by Webb, Peggy
Paul steadied her hands on the lighter, then when the cigarette was between her lips, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped her face.
"You look like hell." He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and smiled at her. "But I like the sight of you."
"Shit. You're going to make me cry."
"You already did." He led her to a chair, then knelt beside her and took her hand. "You don't have to play tough with me, Jo Lisa. I was getting dressed to go see Susan when you came calling."
Jo Lisa studied him for a while, then blew a smoke ring over his head.
"Doc, I think you're going to make a helluva brother-in-law."
"Don't ever make the mistake of thinking I'm a Brett Riley."
"I'm many things, but I'm not dumb."
Paul stood. "Stay as long as you need, Jo Lisa. I hope I won't be back tonight."
"Thanks, Paul. You're a good kid."
"So are you."
o0o
His approach to Susan's house was a cautious one rather than a joyous one. Like a prisoner held too long in exile, he wasn't sure of his welcome. Months had passed since he'd come to her house and found the porch light burning. Seasons had come and gone. Holidays. She'd celebrated Thanksgiving without him . . . and Christmas. She'd watched her son's progress from walker to cane to total freedom, then watched him decline once more with a disease that sapped his strength and postponed his surgery.
She'd faced it alone, with strength and courage and a faith that never flagged.
Paul was prepared for a tough battle with Susan, but he was not prepared for the devastation of her flower beds. As he stopped and surveyed the damage he tasted fear. He left the raw, upturned earth and went onto her front porch. The house was quiet. There was no activity inside, no sign of life.
He rang the bell and waited. No one came to the door. He rang the bell once more.
"Mother?" she said through the door.
"It's Paul."
In the long silence that followed, he prayed she wouldn't leave, prayed she wouldn't turn him away.
"Paul?" She cracked open the door. Through the small slit he could see that she was thinner. "What do you want?"
"Susan, may I come in?"
"Why?"
"I'd like to talk to you."
"We have nothing to say."
She started to close the door, but he put his hand through the crack, gambling that she wouldn't crush it.
"Let me in, Susan."
"No. I let you in once, Paul. Remember?"
"I remember."
How could he forget? There was the time he'd stood beside her in the kitchen laughing as she tied a frilly apron around his waist and thrust a stirring spoon into his hand, and the time they'd stood together in her shower, wet and slick, pressed together like bookends, and the time they'd made frog houses for Jeffy out of the wet sand on the beach then tried to outdo themselves croaking like frogs.
"Please go away, Paul."
"No, Susan. I'm not going away."
"Then you can stand on the porch." She turned to leave.
"I'm going to stand here until you let me in." She was weakening. He could see it in her eyes. "The neighbors will start to talk Birds will build nests in my hair."
"I hope they do more than that in your hair." She started to slam the door in his face, but he put his hand out to stop her. "I'm not above using the same tactics I used on the beach that day in the rain."
"You used them? I was the one using tactics."
"It was both of us." He came through the door, and this time she didn't try to stop him.
"Jeffy's asleep."
"I won't wake him."
Her music box was in the same place he remembered, and the big chair where they'd made love. The curtains were the same and the carpet and the mantel with thumbtack holes where she'd hung Christmas stockings. It was home, and he wondered how he could ever have left and whether he would ever be welcome again.
Sitting on the sofa that held so many memories, he watched as she made her
way to a chair on the opposite side of the room. There would be no easy victories, no easy return.
"How's Jeffy?"
"Recovering. Dr. Freelander says he should be ready for conduit valve replacement surgery in a month or two."
"I'm glad."
She crossed her legs, then wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and he wanted to have exclusive rights to lick off that tiny bit of moisture. They waited, watching each other and remembering, remembering . . .
"I'm not very good at speeches, but I want you to know that you've never been far from my mind, not since the night I left your bed and went back to Jean."
"Somehow that fails to comfort me, Paul."
"I'm leaving her, Susan."
"Why?"
"Because I can't live a lie anymore."
"Jo Lisa could give you a few pointers."
He wanted to erase the hurt from her eyes. "She told me what happened. I'm so sorry."
Susan was up out of her chair. "She told you?"
"Yes. She's worried about you."
Stiff-backed, she marched to the door and flung it open. "Leave . . . now."
"I'm not leaving, Susan, and I know you don't want to make a scene and awaken Jeffy."
"You….cad."
"Good. You're showing some spirit now. Get mad at me, Susan. Get mad at Jo Lisa." He went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. She battered at his chest. "Fight, sweetheart. Fight for yourself. Just don't hide behind closed doors and try to shut out the world."
She beat his chest with her fists. Gradually the blows slowed, then ceased altogether, and she leaned against him, the fight draining from her body.
"I don't want to need you, Paul. I don't want to love you.
"Let's take this one day at a time, Susan. For now, let me be your friend, someone you can hold on to." He kissed the top of her head.
Down the hallway Jeffy awakened and called out. "Mommy?"
Susan stiffened. "Go before he sees you, Paul. I can't let you be a part of his life again." She stepped apart from him, suddenly fierce. "Nor mine, either."
"I'll make you change your mind."
"Mommy?" The plaintive little voice tore at Paul's heart.
"Leave," Susan said.
"I'll be back."
Paul eased out the door. Then he stood on the porch, soaking up the familiar sights and smells and emotions of coming home.
o0o
After he left, Susan leaned against the door. She didn't have to see him to know that Paul was still on the porch. Every fiber in her body longed for him.
She put her hands over her mouth to keep from calling him back. She was through giving her trust to people who didn't deserve it.
"Mommy. I'm thirsty."
Paul's footsteps echoed on the old wooden porch floor. He was leaving.
Susan put her hand on the doorknob, turned it, held onto it. One word. That's all it would take. Paul, she would say, and he'd come back, come inside and put his arms around her, and she'd feel safe.
He'd left her once. Everybody was always leaving her. She'd have to remember that.
She pressed her hands to her temples, then straightened her shoulders and went down the hall to see about her son.
o0o
Trucks from Estes's Nursery arrived at her house at eight o'clock the next morning. Susan was still in her robe and house shoes.
"What in the world?" she said, standing in the doorway watching three men unload shovels and sacks of peat moss.
The biggest of the three men stood at her porch steps holding a slip of paper. Clark Simmons was stitched on his shirt in blue lettering. "Is this the Riley house?"
"Yes."
"Where do you want us to plant these flowers, ma'am?" Flowers of every color and description filled his truck bed.
'There must be some mistake."
"Are you Susan Riley?"
"Yes."
"Then these are
yours. If you'll just show us where to plant them . . ."
"I didn't order them. I'm sorry. You'll have to take them back."
" 'Fraid I can't do that, ma'am. This work order says plant these flowers here, and that's what I'm fixin' to do."
"Let me see that."
He handed her the paper. At the top were her name and address, and at the bottom the name and signature of the purchaser: Paul Tyler.
She wadded the paper into a ball and sank onto the top step.
"Ma'am? You never did tell us where to put these flowers."
There were a few choice places she could name, but she wasn't as comfortable with the language as Jo Lisa. Her hand tightened on the work order. Jo Lisa. Brett. Paul.
"I didn't order any of this, and if you plant so much as one flower in my yard, I'll call the law."
"Dr. Tyler won't like it. He specifically told me to put the red rose bushes by the porch. Said he wanted them where they'd be handy, whatever that means."
Susan knew exactly what that meant: it meant that Paul Tyler was back in her life and he intended to stay.
"You can tell Dr. Tyler that I said hell will freeze over before his red rose bushes get planted by my front door."
"Ma'am . . ." Clark Simmons took off his hat and scratched his head. "Is that your final word?"
"That's my final word."
"Load up, boys."
They put their shovels and peat moss back on the truck, and Susan stood on the porch watching them drive away. She would have loved flowers in her yard again . . . but not flowers from Paul Tyler.
o0o
That evening, she'd already gone to bed when she heard the noises at her front porch. Creeping through the house like a burglar, she went to the front window and peered out. A full moon illuminated her front yard and the face of the man wielding a shovel. Paul Tyler.
Kneeling on the floor, she watched him. His shoulders flexed as he spaded the earth. When the hole was dug, he set the rose bush inside, then knelt on the ground and patted the dirt in place.
He was planting flowers for her, planting them with his own hands. Oh, God, his surgeon's hands.
She raced out the front door, her robe flapping around her legs.
"Don't you dare touch that shovel again."
"I want you to have flowers." He picked it up and started digging another hole.
"I don't want the damned flowers."
"You're going to have flowers, dammit." He rammed the shovel into the ground.
"No." She flew at him like a wildcat and grabbed the shovel. "Stop it. I won't let you do this."
"You can't stand for anybody to help you, can you? You have to be brave and strong and do the hurting all by yourself." With the shovel handle between them, they faced each other, their chests heaving. "If you think I'm going to back down, think again, Susan. I love you and by God I plan to marry you, and I'm not about to let you sit in this house by yourself brooding."
It was the most beautiful proposal she'd ever heard. Tears burned her eyes and streamed down her face and into her mouth and down the side of her throat.
'Turn loose the damned shovel, Susan."
"Your hands, Paul . . ." She sniffed, and wiped her face on the sleeve of her robe. "If you think I'm going to let you sacrifice your hands for a few flowers, you've underestimated me."
“You came out to save my hands?"
Susan nodded. The shovel clattered to the ground as he reached for her.
He pressed his forehead against hers. "I love you so much, I feel as if I'm bursting inside."
"I never stopped loving you, Paul. Even when you were with her."
They clung together, breathing in the nearness of each other.
"Paul, can we forget about the flowers tonight?"
He lifted her in his arms and carried her inside. In her bedroom, he set her on her feet.
"Wait right here." She went into the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth; then she tenderly scrubbed away the dirt. Afterward, she held his hands.
“I don't ever want to be without your hands on me again."
"Susan, as long as I have breath in my body, my hands will be yours, touching you.” He slid her gown from her shoulder, lowered her to the bed and began the slow, sweet journey home.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Paul was already in the kitchen when Susan woke up. Coffee was perking in the pot and the television was going.
"The jury is expected to reach a verdict today in the trial of renowned cardiovascular surgeon Dr. Paul Tyler ..."
Paul saw her and switched off the television set.
"I didn't mean to wake you, Susan."
"I've been so wrapped up in my own problems, I forgot about the trial." She put her arms around his waist and hugged him close.
"I have to be at the courthouse at eight."
"I'll come with you."
"No. Jeffy needs you." He kissed her. "I'll be back as soon as it's over."
He drained his coffee cup, then started toward the door.
"Paul?" He turned. "I love you."
"Enough to let the men from Estes's Nursery plant the flowers?"
"Enough to let them plant the flowers . . . especially the rose bushes."
When he left he was smiling.
o0o
The courtroom was packed. Paul didn't look at the crowd, but he could hear their stirrings and murmurings as the judge assumed the bench.
"I have been advised that the jury has reached a verdict."
The waiting was over.
"Will the defendants please rise?"
Paul stood, hating the fact that he was a defendant when all he'd ever wanted to be was a good doctor.
The foreman of the jury was reading. "We the jury find for the plaintiff in the amount of half a million dollars."
There was a gasp from the audience, and a spattering of applause.
"We find Blake Medical Center 10 percent liable and Dr. Curtis Blake 90 percent liable."
A murmur rose in the courtroom and rippled in waves across the crowd. Television cameras zoomed in on the defendants, and newspaper reporters scribbled furiously.
Paul stared straight ahead. The news media would get no sensational reaction from him.
"We find Dr. Paul Tyler not liable."
Cheers went up. Paul turned and saw Susan making her way toward him, and suddenly he decided that there were things about the heart he hadn't learned in medical school; hearts could hurt from too much love.
"I didn't think you'd come." He took both her hands and smiled into her eyes.
"There are some red roses blooming by my front porch steps. I didn't want to let them go to waste."
"What are we waiting for?" Holding each other around the waist they ducked out the side door. In Paul's car they fell into each other's arms.
"I don't think I can wait until we get home, Paul."
"My office is closer . . . Besides, there's a teddy bear named Henry who needs a ride home."
Chapter Thirty-eight
"I think it's best if you wait in the car, Paul."
Darkness gathered over the gulf and settled over the live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Susan’s face was still flushed from the deliciously wicked things they'd done in his office, and he sat behind the wheel clutching Jeffy's bear, grinning in way that probably made him look like a besotted fool. .
"I want to prepare him for you."
Paul waited in the car, anxious, while she went into her mother's house to get her son. What if Jeffy didn't want to see him?
The front door burst open, and Jeffy catapulted out.
"Paul! Paul! You've come back." Paul knelt on the grass and opened his arms. The little child he thought might never walk ran down the sidewalk. Paul remembered working with the lifeless legs and holding on to the paralyzed hand as Jeffy valiantly struggled to come back from the stroke. "Paul!"
Jeffy's tiny arms went around his neck, and Paul didn't know if he could speak without chokin
g. "How're you doing, pal?"
"I heard Gran'ma tell Lottie on the telephone that I got to get a new heart. Can you get me a new heart, Paul? Gran'ma says you're a heart special."
Susan knelt beside them and took Jeffy in her arms. Paul could hardly bear the anguis in her eyes.
“Jeffy, Paul is going to take us all out for some ice cream. Would you like that?"
"Oh, boy. Can I have three kinds?" The ability of a child to forget was the one Paul envied most.
"You can have six kinds, and we'll have a party." Paul lifted the child and put him in the car beside his teddy bear.
"Henry!" Jeffy hugged the bear tight. “Henry’s back!”
"He's back to stay," Paul said. "We'll call the party Henry's Homecoming."
o0o
"Who's doing Jeffy's surgery, Susan?"
It was the question she'd been dreading all evening. Instead of answering she picked up the ice cream dishes and carried them into the kitchen. Paul followed her.
She didn't dare look at his face.
"Why don't you tie those balloons to Jeffy's high chair so he can enjoy them in the morning?"
"Susan . . ."
She kept her back staunchly toward him. "He loves a party. He's sleeping in that party hat."
He gripped her shoulders. She closed her eyes, trying not to be swept into a passionate storm that would make her lose her reason.
"I won't be sidetracked. Who's doing his surgery?"
Paul was the best. Dr. Freelander had told her so. She gripped the ice cream dishes.
"Susan . . ." He turned her gently, then caught her chin and forced her to look at him. "Jeffy's not a child of my loins, but he's a child of my heart. His only chance to live lies in a delicate surgical procedure that I pioneered."
Paul caressed her cheeks with hands that were exquisitely tender. She imagined her son's heart in those same hands.
"I want to do his surgery."
"No, Paul. I can't let you do it."
"Would you deny him the best?"
"Don't ask me to make this choice."
"Susan . . ." Paul traced the blue vein that pulsed in her throat. "I know what you're thinking."
His son had died on the table, died while Paul massaged his tiny heart and begged him to live. It was too much to ask that he risk such a loss once more. And yet, could she deny her son the best?
