by Jill Blake
He could always use work as the excuse. Between his research and teaching responsibilities at the university, and the demands of a new start-up, the opportunity to indulge in any extra-curricular activity would no doubt be limited. Add to that her schedule, and they probably wouldn’t be able to find the time to get together regardless of his inclinations.
A clean break. No fault, no hard feelings.
He rubbed his chest, trying to get rid of the gnawing sense of unease.
Chapter 6
April, three and a half years later
Isabelle woke abruptly, heart pounding, cold sweat staining her thin cotton T-shirt.
The dream was always the same. The sound of shouting and running feet, the exam room door bursting open, the gun discharging in slow motion, the searing pain as she instinctively reached out to shield her patient’s pregnant belly, the shock of blood spreading like an ink splotch across the woman’s chest.
Breathe. Inhale slowly, count to six. Exhale.
She concentrated on the movement of her diaphragm. Another deep breath in. Pause. Slow breath out.
Her heart rate settled. The images receded.
She opened her eyes again and flexed her left hand, testing the thumb and forefinger. No, the fingers still couldn’t make the “okay” sign. Despite two metal plates and twelve screws, despite nine months of hard work with the physical and occupational therapists, she still couldn’t manage a pincer grasp. Such a simple gesture, something that most one-year-olds had mastered, and yet it eluded her.
The orthopedic surgeons had warned her she might never regain complete strength and fine motor coordination in her hand. So had the vascular surgeon who’d ligated the radial artery, and the neurologist who’d done her nerve conduction tests once the cast had come off.
She’d been lucky. A bullet to the mid-portion of her forearm, shattering the radius and ulna, nicking the radial artery. A few inches higher, and she might have lost complete function of the arm. Sure, she’d been lucky.
Except that the moment the bullet had torn through muscle and splintered bone, her career as an ob/gyn had been over. Oh, there were the usual platitudes: she could still practice non-surgical gynecology, even do prenatal obstetrics care. But there was no way she could do C-sections or laparoscopic surgery with a hand that wouldn’t respond quickly and precisely to the messages it got from her brain. A surgeon who didn’t have lightning fast reflexes or response times, where a matter of seconds or a distance of millimeters could mean the difference between life and death, was no surgeon at all.
After the shooting, she’d taken a leave of absence from her job, and resigned her position at the clinic where she’d volunteered every month for ten years, since the place had first opened.
While the manhunt for the shooter continued, and then for weeks after it ended in a deadly confrontation between the gunman and police, Isabelle’s family and friends rallied around her. They took turns staying with her so she was never left alone. They brought her food that she didn’t eat, and books that she didn’t read.
They remained supportive, even as she withdrew from the world.
And then the nightmares started. The anxiety bordering on terror at the sound of a door slamming or a car backfiring. The irritability, the lashing out at those who tried to help.
Throwing off the bedcovers that had somehow gotten twisted through the night, Isabelle headed for the shower.
A blinking light on her phone alerted her to a new message when she got out.
“Hey, Diz.” Jake’s silly nickname for her made her smile. “Just wanted to make sure you were still okay with driving to Oakridge by yourself. Not that I’m angling for an invite to the big manse, or anything. But buzz me if you need company.”
The message lifted her mood, as Jake had probably meant it to.
If there was one good thing to come out of this entire mess, it was her reintroduction to Jake Stein. The man had been her sister-in-law Kate’s best friend since college, and had stood by her through years of family dysfunction before she’d met Isabelle’s brother Marc. After Kate and Marc had gotten married, Jake remained a frequent visitor to their home, and on occasion to the DiStefano family compound on the Main Line.
But until recently, he’d been little more than a distant figure on the fringes of Isabelle’s world. They had little in common other than Kate. Jake was older, closer to her brother Marc’s age, and very much a part of the establishment: the head of his own company, happily monogamous with the same woman for as long as Isabelle had known him.
At some point, he disappeared entirely amid vague rumors that his wife had died.
And then, when Isabelle had been at her lowest, when she’d barely been able to drag herself out of bed to get to her occupational therapy sessions, when she found herself staring at the Xanax by her bedside and the dusty bottle of cognac some long-forgotten houseguest had given her—that’s when Jake re-entered her life.
Kate, along with everyone else in the family, had despaired of getting Isabelle out of her funk. What, after all, could you say to a woman who had, simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time, lost her entire career in a matter of minutes? All those tens of thousands of hours of studying, slaving through internship and residency, putting in sweat equity toward partnership in a medical practice—only to have it all taken away because some psychopath with a rap sheet longer than her arm couldn’t get over the fact that his pregnant ex-girlfriend didn’t want him in her life. Getting in the way of that gun in a last-ditch effort to negotiate for her patient’s safety had been the bravest and the stupidest thing Isabelle had ever done. And what, in the end, had it gotten her? The patient had died anyway, her pregnancy too early for the baby to even have a fighting chance.
But Kate had refused to give up. She’d dragged Isabelle to a therapist who specialized in PTSD, or post-traumatic stress disorder. And she’d needled and prodded until Isabelle had finally agreed to accompany her to brunch with Kate’s old friend Jake.
The man had turned out to be Isabelle’s savior. Not only had he given her a new career, hiring her on as a medical advisor at his biotech company, Oncogene Technologies, but he’d also managed to pull her back from the brink.
It wasn’t so much his over-the-top sense of humor, or his kindness and good sense, though those had helped too. And it certainly wasn’t his looks, because other than that one time a few months back when they’d ended up in bed after a maudlin evening of drinking too much, they hadn’t pursued anything physical. It felt too awkward, like undressing in front of your brother.
Maybe it was the fact that he was a fellow survivor that made the difference. He’d lost his wife, Lily, in a hit-an-run accident. She’d been killed on impact, while he’d walked away with barely a scratch. Survivor guilt could be a real bitch. He apparently suffered nightmares too, reliving the final moments like a video montage stuck on endless replay. Isabelle recognized his symptoms as her own: the flashbacks, the cold sweats, the hyper-vigilance, the feeling of constantly being on edge. They were two damaged souls, walking wounded in a world that had barely slowed down enough for the clean-up of the blood splatter before lurching forward again, full-speed, as if nothing had happened. Together, they clung to each other for support, buffeted by the noise and color of the world around them, learning slowly to walk again, eyes on the ground, looking no farther than the next step, too shaken still to imagine a future beyond that. Mindfulness, her therapist called it. Staying in the moment.
She texted Jake back: Sorry, boys not invited.
The two-and-a-half hour drive passed quickly. It was almost surreal, pulling up to Samantha and Alex’s grand Victorian at the end of a cul-de-sac that also housed the neighboring Oakridge Urgent Care, where Sam worked.
Since Isabelle’s last visit, the clinic had expanded to triple its original size, and if the sound of hammering and the pile of lumber taking up half the parking lot were anything to judge by, construction was still going on.
; A number of cars lined the street. Isabelle wondered just how many people were going to be at the shower. Her palms felt clammy, and her heart rate picked up. It was still hard for her to be in crowds, or around people she didn’t know. She now carried propranolol with her, popping a small pill an hour or so before taking meetings with clinical advisory board members or FDA officials. It helped to reduce the peripheral symptoms of anxiety, without actually dulling her brain or causing sedation. The performer’s best friend. Ironic, that she should resort to a pill for stage fright, when in the past she’d loved being the center of attention, and often sought out the spotlight, especially at extended family gatherings where she had to compete with so many other attention-loving DiStefanos.
She’d managed to avoid making the trip to Oakridge since the birth of Jane’s first child nearly three years ago. She’d been the one to host Jane’s first baby shower then, in her Rittenhouse Square townhouse. This time, Sam had volunteered.
Isabelle was looking forward to seeing her friends, especially on the happy occasion of Jane’s baby shower. There had been a couple miscarriages after the first baby, and this pregnancy had been fraught with problems. Now that Jane was in her seventh month, the doctors were cautiously optimistic.
There was no way Isabelle would have skipped attending today. But that didn’t stop her from feeling strange, almost disconnected from her physical self, even as she made her way up the front stairs to the wide veranda.
Pink-and-blue crepe paper festooned the square white columns, and helium balloons bobbed from ribbons attached to the railing that flanked the steps.
The door flew open before she had a chance to knock or ring the bell.
“I was afraid you’d bail at the last minute,” Samantha said, hugging her. She pulled Isabelle through the foyer, into a living room that had been adorned with more baby-themed decorations. A dozen or so women milled about, more perched on dainty chairs and antique loveseats. Faint strains of some kind of classical music played in the background.
“Jane should be out of the bathroom soon. She’ll be so glad to see you!” Sam dragged her from group to group, making introductions. “Food is through there—”
She broke off as Jane emerged.
“Oh my God, you’re so big!” Isabelle said.
Jane laughed. “Your bedside manner could use some work.” Then she blanched, as if realizing her faux pas.
Isabelle forced herself to smile and pat her on the arm. “You’re right.”
Another fifteen minutes passed before she was able to make her escape to the dining room. It was quieter here, just a few women—locals whose names Isabelle couldn’t remember—laughing and chattering as they helped themselves to finger sandwiches and crudités from the massive buffet spread.
She had just picked up a plate and napkin, and was trying to decide which of the appetizers she could stomach, when a sound from the opposite door attracted her attention.
There, framed by the light from the kitchen beyond, stood a man she thought she’d never see again.
Luca Santoro.
They stared at each other while the voices of the women ebbed and flowed around them. The moment stretched into something awkward, the tension palpable, like a living breathing thing.
He cleared his throat. “Bella.”
She blinked, trance broken. “I thought this was a girls’ only event.”
His laugh lines crinkled as he smiled, the expression so hauntingly familiar that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. He waved vaguely toward the kitchen behind him. “Alex and Ross are in there. We’re having a meeting. A little work, a few drinks to toast the father-to-be.”
Her eyes flitted toward the door, a narrow slice of stainless steel refrigerator and granite countertop visible beyond. She could just make out the faint rumble of masculine laughter.
“I needed to use the facilities,” he said, nodding toward the hall, where she dimly recalled passing a restroom.
She concentrated on keeping her voice steady. “Don’t let me stop you.”
She speared something—a stuffed mushroom? A brine-cured olive? It didn’t matter. It was something to focus on, something to keep her hands busy and her gaze engaged while he crossed the room, passing close enough that she could smell his aftershave. Amazing that after all this time, she could still recognize the scent. She felt him hesitate, his gaze lingering on her, and she deliberately kept her eyes averted until he was gone. Then she slumped onto the nearest surface, a tall-backed chair set against the wall, feeling as if a vacuum had sucked all the air out of the room in Luca’s wake.
She tried to summon some of the anger she’d felt three and a half years ago when they’d parted ways. Ten glorious days, and then—nothing. He might as well have said it: Thanks, it’s been fun, but sorry, you’re just not my type. Except that she was, they’d been so hot for each other, unable to keep their hands to themselves from the day they’d met.
The problem arose after the visit with his family, the visit he’d sprung on her toward the end of their trip, the visit she’d thought had gone so well. He’d been stiff, unsmiling on the drive back to Amalfi. Their lovemaking was silent, fevered. Every time she tried to say something, he shut her up with such mind-numbing kisses that she wouldn’t have remembered her own name if asked.
He left the following morning, bidding her a hurried goodbye, his mind apparently on other matters. She stayed on another few days as planned, already missing the warmth of his body and the sound of his laughter.
After returning home, she waited to hear from him, and then impatient with the silence, picked up the phone herself. At first, she brushed off his failure to respond to calls and text messages. The fall semester had just started, he was no doubt buried in work. It wasn’t until she’d been back at work herself for a couple of weeks that Jane clued her in.
“You know he’s divorced, right? The ex apparently chose her career over the marriage.”
He had acted odd when she’d mentioned her work. But this was the twenty-first century. She couldn’t think of a single woman of her acquaintance who didn’t have a job, at least at some point in her life. Even Luca’s mother and sisters worked, running the Santoro vineyard. Surely Luca wasn’t behaving like an ass over the fact that Isabelle had a career?
She’d finally cornered him. Right here, in Sam and Alex’s house, in fact. He’d admitted, warily, that he hadn’t known when they first met that she was a physician, and yes, that was an issue.
“Well, it’s not like I was trying to keep it a secret,” she said. “Everyone knows what I do. It never occurred to me that you didn’t, or that it would be such a turn-off.”
“It’s not a turn-off, exactly.”
“Then what?”
“There’s only room for one career in this relationship.”
She blinked. “You’re kidding me.”
He stiffened. “I will not play second fiddle to someone else’s job.”
“I see.” Clearly, beneath the façade of an educated man beat the heart of a Neanderthal. “Well, I’m glad we got that into the open now. Saves us both a lot of grief. It’s been nice knowing you.”
“Bella, wait.”
She shook off his hand. “I don’t need this kind of crap from the man I’m dating. I had to deal with it from the old boys’ network in med school and residency, but I don’t need to put up with it in my personal life.”
And she stormed off, half hoping he’d have a change of heart and come after her. Of course, he’d have to grovel before she’d agree to take him back. And the chauvinistic attitude had to go.
But he didn’t come after her. He didn’t call, or text, or email.
It was as if, in his mind, he’d shut the door completely, locked it behind her, and thrown away the key.
Chapter 7
Luca shut the bathroom door and leaned against the wall.
Closing his eyes, he could still picture her: thinner than he remembered, her eyes shadowed, her cheeks hollowed, her
entire body tense as a rubber-band stretched to the limit.
He’d observed her for several minutes before she noticed him. Though she’d greeted the other guests in the room, she had made no move to join them. The quiet watchfulness was something new, as was the air of melancholy. A stark contrast to the celebration around her, and to memory of her that he’d carried with him for years.
He recalled the way she’d been at the wedding and then in Italy. Crackling with energy, like a live wire. Perpetually in motion, laughing and chattering, the life of the party.
How strange, seeing her after all this time. Even though they moved in the same circles—his business partners were married to her friends, after all—they’d somehow managed to avoid meeting up again since their too-brief fling nearly four years ago. Had she been avoiding him? Or was he giving himself too much credit, placing too much importance on what had been for him an aberration, a spontaneous and exhilarating departure from his usual judicious behavior? For all he knew, she might have shrugged off their affair as casually as she’d embarked upon it.
He was the one who’d handled the break-up and its aftermath so poorly. He’d gotten better at it since, refining the technique of gently letting a woman down until it became almost rote.
But over the years, his thoughts returned to Isabelle time and again. Even as he dated other women, it was Bella’s image that haunted him. He found himself noticing that his dinner companion or bedmate laughed a little too loudly, or stared at him without comprehension when he tried to explain an intellectually challenging problem, or seemed less interested in him than his money, especially now that the company was flourishing and his days of toiling in relative obscurity in the ivory tower seemed numbered.
Somehow the women he met lately lacked the joie de vivre that had taken on for him the magnitude of Gatsby’s green beacon: that unattainable but longed-for quality which had so distinguished Bella from her peers, and drawn him to her from the start.
