Wendy watched as he strode to the door, yanked it open and stepped out of the Burger Barn and, she devoutly hoped, out of her life.
CHAPTER FIVE
RODNEY POMMIER, M.D., F.A.C.S., had come to Cooper’s Corner to get away from all those initials dangling after his name.
Not that they didn’t matter to him. He’d worked hard to get them and he was proud of them. He’d just never figured being a medical doctor and a Fellow of the American College of Surgeons could also turn a man into a celebrity.
A very unhappy celebrity.
Rod had wanted to be a doctor ever since he was a kid. That his path through life had been all but laid out for him in a different direction by generations of Pommiers had made reaching his goal all the sweeter. When he was growing up, it had been expected he’d go to McGill, take his degree in finance and management and, as his father put it, come on board at Pommier Investments.
Well, he’d tried.
Rod sighed as he stood on the sagging porch of the old cabin he’d just bought, and looked out at the view.
He’d absolutely tried. But after a year of struggling to give a damn about cost analysis and price earnings ratios, he’d given up, flown home one weekend and announced that he was going to become a doctor, not a financier. He’d stood in his father’s wood-paneled study, ready for the war that was sure to come. Instead, after a couple of minutes of stunned silence, he’d gotten a smile, a handshake that turned into a hug, and all the best wishes he’d never expected.
“It’s time a Pommier went out into the world and did something else with his life,” his father had said.
That was what Rod had done.
He loved medicine. Loved his work. Newsweek said he had the arrogance of all top surgeons, that he played God in the operating room. He didn’t see it that way. He was a man with a talent for looking at broken bones and torn muscles as parts of an intricate puzzle. It would have been as wrong to deny that talent as it would have been to misuse it….
Which was why he was here, skiing in the snowy Berkshires, instead of back in Manhattan seeing new patients.
Rod sighed again and leaned his elbows on the porch railing.
His discovery of the regenerative matrix technique, a TV reporter had gushed, had opened a door into a new field of orthopedic medicine. Well, yeah. Maybe so, but it was still too soon to know exactly what lay beyond that door. Not everybody would benefit from the surgery. Some might even be damaged by it. “First, do no harm,” said the Hippocratic oath. After a while, Rod had wearied of trying to explain that, especially since far too many people thought he just wasn’t interested in taking on patients who weren’t rich or famous.
The truth was, most of his patients were neither. He chose people based on how well he thought they’d respond to the new technique, not for any other reason. But after he attended a couple of functions run by New York’s upper crust and his name and face began appearing on the Sunday society pages of the Times, the world was sure it knew all it needed to know about him. Rod had only attended the damned parties because his department chairman had urged him to go.
“For the good of the hospital,” she’d said, and it had taken a while before Rod realized that what she really meant was for the charitable donations that his appearance could engender.
Before he knew it, he was a media darling. That was bad enough, but even worse were the endless calls and letters, the people who buttonholed him in restaurants and supermarkets, every last one of them wanting him to perform his miracle on them—and, damn it, he didn’t perform miracles. He was a surgeon, and the surgery was risky, delicate and sometimes dangerous, though nobody seemed to want to hear that. The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back came the morning the director of his hospital’s board asked him to come by for coffee.
After a few minutes of banal conversation, the man got to the point. There was great interest in the hospital, thanks to Rod’s new procedure. NBC was interested in doing a series of interviews. They’d like to meet with Rod in his office, in his home; they’d like to put a camera into the operating room….
No, no and no, Rod had said coldly. He turned to leave, but the director called him back. There was one other thing. The board was wondering, could he see his way clear to increasing the number of surgeries he was doing? For the good of medicine, the director added hastily.
Rod explained that he was doing the optimum number now. He was only operating on patients he was sure would benefit from the technique and he needed more follow-up studies before he’d present a paper to the New England Journal of Medicine.
“I admire your caution, Doctor,” the director had said, with an unctuous smile. “But there’s a fine line between prudence and denying patients the right to be helped. Surely you see that.”
What Rod saw was that he needed to rethink his professional life. Other hospitals had been making offers; he’d wanted to stay where he was out of loyalty, but wasn’t integrity supposed to accompany loyalty?
He went back to his office, told his secretary not to make any appointments for him from mid-December through mid-January, called his travel agent and asked her to find him a place where he could ski and take it easy and not be anybody’s media darling.
That was how he’d ended up in a town so small it didn’t even appear on some maps, where nobody shoved a mike or a camera in his face, or asked for his autograph as if he was a rock star.
Rod grinned. He was feeling better than he had in a long, long time. Oh, yeah, some people knew who he was, and he suspected one or two of them were working up to mentioning it for reasons of their own—like Howard Monroe, who skied with the local club. But Rod had developed good antennae; he knew when it was time to say “no, thanks” to an offer of coffee.
He liked it here in Cooper’s Corner. Owning a piece of it made him feel good, even if the piece he owned needed work.
A cold wind swept across the face of the mountain. Rod went back into the cabin and took his anorak from the battered sofa where he’d tossed it. He glanced at his watch—3:05. It would be dark soon, and cold as the arctic. He’d had the electricity turned on, a plumber had checked the pipes and a heating guy had delivered oil right after he’d closed on the deal this morning. The lights worked—he’d checked first thing—and so did the plumbing, but the oil burner wasn’t doing anything except making noise.
He stepped out on the porch again.
Shadows were creeping from the edge of the woods, but the narrow road that led up the mountain was still plainly visible. A truck turned onto it. Had to be Seth Castleman, Rod thought, checking his watch again. They had a three-fifteen appointment, and he knew he’d be on time. Castleman was a first-rate carpenter, a fine cabinetmaker and a man who took his responsibilities seriously. If he said he’d meet you at three-fifteen, that was when he met you.
Meeting your obligations was a trait Rod admired. His good mood slipped a notch. That was why he’d have to head back to New York pretty soon, another week or ten days at the most. He hadn’t scheduled any new patients but he knew there were people wanting to see him.
Surgery—no neon lights, no cameras, no hoopla—was what he did and what he wanted to get back to doing.
Seth’s truck pulled into the driveway. That was another thing Rod had arranged for this morning: a guy with a snowplow to clear the drive. And a good thing, too, considering that more snow was predicted for tonight.
“Hey,” Seth called, smiling as he got out of his truck.
“Hey,” Rod said, and grinned. He went down the steps, hand outstretched. “Welcome to Pommier’s Folly.”
Seth chuckled as they shook hands. “Yeah. I heard you really bought the place this morning.”
Rod rolled his eyes. “Is there anything that stays confidential in this town?”
“Nope,” Seth said cheerfully, “there isn’t.” He looked at Rod. “Not unless it’s really important. Folks tend to respect personal privacy.”
Rod nodded. He knew what S
eth was telling him. That was one of the reasons he liked it in Cooper’s Corner. He was pretty sure almost everybody had figured out who he was—he’d registered under his real name at Twin Oaks, and even though the town was small and out of the way, it bristled with as many TV antennaes and satellite dishes as any other place.
“Anyway,” Seth said as they climbed the porch steps and entered the cabin, “if you don’t want folks to know what you eat for breakfast, you’d better tear your empty box of cornflakes into little pieces and flush ‘em down the toilet.”
Rod sighed. “Not this toilet.”
“Doesn’t work?”
“No. Well, the one in the half bath down here does, if you give it enough time, but the plumber said the one upstairs is a lost cause.”
“Hey,” Seth said lightly, “it’s not like you wanted to keep that pink commode, right?” He unzipped his jacket, put his hands on his hips and took a slow walk through the main room. “You did get Pete Lehigh to come in and take a look, didn’t you?”
“The structural engineer? Yeah. He said, same as you, the place is basically sound.” Rod watched Seth’s face, trying to read his reaction to what he saw. “Well? What do you think?”
Seth took in the boxy dimensions, the metal avocado cabinets visible beyond the Formica breakfast bar, the phony overhead beams and the green shag carpeting.
“Exactly what I thought the first time I saw it,” he said, deadpan. “The view’s fantastic.”
“The well’s good, too. Don’t leave that out.” Rod grinned. “Every little bit counts, right?”
“Uh-huh. Just as long as you don’t mind spending the rest of your life redoing the interior.”
“Myself, you mean?” The doctor sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I said the last time we talked, right? Well, that was just an idea. A crazy one.”
“Not so crazy. If you really like working with wood, hammering, sawing, that whole thing can be—”
“Relaxing. Rewarding.” Rod walked over to a sofa upholstered in orange corduroy, winced at the sight of it and dropped down on the end cushion. “The truth is, I don’t have the skill, even if you were to provide the design and the know-how and half the muscle.”
“You’re going to bring somebody in.”
“I am, yeah. Someone who has the talent to do the work and the ability to act as a general contractor, oversee dealing with the new plumbing, the burner that I suspect is dying….
Seth nodded. They’d talked about a sort of do-it-yourself project, with Seth providing help, but he wasn’t really surprised by the doctor’s decision. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. He’d figured Pommier would realize that his wistful talk of working with his hands was just that. The guy was here, taking time off from the real world, but the real world was where he belonged. And it would take long hours to do this job right—refinishing the handsome wood floor buried beneath the rug, restructuring the rooms, making cabinets and built-in furniture.
He and Rod had talked long enough for Seth to understand what the other man wanted—a quiet, peaceful place where he could recharge his energies—and then Seth had made some suggestions, done a few quick sketches, and Pommier had responded with enthusiasm. A day later, he’d phoned and asked, cautiously, how Seth would feel about Rod doing some of the work himself. He had a buddy in New York, another doctor, who was into woodworking as a hobby and kept telling him how relaxing it was. Seth had listened, said bluntly that as long as Pommier agreed to leave the finer stuff—the furniture—to him, he saw no problem doing it that way.
Then he’d done some daydreaming about the project even though he’d known, deep down, that it wouldn’t happen.
Pommier had come to his senses. He’d obviously realized he wouldn’t have the time. And he was a big-city guy with money. It was only natural he’d want to bring in somebody from New York or Boston.
“Well,” Seth said, smiling, “thanks for letting me know.” He came toward Rod, hand outstretched. The doctor got to his feet. “And good luck.”
“Yeah. You, too—and believe me, you’re gonna need it more than I will.” He grinned and clasped Seth’s hand. “Heck, I’ll just write the checks. You’re the one who’ll deal with the headaches.”
“Headaches?” Seth said, frowning.
“You’re guaranteed to have quite a few, turning this sow’s ear into a silk purse.”
Seth stared at Pommier. “Are you saying you’re hiring me as your general contractor?”
“Who else? And before you ask, I checked around. In fact, I talked with Clint Cooper again just last night. No question, you’re the man to do the job. Is it a deal?”
“You bet it is.”
The men smiled, shook hands, then stepped apart. “Well,” the doctor said, “that’s done.” He strolled across the room, rolled his eyes at the avocado refrigerator and pulled the door open. “Ugly,” he said, “but at least it works.” He reached inside, held up two bottles of ale. “I figured we’d want to celebrate. Okay with you?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Great. I’d offer you a glass, but the thought of drinking ale out of something the color of a lime—”
“Say no more.” Seth took the bottle Pommier held out.
“Success,” Rod said.
The bottles clinked lightly as the two men touched them together. They drank, swallowed, and Seth cleared his throat.
“I want to thank you for this opportunity… Hell, I sound like the speaker at some Chamber of Commerce dinner.”
“Forget it. Besides, you may not feel like thanking me once you get started on this project. The more I see of this place, the more I wonder if my head was screwed on straight when I said I wanted to buy it.”
“It’s a great location, and the basic structure is sound. You’ll save a small fortune on construction by redoing instead of starting from scratch.”
“Yeah, so I keep telling myself.” Rod smiled. “Anyway, you’re the one who’s going to be sweating through this. Me? Well, right now, I’m planning a little trip to Vermont. Then I’ll come back here for a while before returning to New York. After that, I’m just going to drive up weekends, stay at Twin Oaks, stop by here and make you a little nuts once in a while, asking if I can drive in a nail or two.”
“It’s your house. You can drive in nails anytime you like.”
“Don’t let any of my residents hear you say that. Some of them are convinced surgeons are supposed to be like virtuoso piano players. Doing anything that might risk injury to your hands is a crime against medicine and humanity.”
“And you don’t agree?”
Rod shrugged. “Injury’s always a possibility, I guess, but I can’t imagine living a life totally free of risk. What would be the point?”
“I’ve heard that philosophy before,” Seth observed quietly.
“But?”
“But, having the risk bite you in the tail isn’t quite the same as imagining it.”
Rod hitched a hip onto one of the vinyl-covered counter stools. “You speaking from personal experience?”
“Just an observation.”
“Right. Well, it’s true, I suppose. I guess some of us have to learn the hard way.” Both men took a drink of ale. “Got to admit, you don’t strike me as somebody who’s avoided risk.”
“I didn’t say I avoided it, just that it’s a dangerous way to live.” One corner of Seth’s mouth curved upward. “It took me most of my teens to figure that out.”
“You grew up here?”
Seth shook his head. “I grew up in New York.”
“The city? I’d never have believed it.”
“I lived there until I was eighteen.”
“How come you moved up here? Oh, hell. Listen to me. Sorry, Castleman. I’m the one who’s big on privacy, and here I am, asking questions. It’s just that I’m so accustomed to meeting people who’ve gone in the other direction. You know, you grow up in, I don’t know, Oshkosh, and when you hit the magic age, you pack up and head for Ne
w York.”
“Is that what you did?”
“Well, I wasn’t raised in Oshkosh.” Rod tilted the bottle to his mouth. “I’m from Canada, originally. Went to college there, then med school, applied for residency in New York, settled in and never looked back. It just felt like the right place.”
“Not for me. I was born in Brooklyn but I…I shifted around a lot. By the time I finished high school, I’d had about as much of the city as I could stomach. College wasn’t on the horizon, not then, but I’d been up in these parts once when I was a kid. Went to summer camp not far from Cooper’s Corner for two weeks with a community youth group. Came back with the same bunch on a winter ski trip, one of those inner city things….”
“Like I said, it’s none of my business.”
“I don’t mind talking about it.” Seth flashed a quick grin. “I’m a success story. No, I mean it. A couple of my high school teachers would have bet I’d end up in a place with a view of steel bars and barbed wire, but something about this area got to me. I graduated high school, came up here, figured maybe I could find some kind of job before moving on across the country. But I liked it here. The mountains. The sleepy little towns. Plus, I turned out to be pretty good on skis and Jiminy was hiring people….”
A sudden image flashed into his head. Wendy, the day he’d first met her. One of her ski bindings had come loose and she’d sat down on a bench to fix it. He hadn’t known that; he’d just figured she was a snow bunny, busy adjusting her skis rather than facing the terrors of the slope. He’d watched her for a couple of minutes, his gaze taking in the long legs encased in black spandex, the riot of dark red curls peeping out from beneath a black knit cap. Finally, he’d put on his best Hey, I’m a Sexy Stud smile—it had worked wonders on lots of girls that winter—strolled up and used what had by then turned into the easiest pickup line in the world, tailor-made for snow bunnies.
“Hi,” he’d said. “Would you like some help?”
She’d looked up, and the intensity of those blue eyes had almost struck him speechless. Almost, but not quite. He’d mustered enough presence of mind to add that he was pretty good on skis. He smiled when he said it, in a self-deprecating kind of way that made it clear what he really meant was he was damn good. And, if she liked, he’d be happy to help her adjust her skis, and then take her to one of the easy runs, where he’d show her some basics.
Reunited with the Billionaire Page 8
