Catherine shook her head. “I’m not sure that would work—”
“Did you try?”
“No, I didn’t, but…it’s not something we would typically do.”
“I could cite a number of instances in which Petrelli has intervened.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not personally aware of—”
“Never mind.” Jordan made a notation on the pad in front of him. “I’ll talk to him myself.” He studied her for a moment. “We need an aggressive news media policy. It’s of no value if you just roll over and play dead.”
Caught off guard by Jordan’s hostility, Catherine stared at him, at a loss for words. All eyes were directed at her. A tense silence seemed to use up the air in the room.
“Do we have fact sheets prepared about the surgery?” Jordan asked her.
“No, we don’t.” Always ready to blame herself, she started instead to get angry. At Jordan for publicly humiliating her. And at Derek who had said nothing to her about fact sheets. “I thought the surgery was still under discussion. I didn’t realize it was definite—”
“You do have Dr. Grossman’s curriculum vitae and background information for the press kits?”
“No. As I said, we weren’t aware that surgery—”
“Do you customarily leave things to the last minute?”
“Mr. Jordan. We’ve been extremely busy the past few days.”
Jordan glanced around the room. “May I see a show of hands, please. Anyone here who hasn’t been extremely busy this week?” A slight smile played across his face. “I don’t see any hands.”
Catherine fixed her eyes on the table’s wood grain and bit her bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. Either he was having a bad day himself and taking it out on her, or he had some personal animosity toward her, which seemed unlikely since he hardly knew her. She looked up and met Valerie Webb’s eyes across the table. Valerie slowly winked. Then Jordan addressed her again.
“Perhaps you would update us on other media efforts related to the Hodges triplets.”
She summarized, as best she could from memory, the media activity of the past week. “Ned Bolton, the medical reporter with the Tribune, wants to do an in-depth piece on surgery for Holly. He’d like to talk to Dr. Grossman and Dr. Connaughton.”
“And you’ve given Connaughton media training on handling sensitive and controversial issues?”
“Well, not exactly. We did—”
“What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
“I’ve spoken to him.” She composed herself for a long moment, thought about the idea she had formed in the last ten minutes. “We discussed the issue this morning and he’s adamant about his position. He doesn’t believe that surgery is appropriate for Holly. He feels that she is medically unstable and her prognosis for complete recovery is poor. Unless he can honestly express his opinion, he doesn’t want to talk to the press.” She paused, made eye contact with those around the table. To her relief, she saw a few nods. “Since we’re trying to build on the team concept,” she said, looking again at Jordan, “I recommend that Dr. Connaughton does no further press interviews, and we designate another NICU physician to do updates on Holly’s progress.”
Jordan motioned to the secretary taking minutes of the meeting. “Make a note that I want Petrelli to attend these meetings in future.” He looked at Catherine. “Let me be sure I understand you clearly. You’re telling me that you’ve done absolutely nothing to prepare for press coverage of the surgery—”
“Mr. Jordan—”
“May I finish, please?” He paused. “And you’ve allowed Connaughton to walk all over you—”
“That isn’t what I said, or what I meant.” Her face burned. “I’m trying to explain Dr. Connaughton’s position and—”
“It’s not your job to explain Dr. Connaughton’s position. Your job is to present this medical center’s position. I suggest you keep that in mind for future reference.”
“SO HOW WERE the fish and chips?” Holly’s nurse asked when Martin returned to the NICU from lunch.
“Very good.” Whistling, he picked up a chart and flipped through the pages. “Very good indeed.”
“Fish and chips?” Tim Graham looked up. “They had fish and chips in the cafeteria?”
“No.” The nurse arched her eyebrow at Graham. “Dr. Connaughton went out to lunch.”
“It’s a beautiful day out there.” Martin turned back a page to double-check a lab report. “Sun shining. Birds singing. Makes you feel good to be alive.”
“Carol.” Graham snapped his fingers at the nurse. “Look at him. I think he’s running a fever or something. He’s got this strange expression on his face.”
She squinted at Martin. “I think it’s just a smile.”
“Maybe you’re right. Sure is odd-looking though.” Graham moved his glasses to rub his eyes. “He actually went out to lunch? Was he alone?”
“Nope.” The nurse shook her head. “With a female.”
“Does anyone know whether we’ve got the CT scan results back on Holly?” Martin fought to keep a straight face. “I don’t see them here.”
“A female?” Graham’s jaw dropped open.
“Uh-huh. Kind of cute, too.”
“Call the public relations department,” Graham said. “Tell them Dr. Connaughton’s discovered the existence of life outside the medical center. They’ll probably want to alert the press.”
“God, you’re like a load of nattering fishwives,” Martin said. “Worse in fact—”
“Dr. Connaughton.” The unit secretary tapped him on the shoulder. “Dr. Grossman’s secretary is on the line. She wants to set up some time for the two of you to meet. Today if possible.”
“Sure.” Martin turned to her with a smile. “Put the call through to my office and I’ll check my calendar.”
“Okay. That proves it,” Graham said in a stage whisper as Martin walked away. “See how he agreed. Just like that. Even smiled. Something’s definitely come over him.”
CHAPTER TEN
“MOM, for the last time, it’s not a date,” Catherine insisted when her mother stopped over at six to drop off some multivitamins she’d picked up at Wal-Mart and found Catherine getting ready for Martin’s arrival. “What do you think?” She held up a red sweater. “This with jeans, or my white shirt? Peter,” she yelled into the living room. “You need to get started on your homework. Julie, pick up your Barbie dolls and take them into your room. Damn…” She looked at her mother. “I forgot to defrost the sausage.”
Her mother followed her into the kitchen. “Well, if it isn’t a date, I’d like to know why you’re running around the house like a chicken with its head cut off—”
“Okay, maybe I’m a little scattered…” She opened the freezer, took out the Italian sausage and dropped the package onto the floor. “But it has nothing to do with Martin.” She stooped to retrieve the meat. “I invited him to dinner. Period.”
“And last week you were out all night talking to him.”
“I wasn’t out all night. Anyway that was mostly about work. This is…” What? Whatever it was, she didn’t want to think about it. Any more than she wanted to think about the repercussions from Jordan’s meeting. Tomorrow would be soon enough for that. She stuck the sausage in the microwave to thaw. “I’m just making dinner for him. He said he misses home cooking.” Even as she spoke, she knew how lame the words sounded, and when she glanced over at her mother, she saw the knowing smirk.
“One thing leads to another, that’s all I’m saying on the subject.”
“Not in this case.”
“Men are all the same, Catherine.” Her mother took a pair of glasses from her purse and scanned the nutritional information on the back of the lasagna box. “They want one thing and one thing only and they don’t stop until they get it. And then they’re gone, just like your father. Lasagna, huh? Do you know how many calories there are—”
“No and I don’t want to.” Catherine dumped a cart
on of ricotta into a bowl. Right now she felt so tense at the prospect of Martin sitting across the dinner table from her, she couldn’t imagine being able to eat a thing.
“I hope you’re at least using turkey sausage,” her mother said.
“Nope. The other kind, all loaded with fat. Want to stay and eat with us?”
“And drop dead from a heart attack? I don’t think so.” Her mother threw a furtive glance over her shoulder at the kids in the living room. “Make sure he uses protection,” she said in a stage whisper.
“Mother.” Catherine felt her mouth drop open. “For God’s sake.”
“They’re all the same. Mark my words. Even doctors,” she added ominously.
Catherine bit back a smile. If nothing else, her mother’s presence provided a little comic relief. As far as she could tell, Helen’s social life centered primarily around the Rite-Aide prescription counter where she’d struck up a friendship with the elderly pharmacist, but things never seemed to move beyond discussions of antacids and pain relievers. And now she was offering safe-dating tips? “So Mom…” She couldn’t resist it. “You’ve had some firsthand experience with this stuff?”
“Actually, I have, Miss Smarty-Pants. But I don’t kiss and tell. By the way, did you ask him about the Sweet’n Low?”
“Huh?”
“About whether it causes brain tumors. I told you to ask him about it.”
“Yeah, I know. I forgot. I was too busy fighting off his advances.”
Her mother pursed her lips. “Julie. Peter,” she called into the living room. “Come and kiss Grandma goodbye.” She took off her glasses, slipped them back into her purse and snapped it shut. As for you, young lady,” she addressed Catherine. “You can smirk, but if you think this fellow is after anything more than a good time, you’re fooling yourself. Your problem is you’ve had no experience with men except for Gary and…well, I rest my case.”
“Hey, Mom.” Catherine kissed her mother’s cheek. “I’m in control, okay? I know what I’m doing.”
MARTIN ARRIVED at Catherine’s with a bunch of pink tulips under one arm, a bottle of Chianti under the other and books for the children. The wine had been easy—she’d told him they were having lasagna—and he’d enjoyed selecting the books. The flowers had thrown him into an agony of indecision. His first inclination had been roses, but then he’d worried that red was coming on too strong, and he couldn’t remember what the other colors were supposed to signify, so he’d settled on tulips, which now seemed an odd choice, and sweat was breaking out across his upper lip, and he felt as nervous as a kid on a first date.
Catherine was in the doorway when he pulled up. Barefoot in jeans and a billowing white shirt, her hair in a loose braid down her back. The light from inside shone like a nimbus around her head and shoulders. At her side stood a small blond girl, one arm wrapped around her mother’s leg.
“This is Julie.” She disentangled the child’s arms, crouched beside her and smiled up at Martin. “And this is Dr. Connaughton. Martin. He works with me at the hospital. Remember, you saw him on TV?”
The child nodded. “With the little babies.”
“Right. Really little babies.” Catherine motioned him inside and shut the door, shivering. “Brrr, it’s chilly out there.”
“Mommy,” Julie tugged at Catherine’s hand. “I have to tell you something important. We have to put the cheese stuff in the lasagna.”
“I know, sweetie.” Catherine ruffled the girl’s hair, “We’re going to in just a minute.” She took the wine and flowers, smiled at Martin. “These are gorgeous. I didn’t know tulips grew in December.”
“Only in greenhouses,” he said, and they both stood there smiling at each other until a boy’s voice called out from the kitchen. Catherine gave an apologetic little shrug.
“Be right there, Peter. Chopping onions isn’t his idea of a good time,” she said with a glance at Martin. “Make yourself comfortable, okay? We’ve entered a critical stage in the lasagna operation, and I’m desperately needed.”
He pulled off his leather jacket, sat down on the couch. The room was comfortable. Multicolored rugs on the hardwood floors, flowered curtains. Flickering lights from the Christmas tree glowed on and off, the lights almost mesmerizing. From the kitchen, aromas of onions frying, oregano. Kids’ voices. He leaned his head back against the couch, closed his eyes and let it all wash over him like a soothing balm.
Someone tapped his knee.
“Are you taking a nap?” Julie studied him, her eyes as round as marbles.
“Not really.” He returned her gaze. “Just closing my eyes.”
Julie gave him a knowing look. “That’s what my mommy says sometimes, but then she starts snoring.” She climbed up on the couch beside him. “Hey, do you know what my teacher’s name is?”
“Um—” he thought for a minute “—Fred.”
She giggled. “No. Guess again.”
“Toffee nose.”
She grinned and smacked him on the arm. “No. That’s dumb. It’s Mrs. Harris.”
“What’s her first name?” Martin asked.
“Uh.” She stuck her finger in her mouth, thinking. “Harris?”
“Harris Harris?”
“Nooo, silly. Mrs. Harris.” She squealed, hit him again and climbed onto his lap, wiggling around until her face was almost touching his. “Are you my mommy’s boyfriend?”
“Julie.” Catherine reappeared, her face flushed from cooking. She wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans. “You were supposed to be helping make the lasagna, young lady.” She looked at him and shook her head. “Is she driving you crazy?”
“No.” Julie’s voice was indignant. “We’re having a conversation.”
Martin laughed. Both mother and daughter were looking at him with almost identical expressions. One a miniature of the other. Charmed, he impulsively caught Julie in a hug, then looked over the child’s shoulder and winked at Catherine.
“Come help me in the kitchen,” she said to him.
He followed her and was introduced to a small, dark-haired boy who stood at a butcher-block table stirring something with a wooden spoon.
“This is Peter.” Catherine ruffled the boy’s hair. “And this is Martin.”
“Hello, Peter.” He leaned into the doorway, his weight on one foot, arms folded across his chest. The boy scowled and returned to his task, evidently unhappy. Martin decided not to push. The kitchen was bright and warm and smelled of simmering tomato sauce. Dozens of hanging plants trailed green leaves and tendrils. Dried herbs, gleaming copper pots and a garlic braid hung from hooks above the window, cookbooks overflowed two shelves along one wall. A large blue ceramic pot contained assorted spoons, knives and whisks.
“Just a wild guess.” He watched Catherine move around the kitchen, supervising the children’s efforts, stopping to stir a pot of sauce. “I’d say you like to cook.”
“You’d be right.” She stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “It’s very therapeutic. Helps me relax.”
Moving over to the stove, he stood behind her, watched her rub a handful of herbs between her palms, then drop them into a simmering pot of sauce.
“What’s that?” He leaned over her shoulder to get a better look.
“Thyme. Oregano. Rosemary.” As she turned her head, her cheek almost grazed his. She held her palms up to his face. “Smells good, huh?”
“Great.” He caught her wrist, watched her face. Eyes even more green than usual tonight. A tiny mole at the edge of her jawline. Wisps of hair worked loose from her braid. The kids had sidled off to other parts of the house. He had a great urge to kiss her.
“Okay then.” She bit her lip, looked flustered, called for the kids. They burst into the kitchen moments later, jostling, fighting, a flurry of noise and movement.
“I get to make the salad.” Julie beamed at him. “You have to wash the lettuce really good because some of it has caterpillar poo, then…” She disappeared in a cabinet and emer
ged with a plastic bowl. “You put it in this and dry it. If you don’t get all the water off the salad, dressing doesn’t stick to it.”
“Is that right?” Martin walked over to the cabinet, squatted beside her. Through the open cabinet door, he could see neat stacks of colored plastic containers with matching lids. “How many of those do you think your mother has? Ten? Five hundred? Six million and ninety-two?”
Julie, kneeling on the floor, thought for a minute. “A whole big bunch.” She got up, ran to the refrigerator, flung open the door. Similar containers lined the shelves. “See. She’s got all these. This one is…” She pried off a lid, peered inside and wrinkled her nose. “Eew-yuk. Broccoli.”
Martin grinned. “What else is there?”
“Mmm.” She pointed to the containers. “This one is peaches. That one is rice. And what’s this one? Uh…gravy. Mommy doesn’t eat gravy, she says it makes her fat. And this one is—”
“Julie.” Catherine pulled her daughter away from the refrigerator. “That’s enough. Martin doesn’t need a list of the contents.” She gave him a bemused look. “I can’t quite figure out what it is about this sort of thing that fascinates you—”
“It’s the contrast. If I have leftovers, which doesn’t happen often, I stand at the sink and eat them out of a saucepan. My one saucepan. That and a kettle constitutes my kitchenware.”
“So you never cook?”
“Only things that can be done in one pot and only for myself. You, on the other hand, probably entertain constantly.”
“All the time. The kids, my mother. My neighbor Darcy.” She looked at him from under her lashes. “Tonight, you.”
He caught the end of her braid, pulled it slightly. And found he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.
WHEN THE CHILDREN were finally in bed, Catherine poured two glasses of wine, brought them into the living room and handed one to Martin. He sat on the floor, his head resting against the couch, eyes closed. He wore khakis, a navy sweater, a blue oxford shirt, open at the neck. Firelight flickered, threw shadows around him. Regardless of what she’d told her mother, the minute she’d opened the door and seen him standing there with the tulips and books for the kids she knew she was in trouble.
The Doctor Delivers Page 14
