white sheets. Feeling like a thief sneaking in to steal a prized possession, Michael quietly entered her bedroom, pulled back the comforter atop her bed and took a look. Sure enough, white. Just like he’d thought. Plain white. And…was that lavender? Did he really smell lavender?
“Well, well, Alek. You do indulge yourself a little, don’t you?” Plain, practical Aleksandra Sokolov washed her sheets in lavender water. “Not quite as tough as nails as you let on, are you?” He smiled as he returned to the living room, thinking about what it would be like to stretch out between those sheets that mingled with the crisp scent of lavender and Alek.
Simply to annoy her, he probably should. Except that he wanted to…a little too much. Which was a problem, because he shouldn’t want to. And the little tug that made him want to crawl right in, and even fantasize about doing it, was a concern.
“Time to get the hell out,” he muttered. “Need some good, cold air.” It had the same effect as a good, cold shower when he stepped outside. A nice, brisk walk up the street, then back down did the trick, but ten minutes later he found himself standing on the front walk of the Romonov Clinic, debating over whether he should go in or continue to impress the first footprints on the new snow from one end of town to the other. Alek wouldn’t want him there, which made the idea of intruding on her seem appealing. She did taunt so well, didn’t she? It was almost arousing, the way she always came right back at him. Another time in his life this could have been so different. Sadly, at this time it was only what it was.
A shadow in the window at the corner of the wood-frame building caught his attention. Someone was in there, someone who was moving slowly about the office. The form was vague, the gender impossible to discern, but he stayed fixed on the movements until the light inside was turned off. He knew it was Alek. He couldn’t see her. But he knew. Or felt it. Sensed it, maybe. Even though he didn’t understand why, since every strand of common sense inside him was warning him away, he went inside the clinic, straight down the hall to that corner office.
The dimmed hallway was deserted, not a person in sight. But all along the empty corridor he could hear far-off sounds…children giggling, deeper voices chatting quietly, perhaps the television droning away. By the time he reached the short stretch leading to the office where he knew he would find her, the noises had dissipated into a soft buzz, and the only real discernible sound was that of his own footsteps clicking on the tile floor. It was an eerie, hollow sound, his steady repetitive pounding, and by the time he approached the office, he’d actually measured the rhythm of his steps, trying hard to mark off those last meters to her door in a precise, rhythmic cadence instead of concentrating on what he had to do…to say.
But it was time. It wasn’t easy, but he owed it to her, and she deserved it.
Raising his hand to knock, Michael gave it another thought and instead merely walked in, then took a moment, standing in the doorway, to allow his eyes to adjust to the total darkness.
She was in here. He couldn’t see her yet. But that strange sense of presence was returning, the one
that made him acutely aware of Alek, the one that raised the hair on the back of his neck just the slightest. So, what the hell is this? he asked himself as he leaned against the door frame and folded his arms across his chest. Why was merely being in the same room with her so disquieting?
Alek watched him stand in the doorway, backlit by the dim light of the hall coming in over his shoulder. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t coming in or going out. He wasn’t encroaching in any way, other than standing there. Which, in a sense, did encroach because as long as he was there, she was forced to be alert, to watch him as he did her, wondering what would come next. Who would make the first move? Would he speak? Should she? Would he take another step through the door, or should she stand to greet him?
This was a ridiculous mix of emotions—uncertainty, anger, and something she refused to label in any way because, in spite of everything, she was still attracted to him, like she had been the first time she’d seen him. That long, lonely drive from Beaver Dam with Michael on her mind every kilometer of the way hadn’t helped, because by the time she’d pulled into her driveway she’d reached the conclusion that it was, unfortunately, some leftover, unresolved attraction brought on by the fact that she hadn’t even thought about another man the way she’d thought about him all those years ago. It was a shock, realizing that she could feel that strongly for him in so many different ways, but she wasn’t going to be silly about this thing and merely brush it off to being overwrought, too tired, or just plain loopy. She was attracted. Of course, it was only a chemical reaction, and she’d been quick to tack that on to her wobbly reasoning. His hormones versus hers. She was a doctor, and she certainly understood pure sexual physiology at its best. Or its peskiest.
Problem was, it was taking hold in a much larger way than it should have. Her heart rate was faster than usual, and her breathing a little unsteady. Although that could be anger—another addendum to her recent reasoning on the subject of Michael Morse. And she was angry after all. In spite of all the other confused feelings twirling around inside, she was very angry at him.
