She laughed. “I’m the world’s worst dancer.”
“Second worst. I guarantee.”
“Ed Jordan’s probably looking for me. I was suppose to listen to his speech.”
“Is that going to be a problem for you?”
“It might be. Tomorrow.” She took his hand. “Come on, let’s live dangerously.”
IF YOU HAD ANY SENSE, Catherine thought as she whirled around the room in Martin’s arms, when this dance is over you will thank him very nicely and make a quick exit. That would be the safe thing to do. The sort of thing that Julie and Peter’s mommy would do. The sort of thing that the Catherine Prentice she thought she knew would have done. But his arms were around her, and her chin rested on the rough tweed of his jacket and her lips were tantalizingly close to the skin of his neck, and the Catherine Prentice she thought she knew, the cookie-baking, homework-checking, PTA president Catherine, had gone AWOL. In her place was this strange, barely recognizable woman. A woman whose body turned into mush every time she looked into Martin Connaughton’s eyes.
“What do you think?” He pulled away slightly to look at her. “Pretty bad, aren’t I?”
“The worst.” She smiled up at him. “My feet will never be the same again.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.” Never, she thought as couples glided around them, shadowy and indistinct in the spangled light. She was bewitched. The evening had become this magical shimmering thing that much later she would unwrap and slowly examine like a precious gift. He pulled her closer, his long body hard against hers, hummed softly in her ear. Outside, as he’d asked about the children, the real Catherine had briefly returned to issue warnings, but he’d taken her hand and the words had melted like snowflakes in the sun. The music played on and, caught up in the dreamlike spell, they danced and danced. When the band played its last number and the lights were raised, she felt as though she’d awakened from a trance.
Minutes later, they were back out in the dark night, the air cool on her overheated skin. Reality slowly returned. As they stopped beside her pale blue Plymouth van, she felt like Cinderella. Her magic coach had turned back into a pumpkin.
“Very glamorous.” She grinned at Martin. “Probably couldn’t guess I had kids, huh?”
“What have you got in there?” He peered inside the window. “Toys and bikes?”
“Pretty much.” She unlocked the door and slid it open. On the carpeted floor were red and blue plastic crates of toys. One marked Julie, the other Peter. Two smaller cartons contained books. Pegs on the wall of the van were hung with jackets. She watched his face as he looked around, his expression rapt.
He turned to her. “It’s all so…organized.”
Catherine laughed at his interest. “Well, it’s easier that way. Keeps them occupied when we’re driving.” She reached under the seat and pulled out two smaller cartons. “See. Cookies. Pretzels. Sodas. Helps cut down on impromptu fast-food visits,” she said with a grin.
“You go on a lot of outings, do you?”
“We go to the beach. Camping. Sometimes we go up to the mountains. My mother has a cabin in Big Bear.”
“And do you have campfires? Cook marshmallows? That sort of thing?”
“Uh-huh. Sing songs, the whole shtick.” She laughed, suddenly self-conscious.
“What?”
“I’m just surprised that you find it interesting. I love doing this kind of thing, but…” She bit her lip, already sorry she’d embarked on the story. “Their father always made me feel that it was the only thing I was capable of doing. He used to call it my Becky-Home-ecky stuff. I guess it never seemed particularly interesting or valuable.”
“You’re wrong about that,” he said.
A moment passed and they stood together looking at each other and she realized she was holding her breath. The Martin Connaughton she’d first seen that morning was not the man with whom she’d spent the last few hours and she wondered who exactly the real one was. If it was the man standing before her now, with this look of tenderness on his face, she could be in big trouble. Very big trouble.
But a moment later, as if a curtain had been drawn, the look was gone.
“Ten o’clock tomorrow?” Unsmiling, he inclined his head slightly. “I’ll see you then.”
As she pulled out of the parking lot, Catherine felt as dazed as if she’d been hit on the head with a baseball bat.
BY THE TIME Martin drove into the Long Beach Marina, the bewitched feeling he’d had with Catherine was mostly gone, dissipated by the two messages he’d had from the unit. One was a new admission, the other an update on Holly Hodges, whom he’d twice caught himself calling Kenesha. Nothing about her condition reassured him. He had called for a neurological consult because he suspected that, in addition to all her other problems, she was bleeding into her brain.
Still a glow lingered, a small pinpoint of light in the dark. He stopped at the row of marina post office boxes to collect his mail and strode down the wooden gangway whistling.
Fog had fallen like a gray shroud over the water, cocooning the dense thicket of sailboat masts. Among them was his own dwelling, an old forty-foot Coronado sailboat. It had once provided diversion for weekend sailors on jaunts to Catalina and Mexico and needed some cosmetic work, but it suited his needs just fine.
It occurred to him as he jumped aboard that the way he’d felt as he’d talked to Catherine, he would have agreed to speak to the press, WISH or no WISH. The thought both exhilarated and unnerved him and was still on his mind as he bent down to put the key in the padlock. Then a movement behind him made him look up and do a double take.
Valerie Webb stood in the shadows watching him, a small smile on her face.
“Greetings.” Valerie moved into the marina light’s cool glow. A silvery veil of moisture covered her red hair and pale trench coat. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be too late. It’s a touch chilly out here.”
“Val.” Martin pulled himself up, the padlock still in his hand. “What the hell are you doing here?” His mind scrambled for an explanation, then he remembered that she’d done the press briefing. It seemed an unlikely reason for her visit, but he thanked her, apologized for not having done so earlier.
“Da nada.” She waved away his apology. “It’s no hardship smiling for TV cameras. Good way to score a few political points. Jordan was tickled pink. But that isn’t why I stopped by.” A gust of wind blew her hair and she drew her trench coat tight, hugged herself. “God, it really is cold up here. Can we go inside?”
Still baffled, he looked at her for a minute, then turned and climbed down into the small galley. Valerie followed close behind. He flipped on the lights and dropped his mail on a Formica-topped ledge. “Okay, shoot.” He shrugged off his jacket. “What’s this all about?”
“I was talking to Nate Grossman before I left tonight. “About the surgery he’s planning for Holly Hodges.”
An image of Holly as he’d last seen her ran through his mind. Bruises from her birth that morning covered her head; her skin had the purple, glistening look of a peeled plum. Holly was what staff privately referred to as a “train wreck of a child,” at risk for every disease and complication in the book. The idea of surgery was ludicrous if not immoral. He said as much to Valerie.
“Tell that to Grossman,” she said. “He’s holding a press conference tomorrow to announce it. I stopped off at the holiday bash tonight, I was going to tell you then.” A smile flickered over her face. “I looked all over the place for you, then I saw you outside talking to the PR gal. You seemed quite engrossed. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you. She must have known.”
Martin shrugged. His interest in discussing work-related topics had diminished in direct proportion to his increasing interest in Catherine.
Valerie stood in the middle of the cabin watching him, one hand cupped around her chin, her expression thoughtful, as though he were an interesting piece of abstract art she hadn’t quite figured out. Their eye
s met for a moment, then something drew his eye to the small silver spider on a chain around her neck. Suddenly he knew why she was there. He let the silence lengthen.
“I want to know what I’ve done,” she finally said.
“Done?” He shook his head, feigning confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You know damn well what I mean, Martin. You’ve been avoiding me for the past week. Whenever I see you on the unit, you act as though nothing happened between us.” She picked up a piece of junk mail he’d set on the desk, glanced at it, then looked up at him again. “I’m sorry, but I’m really bothered. I had a great time. I kind of thought you enjoyed yourself, too. Sooo…”
“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act, Valerie,” he said, impatient now. An hour or so ago, he could have stayed up all night, now all he wanted to do was sleep. “I’m sorry, I thought we were on the same wavelength. If I was wrong—”
“No, no. No.” Her expression softened. She touched the tips of her fingers to his mouth, held them there a moment. “It was mutual. You didn’t exactly have to drag me kicking and screaming into the bedroom.”
Weary—and wary—he brushed a hand across his face. “So what’s the problem then?”
“I guess I don’t feel as casual about what happened as I thought I would.” She frowned, looked down at her feet for a moment. “I know about all the noninvolvement stuff and I really meant it then, but now…I can’t stop thinking about you. We just seem right together.” Her face animated, she caught his arm. “Seriously. Think about it. Obviously we know there’s good chemistry, right? We’re both professionals, both in medicine. We’re both lonely—”
“Maybe you’re lonely.” He went to the sink, ran water into a glass. “I’m perfectly satisfied with my life.” He swallowed the water in one gulp, put the glass down and turned around to her, arms folded across his chest. “Except for the fact that I’m exhausted and want nothing more than to fall asleep, I’m fine. So, at the risk of being rude, I’m going to say good-night and—”
“Listen to me. Please.” Her eyes filled. “You have no life outside of Western. Neither do I.” Her voice softened. “Didn’t it feel wonderful to wake up in the morning together?” She moved over to where he stood, put her arms around his neck and lightly kissed his mouth. “I care about you, Martin. I think we could be good together.”
“It won’t work, Val.” As he disengaged her arms, he felt the throb of a pulse in his temple. “My only interest right now is in getting WISH funded. That’s why I’ve agreed to talk to a horde of reporters tomorrow even though the thought appalls me. A relationship, with you or anyone else, is absolutely the last thing on my mind.”
For a moment, Valerie didn’t speak. Then she laughed, once, a wry laugh that twisted her mouth. She slowly shook her head. “Your problem is that you don’t really know what you want. Maybe if you let someone actually get close to you, it might make you happier than all your goddamn causes. Think about it sometime.”
HE WAS TIRED ENOUGH after Valerie left that he thought he would sink easily into dreamless sleep, but hours later he lay on the bed, kept awake by her accusation, by the events of the day. By what to do about Ethiopia. About Holly. About Catherine.
He punched the pillow into a more comfortable shape, turned to lie on his other side, but the worries continued their endless assault. In the past year, Western had become increasingly political and marketing oriented, qualities that turned him off completely. And while there were gratifying moments in the NICU, the increasing reliance on sophisticated technology often made him feel more as though he were tinkering with an automobile than a baby. Around and around his thoughts went, but always returned to the inescapable conclusion that without WISH, his life had little meaning.
Outside, he heard the mournful call of the foghorn, the groan of the boat against the moorings. An eerie sound that always made him think of tortured spirits fighting to break free. He put the pillow over his head to block out the sound, closed his eyes, but sleep still eluded him. Amidst the jumble of thoughts that flowed through his brain came a realization. Although he wouldn’t admit it to Valerie, she was right, he was lonely. Talking to Catherine Prentice had made him realize something. What was missing from his life, what he craved with an almost painful intensity was the kind of closeness that he had once known with his wife.
He wanted someone to understand him again. He wanted to matter to someone. He wanted to be needed.
One of the songs Sharon used to sing likened life to an ocean and love to a boat. “In troubled waters,” one of the lines went, “It keeps us afloat.” The song had become a metaphor for their marriage. They would talk of the rough seas they might weather, the crew they would one day create. The memory saddened him, heightened his feeling of loneliness. Sharon’s death had wrecked their boat and he had drifted aimlessly and alone ever since. His relationships with women were like the one he’d had with Valerie Webb, brief and superficial, little more than fulfillment of a physical need. Except for Valerie, none of the women had professed any deep feelings for him and he had certainly never felt any for them. But he was tired of being alone. Tonight, he’d glimpsed the possibility of something more.
Catherine’s face swam slowly into focus, her wide mouth and pink cheeks, and he recalled the almost-eerie sense of familiarity about it. Away from her, the idea seemed fanciful and sentimental, but also very comforting. He finally fell asleep, the image still in his brain…
Martin is back home. Rain is falling, a heavy gray Belfast rain. It’s as if the sky is weeping. Someone calls his name in an Irish accent. The voice—Sharon’s voice, he realizes—seems to be coming from behind a brick wall. He runs back and forth along the length of the wall. Sharon needs him, but he can’t reach her. Breathless and frantic he keeps trying to get past the wall. Sharon’s cries become more desperate and then from far off he hears a police siren, a shrill sound that gets louder and louder until it finally wakes him.
Heart pounding, he sat up. After a moment, he realized the phone beside the bed was ringing. A resident calling to say that Holly Hodges had coded.
CHAPTER SIX
THE ALARM ON Catherine’s bedside table buzzed at five, and Martin’s name popped into her head before her eyes even opened. For a moment, she lay in the warm bed and let her thoughts drift lazily. His arms around her as they’d danced, the way he’d looked at her as though he’d been about to kiss her.
And then, just like that, a curtain had come down and he’d seemed as remote and cool as he had when they’d first met in the lobby. Of course. He’s a man. That’s the way they all are. You never know where you are with them. Don’t ever expect anything else.
“What time did you finally get home last night?” Her mother poked her head into the room. “I sat up watching TV till ten and you weren’t home then.” She frowned. “Feeling okay, sweetie? You look a little peaked. Are you taking those antioxidants I gave you? They’ve made a world of difference to the way I feel, I’ll tell you. Want me to put some coffee on?”
“Sure, that would be great.” Catherine pulled on her old yellow robe and followed her mother into the kitchen. She couldn’t afford to think about Martin Connaughton in anything but a professional connection. Besides, she’d probably bored him silly yakking about the kids all night. Bringing out the toys like some demented den mother. He probably couldn’t wait to get away.
“What kind of work were you doing until ten o’clock at night?” Her mother, in a pale blue taffeta quilted dressing gown, glanced over her shoulder as she measured coffee. Her short, graying hair clung to her scalp in wispy tendrils. “Will you get paid overtime?”
“I’m on salary, Mom. I don’t get overtime.” With her foot, Catherine pushed open the door to the laundry closet and dumped a load of white clothes into the machine. It was one of those stackable units, much smaller than the one she’d had in the house she used to live in with Gary. Sometimes the drier didn’t work properly, and she had to drape damp clothes aroun
d the kitchen and bathroom. Better that though than going to Gary for more money, something her mother constantly urged her to do. She wanted independence, whatever the price. “I was talking to this doctor. The one who delivered the triplets.”
Still groggy with sleep, her hair hanging loose down her back, she padded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Milk. Margarine. Martin. Stop it. Even if she hadn’t turned him off with all the kid talk, she didn’t want a relationship, especially with someone she worked with. Everyone knew that was a big mistake. She pulled out the Tupperware container of pancake batter she kept made up and set it down on the counter. But last night had felt so…magical. There was no other word for it.
“Well, not to tell you your business, sweetie, but if Western expects you to stay up till all hours talking to doctors, they need to pay you more money.” She reached into the cabinet for mugs. “Is he married?”
“Married?” Catherine stared at her mother. “No…I mean, what difference does that make? We were talking about this program he runs for pregnant women who are addicted to drugs. He’s very interesting…great accent. Irish. From Belfast.” And I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn’t. Unfortunately.
“You’re blushing,” her mother said. “Unless it’s early menopause and you’re having a hot flash.”
“I’m thirty-four, Mom. I think that’s a little young for hot flashes.” Maybe she’d read something into the evening that wasn’t there. Maybe he’d only wanted to ask about WISH and she’d started yakking and he couldn’t get away. Maybe he’d only asked her to dance to shut her up.
She grabbed a carton of milk from the refrigerator and stood, holding it as she stared through the window at the morning traffic on Second Street. The hoots and squeals of horns and brakes filtered into the kitchen, blended with the slosh of the washing machine, the gurgle and drip of the coffeemaker. The traffic noise had taken a while to get used to. At first the hum had kept her awake at night. Now she hardly heard it. Amazing all the adjustments, big and small, she’d made in the past year.
The Doctor Delivers Page 7
