ONE EAGER BRIDE TO GO

by Pamela Burford

  "Oh." Dr. Davidson's calm manner helped to quell Sunny's anxiety. "What caused it?"

  "Why don't you have a seat right here?" The doctor indicated a chair and lifted Ian onto Sunny's lap once she was settled in it. "Well, you said he sat down suddenly when his grandmother was holding his arm?"

  "That's right."

  Dr. Davidson shifted Ian's position a little. "Then that's when it happened. His arm was hyperextended and the ligament got stretched too far. Like I said, it's very common. It can happen when kids play, roughhouse, when they fall…" He smiled knowingly. "It's not Grandma's fault."

  Sunny couldn't help returning his smile. "Try telling Grandma that. What's the treatment?"

  "I'm going to pop that sucker back in place."

  Sunny felt her eyes grow round. "Now?"

  "Now." Dr. Davidson palpated the dislocated elbow joint. "If you stay calm, so will Ian. He won't be thrilled about this, but it'll be over real quick."

  She responded with a weak smile and a nod. Her arms tightened around the little boy who'd come to mean so much to her in two short months.

  The doctor was as good as his word. In one swift motion he manipulated the elbow back into position. Ian shouted, more in surprise, it seemed, than pain. One little holler and it was over. No tears, no tantrums.

  Dr. Davidson praised his patient's bravery. Ian started moving the arm almost immediately, obviously free of pain. Sunny was stunned. That one simple maneuver had done the trick?

  "Doesn't he need X rays?" she asked.

  "Does he look like he needs X rays?"

  She turned to Ian. "How's your owie?"

  "Aw gone." He demonstrated it by wiggling the arm around.

  "So that's it?" Sunny asked the doctor. "He's good as new?"

  "Just about No permanent harm was done, but you should be aware that since the ligament has been stretched, there's an increased chance of this happening again. Be careful not to pull on his hand. When you lift him, grasp him under the arms or around the body. And no swinging him by the arms."

  "I-keam!" Ian crowed.

  "You want ice cream?" She chuckled, as much in relief as amusement at the child's sudden shift in priorities. "Does Daddy buy you ice cream when you've been to the doctor?"

  Ian nodded vigorously. "Shockit ship!"

  "Mmm, my favorite, too," Dr. Davidson said.

  Sunny gave Ian a big hug. "We'll stop on the way home and pick up chocolate chip ice cream—and maybe some fudge syrup and whipped cream, too."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  While Allison Hyde studied the painting on the wall of the SoHo gallery, Kirk studied her profile. She really was very pretty, a tall brunette with a nice figure and high cheekbones. A few years older than he was, but that didn't bother him. He'd noticed her his first day teaching at Garrison, though, of course, he'd done nothing about it because he'd been seeing Sunny at the time.

  Allison taught art history, and so their paths hadn't crossed all that often, but when they had, he'd found himself gently deflecting the interested feelers she'd sent his way. He'd been flattered, of course, but he'd also been committed to his budding relationship with Sunny. Kirk had never cheated on Linda, though he'd had opportunities, and he wasn't about to turn into that kind of lowlife just because his ring finger was now bare.

  The morning after his breakup with Sunny, he'd run into Allison in the library. In the course of their conversation she'd revealed that she was planning a gallery-hopping jaunt to SoHo that weekend and hinted that she wouldn't mind company.

  Kirk had been on the verge of declining when the rational part of him asked, Why not? He had to move on with his life. With any luck, a friendly outing with another woman would help him get over Sunny.

  And he could certainly do worse than Allison Hyde, an accomplished, scholarly woman who was easy on the eyes. An ambitious woman who'd made something of herself. Exactly the sort of woman he could admire and respect.

  Allison stared transfixed at the painting in front of her. "He conveys so much with just a few simple brushstrokes," she said, with all the authority of the art expert she was.

  "Uh-huh," he murmured, for the umpteenth time since he'd parked his car just off Broome Street. That had been about a dozen galleries ago, which was eight or nine more than he would have preferred.

  "What do you think of his use of color?" she asked.

  The picture in question was a large canvas painted by a well-known contemporary German artist named Alvin Kraft—well known to people like Allison, anyway. Kirk had never heard of him before, but his work was currently featured at this gallery. The subject was a female nude, rendered in shades of red and black in Kraft's signature volatile style.

  "I think this is one angry German," Kirk said.

  Allison raised one dark eyebrow. "Interesting. What makes you say that?"

  Kirk bristled internally. She probably didn't know how professorial she sounded. He was sure it was unintentional—this was a date, after all, not a class field trip—but after several hours, it was getting old. And he was also tired of politely deferring to her opinion and pretending to like crappy art.

  "It's just like all his other work." He gestured toward the paintings surrounding them. "The same brusque style, the same discordant colors."

  "Discordant?"

  "You know what I mean. Look around you. This guy hates women."

  Allison's eyes bulged. "Alvin Kraft is a very well respected artist! He had a show at the Guggenheim—"

  "Allison, he can have a show at Buckingham Palace for all I care, it doesn't change the twisted way his mind works." Kirk steered her toward a painted papier-mâché statue—yet another female nude, Kraft's subject of choice. The headless form had a coarse ugliness that could only be deliberate. The exaggerated breasts and genitals were further accentuated with slashes of maroon paint.

  Kirk said, "You're seriously trying to tell me this isn't the work of a grade-A misogynist?"

  Her smug smile grated on his nerves. "Yours is a predictable response, based on a limited understanding of modern art."

  Kirk laughed. He couldn't help himself. "I understand enough. I have eyes." Allison had just dropped several points in his estimation. How he detested that condescending if-you-don't-like-it-you-don't-understand-it nonsense.

  "What I mean is," she said, "if you had a broader knowledge of the philosophy behind—"

  "Allison, open your eyes!" Forcibly he planted her in front of the disturbing statue. "If my son ever makes something like this in art class, I'll hustle him off to therapy before the paint is dry."

  With a resigned sigh she said, "All right, point taken. Kraft can be … abrasive." She turned to him excitedly. "But he got a reaction out of you, didn't he? He made you feel something. You're certainly not apathetic about him."

  "Hey, I wasn't apathetic about the Hillside Strangler, either."

  Allison recoiled at the comparison and shot a furtive glance around, clearly hoping no one had overheard his boorish comment.

  Kirk was antsy, and not just because of the interminable gallery hopping. He wished his mother hadn't ordered him not to call and check up on Ian. She'd been adamant. He understood why. He did tend to overdo it—the result of sudden single parenthood, he assumed. In trying to be both father and mother to the boy, he always felt he was leaving something undone.

  "Just have a good time," Mom had told him. "You have the beeper." Kirk had given her yet another lesson in how to call the pager, though she'd paged him before with no problem. He'd spent the day waiting for the thing to vibrate, only it never had. Which meant everything had to be fine at home. They were probably getting ready for dinner. He wondered if his dad had caught a bluefish. His mother couldn't stand bluefish.

  The thought of food made his stomach growl.

  "Listen," he said, "all I've eaten today is an apple I grabbed on my way out the door this morning. Maybe that's why I'm so cranky."

  "Oh, poor baby. I
had no idea you were hungry."

  "Well, aren't you? I mean, we've been walking around SoHo for—" he checked his watch "—five and a half hours."

  "When I'm looking at art, I forget about everything else. The truth is, I never eat much. I have a yogurt around noon between classes, and I usually stop at this soup-and-salad place for takeout on my way home from campus. I could go another five hours, no problem."

  Kirk pictured Sunny and her healthy appetite—nourished by her love of cooking. Watching her eat was one of life's great joys.

  With effort, he suppressed the wayward thought. He'd promised himself he wouldn't think about Sunny during this date with Allison, wouldn't compare the two women. Valiantly he tried not to wish it were Sunny marveling with him at this artist's blatant misogyny, as he knew she would, and laughing with him at the gullibility of the elitist art community that gobbled it up with a sterling silver spoon.

  He guided Allison out of the gallery. "There's a steak place nearby," he said, watching her face as he said the word steak, and seeing the reaction he'd expected. Too bad. They'd done what she'd wanted to all day; now he was in the mood for a slab of blood-rare cow the size of Rhode Island. "You can get a salad there," he assured her as they dodged traffic and headed west.

  * * *

  "By then Robert had been sleeping on the sofa for nearly a year, so it wasn't really cheating." Allison speared an artichoke heart and washed it down with a swig of chardonnay. "I mean, we were separated, we just weren't separated, if you know what I mean, until the divorce was final. It's enormously expensive maintaining two households, so of course, we put it off till the very last moment."

  Kirk found himself back in "uh-huh" mode as he carved a chunk off the best porterhouse ever to pass his lips. He smiled, recalling Sunny's words that day in early July when they'd shared a picnic lunch at the university. Just tell me you didn't turn vegetarian on me. She'd love this place; he had to bring her here.

  Stop it! he commanded himself.

  "Of course, the girls didn't really understand," Allison added, "but kids are resilient, they bounce back from these things. Don't you know, their dad now has this wonderful, enormous apartment on the upper West Side." She threw her arms wide as bitterness infected her voice. "Jennifer and Danielle each have their own room when they stay there. Professionally decorated, naturally."

  "Uh-huh."

  "And Daddy's live-in girlfriend is so nice. And so close to them in age—just like a big sister!" Allison tipped back her wineglass and drained it. "So guess who gets to be the heavy when the girls come home with assorted body parts pierced after a weekend visit with Daddy and his twenty-year-old trollop?" She gestured to the waiter for more wine.

  The scientist in Kirk did some quick calculations based on alcohol consumed with respect to body mass-in Allison's case, a hell of a lot of the first factor and not nearly enough of the second.

  He slid the bread basket toward her. "That little salad can't possibly fill you up. Why don't you order some grilled chicken or something?"

  "I don't have a big appetite, remember?" she said.

  Not for food, he thought, watching her hoist the refilled wineglass to her lips.

  A conspiratorial twinkle lit Allison's eyes. "You must know Jane Birmingham. She's in your department."

  "Yes, of course. Why?"

  Harpooning a lettuce leaf on her fork, Allison leaned forward with a smirk. "Well, you know that welcome reception Wilton threw at his house the first week of class?" she asked, naming the university's president.

  "Yeah…" Kirk had an uneasy notion where this was leading, and he didn't like it. "Allison, I'm really not interested in my colleagues' private—"

  "You know Wilton's wife was out of town, right? And no one can remember seeing Jane leave his place that night after the party."

  "Look, this isn't—"

  "So everyone figures she was the last one left. Simon Arby—he's in biochem, you must know him—Simon told me that Hank Kline's wife saw Jane and Wilton exchange a look that can only be called heated." She hissed out a sizzling noise.

  "Allison—"

  "But the clincher is…" Her knowing nod announced the coup de grâce. "The next morning? Jane's wearing the same outfit she had on the night before! A black pantsuit. You'd think she could've come up with something a little more appropriate for Wilton's reception." She snorted in amusement. "But hey, if he didn't mind…!"

  Jane Birmingham was a fine physicist who had struggled for decades to overcome the sexism endemic in the world of scientific academia. Now here was one of her colleagues—a female colleague at that—trashing her name for sport. Kirk sighed. "Jane wears black pants and jackets most days. She has a whole collection of them."

  Allison blinked. "How do you know that?"

  "We're in the same department, remember?"

  "Huh. She must think black flatters her figure. Good luck with those hips." She took a deep swallow of wine.

  "I'll be honest with you." Kirk set down his fork. "I have no stomach for workplace gossip."

  "Gossip! I'm relating fact!"

  "I've seen promising careers damaged beyond repair by unsubstantiated rumor. I have a policy. I don't spread it. I don't listen to it."

  "Well, excuuuse me. I just thought you'd be interested in learning how Madame Birmingham got promoted to the head of your department right after that reception. Everyone else knows about it."

  "Everyone else also knows that the previous department head, Bill Dunne, had to retire suddenly for health reasons. Jane has a long and distinguished career. She was the most qualified candidate, and the logical choice to replace him. If she was the last to leave Wilton's house, perhaps it was so they could discuss her new position."

  "Oh yeah, I'm sure that was it," Allison sneered. "Couldn't be some other kind of position they were discussing. No, of course not." She stood. "I'm going to find the ladies' room."

  Kirk watched her negotiate the trek to the john with a self-conscious attention to balance. He pushed away his plate and signaled the waiter for the check.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  «^»

  "You missed all the excitement," Kirk's mother said when he walked in the door. She was sitting in his living room, pulling clean clothes out of a plastic laundry basket and folding them into neat piles on the sofa cushion next to her. The TV was on—some raucous sitcom. She muted the sound with the remote control device.

  "Mom, how many times have I told you, you don't have to do our laundry. I'm a big boy. I know how to sort the whites from the colors."

  "Well, the hampers were full—it looked like it hadn't been done in days. I don't mind. It keeps my hands busy."

  Chuckling, he shook his head. There was no sense arguing with Mom about some things. He plopped down on an easy chair. He'd tried to make it home before Ian's bedtime. Finding his mother parked in front of the tube, engaged in busywork, told him his son must already be in bed.

  Kirk's father strolled in from the kitchen and settled himself on the other end of the sofa. "You missed some good fried bluefish, son. There's plenty left if you want some."

  Kirk's mother grimaced in distaste. "Don't you dare bring those leftovers home, Fred."

  "No, thanks," Kirk said. "I ate. What excitement did I miss?"

  Mom folded a tiny blue T-shirt with a line drawing of Albert Einstein's face on it. Kirk had found it in a museum gift shop and hadn't been able to resist. "Ian had to go to the doctor," she said.

  "What?" Kirk sat up. "Is he sick?"

  "No, no, it was his arm." She added the shirt to the stack destined for Ian's room. "He's just fine now, so don't go getting yourself worked up. What was it the doctor called it? Tennis elbow? No, that wasn't it."

  "Nursery something," Dad said, throwing an arm over the sofa back.

  "Nursemaid's elbow!" Mom said. "That was it!"

  "Nursemaid's elbow?" Kirk frowned. "I've never heard of it."

  "It was dislocated," Dad said. "Th
e doc, he took care of it. Pushed it right back in. Good as new."

  "What?" Kirk was on his feet, headed for Ian's room. "When did you put him to bed? Is he asleep?"

  "I don't know," Mom said. "Sunny's putting him in."

  That was enough to halt Kirk in his tracks. "Sunny? What's she doing here?"

  Dad scowled. "Why didn't you tell us you two called it quits?"

  Kirk raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't know, it just…"

  "Never come up?" Mom gave him her signature don't-try-to-pull-one-over-on-me look.

  He sighed. Why hadn't he told his folks about the breakup? He opted now for honesty, for both his parents' sake and his own. "I guess I was kind of hoping it'd blow over and we'd get back together."

  Mom's features softened in sympathy. "She still has feelings for you. I can tell."

  "I know she does. It's … complicated. Did she, uh, tell you why we split up?"

  "No," Dad said, "and we didn't ask. That's between you two. It's a shame, that's all I can say. I liked that girl way back when and I still like her. She's good for you."

  Mom's clothes-folding motions became more abrupt. "Well, you know I agree with your dad, but it's not our business, really. It has to be your decision."

  Kirk's mouth twisted. "It's Sunny's decision at this point." He glanced down the hall toward Ian's room. "But you didn't answer me. Why is she here?"

  Mom said, "I called her when I couldn't get in touch with you. I thought you were with her."

  His stomach turned into a lead weight. "You told her I had a date?"

  "I thought you were with Sunny!" she repeated. "How was I to know…" She tsked as she slapped a folded washcloth on the pile destined for the linen closet.

  "It's not your fault," he said wearily.

  "I was so upset," Mom said. "Ian was in pain and he wanted his daddy, and I couldn't reach you, and Fred was out on the boat. I didn't know what to do. Sunny just dropped what she was doing and came right over. Took care of everything, bless her heart. I tell you, that girl is calm and levelheaded in a crisis. More than your old mama, that's for sure," she added with a self-deprecating smile.