I looked back at him and nodded, and we stared at each other for several seconds. My gaze roamed over his face, and I decided his was one of the most interesting faces I’d ever seen. The shape of his lips and teeth, the length of his nose, and the strong line of his jaw... As I said before, he was not classically handsome, but he was attractively different. Even the soft velvety tone of his voice had a strange effect on me.
“If you don’t have any more questions,” he said to both of us, “I’d like to get started with some bloodwork this morning, and perform a few other tests just to see where we are. Then I’ll set you up with the coordinator to book appointments with the rest of the team.”
“Thank you,” Nadia replied, “but I do have one more question. If a person is on the list, but they’re not home when a heart becomes available and you can’t reach them, what happens? Does the heart go to the next person in line?”
“The hospital will issue a pager,” he said, “so you’ll keep that with you at all times. We wouldn’t want you to miss out,” he said with a smile, as if it were a party invitation.
We all stood up. I held out my hand to shake his over the desk between us. His grip was warm and strong, his gaze friendly, direct, and open.
In that moment, I knew we were in excellent hands, and I was very grateful. So grateful, in fact, that when he escorted us out of the room and I shook his hand at the door, I felt an internal jolt. It became clear to me, then, that he was going to be someone very important in our lives.
Autumn Leaves
Chapter Fifty-eight
September
A FEW WEEKS after meeting Dr. Peterson at the hospital, I was standing in line at Starbucks near my house when the person behind me tapped me on the shoulder.
I turned around, and there he was – my twin sister’s cardiovascular surgeon. This morning he wore loose-fitting jeans, a black turtleneck, and a brown leather jacket. His hair was windblown, and the sight of him forced me to take back my foolish first impression – that he was not particularly handsome. What had I been thinking?
“I thought it was you,” he said with a smile.
“Oh, hi,” I jauntily replied over a sudden whooshing sensation in my belly. His unexpected appearance in my neck of the woods had caught me off guard. “What are you doing here?”
Stupid question. Obviously he’s getting a coffee.
“I live near here,” he replied.
“No kidding.” Not so stupid after all. “So do I. What street?”
He pointed toward the door to gesture in the direction of his house. “I’m over on Chestnut.”
“That’s crazy,” I said. “I’m on Charles Street.”
His eyebrows lifted. “We’re neighbors then.”
“Yes, we are.”
I couldn’t believe it. Nor could I stop staring at him. I felt a little frazzled.
Dr. Peterson glanced over my head. “It’s your turn.”
I swung around to discover a wide space between me and the counter. The clerk was staring at me impatiently. “Can I help you?”
Jostled out of my trance – which was the only word to describe my reaction to seeing Dr. Peterson in my local Starbucks – I hastened forward and ordered a tall non-fat latte.
Dr. Peterson placed his order next. Then we found ourselves waiting together at the end of the counter for our coffees.
“On your way to work?” I asked.
“Always,” he said. “You?”
I nodded.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I’m a divorce attorney,” I told him. “I joined a small practice downtown a few months ago.”
“A divorce attorney,” he replied. “That must be a challenge.”
I adjusted the strap of my purse on my shoulder. “It can be. Sometimes it’s hard not to feel completely smothered by heartbreak. I just hope it doesn’t make me jaded about marriage.”
“You’re not married?” he casually asked.
“No. I was in a relationship recently, but it didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be. I’m much better off. It’s just taken some time to put all the little pieces of my heart back together, that’s all.”
Oh, God, did I really just say that?
The clerk called my name. I raised my hand in response and stepped forward while he set my latte on the counter. Slipping my cup into a cardboard sleeve, I glanced up when a female clerk placed a coffee on the counter and inquired, “Jacob?”
It was odd to hear Dr. Peterson addressed by his first name. He moved to collect his coffee, and I handed him a sleeve. “Want one of these?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I waited for him so we could walk out together.
“How’s Nadia?” he asked as we pushed through the door and emerged onto the sunny street.
“She’s doing well, although she’s a bit bored. She misses her job.”
He nodded with understanding. “That’s pretty standard for someone who’s been through what she has. There’ll be a lot of adjustments. Just make sure she gets out every day, even for a short walk around the block. When’s her next appointment at the hospital?”
“She sees her obstetrician tomorrow.”
“Will you be taking her?”
I inclined my head. “Unfortunately, no. I have to be in court in the morning. She’ll take a cab.”
I wasn’t sure why I said ‘unfortunately.’ Was I disappointed I wouldn’t bump into Dr. Peterson again?
“Why don’t I give you my home number, in case you ever have questions or need anything,” he said out of the blue. “I don’t usually give it out to patients, but since we’re neighbors....”
My head drew back in surprise. “That would be wonderful, thank you.” I dug into my purse for my phone so I could add him to my list of contacts.
He gave me two numbers – one for his home landline, and another for his cell.
When I finished adding him, I said, “Do you want mine?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
He reached into his back pocket for his phone, and I wondered if he was just being polite. Why would he need my number? In case he had an emergency divorce situation?
I found myself watching his hands as he keyed in my information. He was not wearing a wedding ring, and I wished I had asked about his marital status when he’d asked about mine.
The fact that I was curious seemed rather significant, because until that moment, when it came to men, since what happened with Rick, I had been living in some sort of vegetative state.
He slipped his phone back into his jeans pocket. “Thanks for that. Now I should get going.”
Thanks for what, exactly? I wondered. What just happened here?
“I have to get going, too,” I replied. “It was nice bumping into you.”
“You, too. Have a great day.”
We turned and walked in opposite directions, and I had to fight a powerful urge to turn around for one more look at him.
Chapter Fifty-nine
“HOW DID YOUR appointment go?” I asked Nadia when I arrived home from work the following day.
She stood at the stove stirring a pot of something that smelled like chicken soup.
“It went well.” She leaned over the pot to take a whiff. “The baby is still growing, and Dr. Jones said my heart sounded okay.”
“Did you see Dr. Peterson at all?” I asked nonchalantly, as I shrugged out of my blazer and hung it on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. I entered the kitchen and watched her carefully, waiting for her response.
“No. Today was just about the baby.”
For some reason I was relieved to hear that, because if she’d told me she’d spent time in Dr. Peterson’s office, I would have wondered what happened, what they talked about. I might have even felt a little jealous, which made no sense because he was her doctor, not mine.
I hadn’t told her that I ran into him at Starbucks
the day before, nor did I reveal that he lived in our neighborhood. I’m not sure why. Maybe I didn’t want her to suspect that I might, possibly, have a teensy tiny crush on him.
This secret of mine felt childish – like something out of junior high school when you know you can’t trust your new best friend not to go after the boy you like.
It made me realize that I still didn’t trust her.
But I was glad the appointment had gone well.
A few days later, it happened again. With a tall latte in my hand, I walked out of Starbucks and nearly collided with Dr. Peterson, who was on his way in.
“We meet again,” he said, and my insides performed a little flip, for I had thought about him often over the past few days. Yesterday after lunch, I tipped my head back in my chair and closed my eyes so I could replay our conversations in my head. Then – because it was my personal and private daydream – I said all sorts of interesting and witty things to him while we waited for our coffees, and he asked me out on a date.
But here we stood, in the real world, not my fantasy. He paused on the sidewalk, and I switched my coffee from one hand to the other. “How are you?” I asked.
“Good,” he replied. “How did your sister’s appointment go the other day?”
A customer hurried out of the coffee shop, and because we were blocking the door, we had to step apart to let her through.
“She said it went well,” I told him. “The baby’s growing.”
I felt suddenly self-conscious, as if he could magically read me and know that I had been daydreaming about our previous encounter.
“And how are you coping with all of this?” he asked, stepping a little closer.
“I’m doing fine,” I replied, too abruptly. Then I glanced away at the cars parked along the curb on the other side of the street.
Dr. Peterson stood in front of me, watching me intently while he waited for me to elaborate.
“It’s been tough,” I admitted, meeting his gaze again.
“No doubt. She’s your twin sister.”
I looked down at my feet, because I knew what he thought. He assumed Nadia and I were normal twins who had grown up together, wore similar outfits, and were as closely bonded as two women could be. He had no idea that until last year, neither of us knew the other existed. We had been separated at birth, and separated again recently, by circumstances just as cruel, after only a few months of friendship.
We were far from normal.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked out of the blue, and I was so startled, I nearly dropped my coffee.
“When?” I posed the question as if the time and date would dictate whether or not I would say yes, which was funny, because it didn’t matter when. The answer was going to be yes, regardless.
His eyes smiled at me. “What about tonight? If you’re free.”
“Tonight would be great.” I tried not to have a happy manic episode right there on the street. “What time?”
“Why don’t you come over around 7:00?”
“To your place?” I was having some trouble believing this was happening, because it’s exactly how it had played out in my daydream.
“Yeah, I’ll cook.”
I smiled. “All right. Can I bring anything?”
“Just yourself.”
He told me the number of his house on Chestnut Street, then pulled open the door to the coffee shop. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
As I walked away, I did a little dance in my head. Then I wondered what I was going to say to Nadia. He was her doctor, and tonight I would leave her home alone to have dinner with him, in his home.
I toyed with the idea of not telling her. I could say I had some sort of work function.
But why didn’t I want her to know?
There were a few different reasons, I suppose.
Chapter Sixty
WELL, I DID it. I lied to my pregnant sister with the heart condition. I told her I was having dinner with a client. Then I left the house, got into my car, and drove around the corner to Dr. Peterson’s. It would have been much quicker to walk, because I had trouble finding a parking space and had to hoof it even farther from the opposite direction. I suppose I had that coming.
When I finally reached Dr. Peterson’s townhouse, I paused a moment to look up at it. It was red brick with black shutters and a glossy black front door, almost identical to mine. Though I had colorful marigolds in my window boxes, his were full of overgrown weeds. At least they were green.
Taking a deep breath, I walked up the steps and tapped the brass knocker. Dr. Peterson opened the door, and I decided to stop thinking of him as Dr. Peterson.
“Hi Jacob,” I said.
He stepped aside. “Hi, come on in. Is that for us?” He gestured toward the bottle of wine I carried, and when I held it out, he took it off my hands so I could remove my leather jacket.
Beneath it I wore jeans and a silky black blouse, with a pair of high wedge black sandals.
Jacob also wore jeans, and a loose-fitting, navy cotton shirt that made his shoulders look broad.
I followed him into the kitchen. “You’re not allergic to shellfish, are you?” he asked.
“No, I love shellfish.”
“Great.” He went to the stove and emptied a bag of live mussels into a pot of steaming broth.
“Everything smells delicious,” I said.
He turned to me. “Wine?”
“Yes, please.”
“Red or white?”
I glanced at his glass of white wine and the open bottle on the counter. “I’ll have white.”
He poured it and handed it to me, then leaned against the counter. “How was work today?” he asked.
I regarded him with a smile. “The polite response would be for me say ‘good,’ but it doesn’t seem to be the right word, because I’m working on a difficult appeal right now.”
“Can you tell me about it?” he asked. “If it wouldn’t be breaking any rules of confidentiality...”
I reached for a slice of cheddar cheese on the plate of crackers he had set out, and told him about the woman who lost custody of her children because she’d gone to see a therapist during her separation, and how her abusive husband used it against her to imply she was unable to care for the children.
“I’ll bet that sort of thing happens more often than people realize,” Jacob said.
“You have no idea.”
We stood in his kitchen talking about the legal system while the mussels steamed. When the shells opened up, he served them into a large stainless steel bowl, which he set on the granite-topped island. We stood over it, dipping the mussels in melted butter and devouring them while we talked, mostly about my work.
“Do you enjoy it?” he asked.
I set my mussel fork down and picked up my wine. “Yes, I do. Despite some of the frustrating things I see, I enjoy helping people turn a corner. When they come to me, they’re in the process of breaking apart, and they’re usually stressed and unhappy and afraid of what the future will hold. There’s a fear of the unknown. But by the time we get through it all, they feel relieved, as if they can breathe again. I get lots of hugs from clients, once they reach that stage. Those are the good days.” I inclined my head at him. “But you must experience the same thing in your profession.”
“I do hug a lot of patients,” he told me. “Sometimes they’re relieved, like you said. They’re overjoyed with the news I give them, but not always. I also see a lot of grief and sorrow, too. And fear.”
“That’s not surprising,” I gently replied. “When people come to you, they’re forced to face their mortality.” I paused. “I suppose we all have to face that, even when we’re healthy, but I think there must be some natural defense mechanism that keeps us from dwelling on it – otherwise we’d all be living in a constant state of fear and regret for all the things we didn’t accomplish.”
“That’s probably true,”
he agreed, “but that mechanism must break down as we grow older. Look at how teenagers can live so fearlessly and take stupid risks, as if they’re invincible. Then we hit middle age and we start worrying about our cholesterol, and every time we get on a plane...” He picked up another mussel shell and scooped out the flesh. “It really makes you think.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “I never used to mind flying, but now I get a little queasy during takeoff and landing. I’m always relieved when we reach a certain altitude in the air and level off. Then, after the long descent, when the wheels finally touch down on the ground, I can’t stop gripping the seat handles, even when we’re taxying. Actually, the part I hate the most is when we’re speeding on the ground, in those final seconds, just before lift off. I’m always afraid we’re going to hit a pothole and spin out of control. Think about it. If you were driving your car that fast...”
“A Boeing 747 has to reach a speed of about 180 miles per hour before takeoff,” he told me. “You wouldn’t have liked the Concorde. It hit 225 on the ground. I think the airports take care of potholes though,” he said with a grin.
I chuckled and sipped my wine. “Thank you, that’s very reassuring.” I was oddly turned on by his knowledge of jet speeds.
Later, when we sat down at the table to enjoy two perfect steaks he’d barbequed – along with roasted potatoes and fresh green beans – he opened the bottle of red wine I brought and poured two glasses.
Jacob sat down. “Thanks for joining me.” He raised his glass to clink lightly against mine.
“Thank you for the invitation,” I replied, and we each cut into our steaks. “It’s delicious,” I said, and then wondered where our conversation would go next.
Chapter Sixty-one
“SO TELL ME what it was like growing up as a twin,” Jacob said as we cleared the table together.
I carried our plates to the sink to rinse them off. “Actually, Nadia and I didn’t grow up together,” I told him. “I only met her for the first time last year.”
“You’re kidding me.” He was bending to open the dishwasher, but straightened upright to look at me.
The Color of Heaven Series [03] The Color of Hope Page 15
