by Rae Renzi
I wanted so badly to blame him for… what? Craig’s death? My life? I couldn’t lay the blame on him for either situation. He had saved Craig’s life, albeit temporarily, and I, not he, had determined that I should leave medical school. It had been the right decision—of that I was sure. But my life was so different than I had envisioned, not entirely in a good way, and the changes had all started in that horrible room on that horrible day with this horrible man.
I was suddenly dizzy and confused and wished I could have a nap. But there was no escape. I was stuck here until my wound was fixed.
The surgeon was still staring at me, now with the hint of recognition in his gaze. But he still looked as though he were working on a puzzle. What had that nurse written down?
I pulled myself together and gave him a little finger wave. In the current context, friendliness, even if feigned, seemed by far the best tack, especially since he could arrange for my speedy treatment and discharge. Besides, my anger with him was hardly supportable—he was arrogant and brutish, but he had only done his job on that fateful day. And I alone was responsible for my impending financial doom.
No, my short history with him should not account for my dislike. I would have to find something new to loathe him for. Based on the available evidence, it didn’t seem like this would be a problem.
Luckily, any lack of warmth in my attitude toward him was more than compensated by Marybob’s kittenish squirm and inviting smile.
“Ooooh. Hot, hot, hot,” she said under her breath.
The doctor stared at me for a moment longer. After running his hand distractedly over his head, he said something over his shoulder to his colleague and headed my way.
He came to a halt directly in front of me. “I’m Sam Kendall.” He nodded at Marybob and held out his hand to me. “I didn’t introduce myself when we last met. Or when we first met.”
That would be over Craig’s dying body. Not exactly the time for introductions.
Marybob’s eyes went wide. She might as well have shouted at me, “You know this hunk?” In fact, given her general inclinations, I was moderately surprised she didn’t.
Trying to ignore her, I offered my own hand. “Joy—”
“Abercrombie. I know. A name I’m not likely to forget,” he said, taking my hand. “At least now I understand your attitude toward me over the car incident. I didn’t know how things turned out.”
His hand was warm and dry and felt as strong as it looked. I had a momentary sense of an island of comfort in a sea of unease, but it lasted only a moment, only long enough for me to process what he had said.
“How things had turned out”? Ah. He felt remorse. Remorse at my leaving medical school. Well, it was his fault. In a way. The thought cheered me up. If that were the case, he would owe me. He’d bend over backward to be helpful to make up for the harm he’d caused.
Overcoming my momentary disorientation, I hurriedly introduced Marybob and made a suggestion. “Dr. Kendall, I know you must be extremely busy, and my injury is superficial. If you could possibly provide me with a mirror and a suturing kit, I think I can manage it myself and be on my way.”
He smiled. “Oh, I’m pretty sure you could, Miss Abercrombie, given half a chance. Unfortunately—or fortunately, as the case may be—policy won’t allow it.”
“Then what about some butterfly bandages? Honestly, there’s no need for you to trouble yourself for such a minor matter.”
“Well, now, I have to agree with you there. Especially as I might get a tad too much unhealthy satisfaction out of it. In any case, I’m due in surgery. One of the residents will see you shortly.” Sketching an odd little salute to me and Marybob, he sauntered away, leaving us both at a loss for words, but, I suspect, for entirely different reasons.
Chapter 19
Several hours later, feeling battered and forlorn, I was released. I had been examined, given a CT scan, examined again, and sewn up. I was annoyed with Dr. Sam Kendall, who, I felt sure, could have facilitated the process if he’d wanted to.
Marybob showed amazing loyalty through the whole thing. Or perhaps she was fascinated with the wide variety of males wandering around the place. Whatever the reason, I was grateful she was there, especially once I realized Mr. Botts had taken the hearse and gone home, leaving a message for us to take a cab.
After I endured every possible precautionary test and treatment, I located Marybob in the waiting room—she’d opted not to watch the actual sewing up of my head—when a small hubbub erupted in one corner.
“There he is!” said a piping little voice. A boy of seven or eight years old sprang from his chair and raced across the room. Following his trajectory, I spotted Dr. Kendall walking wearily toward the family, his surgical mask hanging around his neck, tufts of hair escaping around his cap.
The child stopped abruptly, his lower lip quivering. The young surgeon dropped down on one knee to look straight into the worried little face and say a few words. The boy burst into tears and flung himself at Dr. Kendall, who dropped his clipboard to receive the child in his sturdy embrace. When he stroked the small head, tucking it into his massive shoulder with his big hand, a hard knot formed in my throat.
He glanced over the child’s head at the family now rushing over, terrified expressions on their faces. “It’s okay. His dad’s fine. It went well,” he said hurriedly, raising his voice to be heard across the distance, clearly not wanting to cause them even one more second of anguish. He ruffled the little boy’s hair before gently detaching him and guiding him toward his family. “Tears of relief, I think. Let’s find a quiet place, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
As he stood and scanned the room to find a suitable corner to talk to the family, he saw me and fell still. His eyes bored into mine, and my stomach suddenly felt too warm. I don’t think it was heartburn. It felt more like… hot chocolate.
His intention wasn’t clear—only that some complicated emotions simmered within him. I hoped it was guilt, but it was surely laced with something more, judging from his expression. Of course, maybe I wasn’t his target. I glanced around to see if someone stood behind me, but there was no one. I turned back to him, but he had resumed his duty and was now shepherding the family into a corner.
I tried to dredge up my earlier attitude toward him—dislike, some anger, a dash of irritation—but it wouldn’t come. It had disintegrated with the clarity I’d gained about the day Craig died, and then didn’t die. Probably his tenderness with the little boy hadn’t hurt, either.
However, impatience was alive and kicking. I’d had enough of cryptic young surgeons. I didn’t know what had precipitated his look, but I meant to find out.
I crossed my arms, set my hip, and waited for him to finish talking to the family. His conference with them would be short—good news always takes less time to deliver than bad. I’d jump him the minute he finished. Well, not jump, exactly, but intercept.
Before that happened, Marybob appeared by my side. “He wants you, Joy.” Her smile was smug. “He is sooooo hot.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Marybob.”
“He does. He is.” Her tone allowed no room for argument.
“Miss Abercrombie? Miss Joy Abercrombie?” A stout woman holding a clipboard frowned over her glasses at the occupants of the waiting room.
“Yes?”
She eyed me up and down and snapped, “Follow me, please.” Confident of my obedience, she turned and walked away.
I’m sure she was just doing her job, and maybe she’d had just as crummy a day as me, but, honestly, my head hurt and I just wasn’t in the mood.
“Actually, I’ve been discharged. I’m going home,” I explained to the back of her head.
She stopped mid-stride and glacially turned to face me. “You may have been medically discharged, Miss Abercrombie, but you have not made financial arrangements for the service you received.”
“I beg your pardon, but I have provided my insurance information. That should do the trick.
”
“Not if the insurance has been cancelled,” she said with a viper’s smile.
Mr. Botts—the coward—did not come in the following day. He left me a voicemail, which I listened to as I examined my bill from Memorial Hospital for the hundredth time during a lull between corpses.
“Greetings, Joy! I’m sure you’re all better now. We all get these little bumps and lumps, but they don’t slow us down, do they? Heh, heh. I hope the lack of insurance didn’t inconvenience you. I had to cancel it to keep the boat afloat, so to speak. But never fear! Things are picking up. I’ll be back in a few days.”
“He hopes it didn’t inconvenience me? Three thousand, five hundred, and eighty-three dollars?” It was more than an inconvenience, to my way of thinking. More like a knife in my gut, in fact.
I reached for the DDDS ledger and slid it open to Clydesdale’s page. Picking up a pencil, I wrote $0.00 and flopped the volume closed with a sigh. Forty-nine days left.
Chapter 20
Three days after the brouhaha, my stitches started to itch, a sign that I was mending—at least physically. The financial effects remained to be dealt with, and I had some mild psychological symptoms, too—recurring flashbacks to the strange episode, a vision of Clydes’s face breaking into tears and his hand closing on the vase.
I also had difficulty sleeping. I diagnosed myself as suffering from mild post-traumatic stress disorder due to Clydes’s reaction, or possibly post-concussive syndrome due to the blow to my head. Either way, I regretted not paying attention to my intuition that Clydes was not quite ready for our help. Instead, I had caved to popular opinion—mostly Marybob and Ruby, who, now I thought of it, both had conflicts of interest: Marybob wanted to play Madam Mystique, and Ruby wanted to leave. I should have realized Clydes was in too much acute grief to be open to romantic possibilities. Exactly why he had singled me out to vent his emotion on was still not clear.
The experience in the ER, though unsettling, hadn’t contributed to my symptoms, but certain parts of it seemed to be stuck in my brain anyway. The first was the encounter with Sam Kendall in the waiting room. The second was the discussion with the financial counselor, which hadn’t stuck so much as clanged around like a bolt inside a metal barrel.
It took a lot of willpower during the following days to keep my mind from wandering to inventive ways to get back at Mr. Botts.
But these uncomfortable thoughts weren’t on my mind as I braved the blustering wind and driving rain to get to Pie Sigh—Marybob was. She had sent me an urgent text message moments ago asking me to meet her immediately. She was an undemanding friend (in most ways) so the agitation in the text had put wings on my feet in spite of the ridiculous amount of work I had at the mortuary.
I ducked out of the rain into the coffeehouse and shook drops off my umbrella as I searched the cafe. Pie Sigh was crowded, as I guessed it would be at this hour. The outdoor tables were abandoned because of the soggy weather, so everyone had been forced to squeeze into the two indoor rooms.
Marybob wasn’t near the front door or in the long line waiting to place orders. I hadn’t had lunch, and I was hungry, so I got in line. As I stood in the queue, trying to decide between Cheesy Pepper pie or Apple Slump, I peered around at the tables. She wasn’t there, either. A rill of anxiety snaked through me. Was she hurt? Ill? Common sense suggested not—one doesn’t pick a coffeehouse to meet in cases of illness or injury. Maybe she’d been fired? She had been spending a lot of time on DDDS, but I hoped not at the expense of her steady employment, especially given our current fiscal flabbiness.
I felt a ping of recognition as my eyes scanned the tables again, but it wasn’t Marybob who set it off—it was Dr. Sam Kendall. Again.
A laptop computer was open on his table, and his eyes were locked onto it. A frown marred his face, but an errant sprig of hair added a small dose of mischievous schoolboy, which saved him from looking fierce and tripped in me an errant longing, a sudden urge to smooth my hand over his hair. Which was strange, because I really didn’t like the man. He was arrogant. And… confusing.
Luckily, he was engrossed in his task, so he didn’t see me. I spun back to the counter to place my order, realizing I had to avoid contact with Sam Kendall. Not because he was a horrible person—however much I wanted to believe it. No, I wanted to avoid him in the same way one wanted to avoid a dark shadow or a deep pool but at the same time was drawn to peer into it. I sensed that something unsettling lurked just out of sight.
So, where the heck was Marybob?
I paid for my coffee and a piece of Cheesy Pepper pie and, holding them closely to protect them from the crowd, I stepped into the larger room in hopes of finding a table. Luck wasn’t with me.
And I couldn’t say luck was on my side when I saw a hand go in the air, obviously waving at me. Sam Kendall had seen me and was beckoning me to join him. Unless… ? I glanced behind me to see if some devastatingly attractive woman was drooling in his direction, maybe the one I’d seen him with before. But, no. The balding academic-looking fellow who was nearest me didn’t show any signs of recognition, nor did the pierced-and-tattooed girl behind him. Dr. Kendall must be waving at me. I turned back, to see him point at me, then at his table, making his intention clear.
He made me nervous—I could admit that—but I’m no coward, and my curiosity whittled away at my resistance. I hadn’t had the chance to find out what had prompted the strange look he had fired at me in the ER waiting room. This might be the perfect chance to fix that.
The coffee resolved my dilemma. No tables were vacant, Marybob was nowhere to be seen, and my hot coffee cup was becoming uncomfortable to hold. Ignoring my leaping and lurching inner organs, which seemed to have developed a life of their own, I took a deep breath and headed toward Sam Kendall.
His lips curved up at the corners when I moved in his direction. He stood and pulled a heavy wooden chair away from the table in a courtly gesture, all the while maintaining close—some might say intense—eye contact with me. The distant babble of conversation swelled around us, but I was captured in a tiny island of stillness, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed my air.
“Kind of crowded today, but I’m almost through here.” He smiled down at me, a pirate’s smile, knowing and secret, with a dash of risk. He indicated a half-eaten sandwich in front of him. “If you can bear my company for a few minutes, you’ve got yourself a table.” He tilted his head at me in inquiry.
I was embarrassed that my aversion to being near him had been obvious, all the more because I had no cause. “Thank you, Dr. Kendall—”
“Sam.”
I hesitated, not at all sure it was a good idea to get casual with him, but I couldn’t think of a graceful way out. Actually, I was having trouble thinking at all. “Thank you, Sam. I think I can manage to put up with you for a few minutes.” I returned his smile as I slid into the chair. “Even if you didn’t let me stitch myself up.”
His smile deepened, showing a dimple on one side. I wondered if he was aware of the effect of that little feature and used it accordingly. I dismissed the thought. It was clear from the state of his clothes that he didn’t spend time considering his own appearance, much less its effect on others.
He quickly closed his computer and slid it into a case. There was an awkward moment as I arranged my coffee, pie, and myself at the table. At least, I felt awkward. He didn’t seem the least bit troubled. His eye roved over my face and head completely unselfconsciously. I felt color creep up my cheeks at his frank appraisal.
“No worse for the wear, I see,” he said.
I was confused for a moment but quickly realized he was referring to my trip to the ER, not my general person. I pulled my heavy mane of hair back from my face to reveal a row of stitches. “Not noticeably, thanks to your Dr. West.” Leaning forward to scrutinize the medical work, his long fingers grazed over the wound, a hummingbird touch that brought distracting heat to my chest and regions below. His hand lingered for a momen
t before he gave a satisfied grunt and leaned back.
“You always come here in the afternoons?” He picked up his sandwich and took an enormous bite, keeping his steel-blue eyes on me.
Marybob! How could I have forgotten her, even for a moment? “No, not usually. My friend Marybob called a few minutes ago and asked me to meet her here.” I searched the room again. Where on earth was she?
“Marybob. That’s the woman with the… um, your friend in the ER? I just…” He appeared puzzled. “I saw her here a minute ago.” He shrugged. “Or maybe I was mistaken.”
I doubted it. Marybob was not easily mistaken. Or ignored. I was beginning to get peeved at my friend—and a little suspicious.
He popped the last bit of sandwich into his mouth and swiped a napkin across his lips before leaning back and frowning at me. “So you’re a mortician now.”
“How—”
“It was in your chart. So, a mortician?” He sounded uneasy.
I was used to it. The field of mortuary science isn’t embraced by everyone. Ironically, the dead, who can’t do violence to anyone, tend to scare people. “Actually, mortician-in-training. I do restoration art.”
“Restoration art? Like plastic surgery, only on dead people.”
“Hmm. Yes. Pretty much. Obviously you’re still a surgeon.”
“A trauma surgeon, as you know. I try to save lives, Joy. It’s what I do.”
This last was spoken in a defensive tone.
“From my limited observation, it seems like you’re good at it.”
Rather than smoothing the conversation, my reply appeared to discomfit him further. He squirmed in his chair like a small boy.
“Listen… about that comment I made—” Sam pushed his now empty plate aside and leaned his forearms on the table. With his fingertip, he slowly traced the edges of a spoon, sliding along the handle, dipping into the bowl. Watching the sensuous movement of those long fingers made me feel strange and out of sorts.
