Mother Knows Best

by Barbara Bretton

  Chapter Eleven

  "Something's wrong," said Paula the next morning. "I can hear it in your voice."

  "You can't hear anything in my voice." Diana yawned as she switched the receiver from her left ear to her right. "You haven't given me the chance to say anything."

  "It's in what you're not saying," her sister persisted.

  "It's six o'clock in the morning here, Paulie, and I had to run a mile and a half to answer this blasted phone. If you're looking for brilliant conversation, call someone else."

  "Where are the girls?"

  "Asleep, just like I was before you called."

  "Where are they sleeping?"

  "I told you: I have cribs in the master bedroom with me."

  "They're getting too old for cribs," Paula fretted. "What if they try to climb out?"

  "Don't worry," Diana said, stifling another yawn. "I thought of everything. Fort Knox isn't as safe as they are."

  "Just because you write that column doesn't mean you know everything, Diana. Wait until you become a mother. You'll --"

  " -- know just how hard it is. I've heard it before, Paula." She didn't bother to stifle her third yawn. "Is there anything else or can I get a little sleep before your next phone call?"

  "Excuse me for worrying about my own children!" Paula snapped.

  "I'm sorry," said Diana, "but you're beginning to make me feel as if you don't trust me."

  "Of course I trust you."

  "Then why all the questions?"

  There was a long silence then the muffled sound of crying on the other end of the connection.

  "Paula?"

  "I miss them, that's why!"

  Diana's heart softened toward her sister. "They're okay, Paulie, I promise you. In fact, they had such a grand time at our barbecue yesterday that they'll probably sleep in." Which meant until all of seven-thirty.

  Paula sniffled audibly. "Did the veterinarian show up?"

  "Yes, he did."

  "And -- ?"

  "And nothing. He brought his receptionist and her son and his partner and his pregnant wife."

  "Pregnant? How far along?"

  "Would you believe she went into labor during supper?"

  "Did you make that potato salad you always make?"

  "Of course."

  "No wonder," said Paula with a laugh. "That stuff is lethal."

  Oh, great, thought Diana. Not only wasn't she moving forward on compiling material for her book; now she was moving backward. "Everyone else seemed to like it."

  "How about the good doctor?"

  "He ate enough of it."

  "That's not what I'm talking about. How about the good doctor and you?"

  Voluptuous ripples of sensation rose up from the soles of her feet as she remembered the kisses shared in that very kitchen. "I enjoy his company," she said carefully. "We'll be going to see Dave and Peggy's baby tomorrow."

  "Beware of summer romances," her sister intoned, "They can break your heart."

  "You sound like Boris," Diana said. "Have no fear, Paulie. Neither one of us is interested in broken hearts."

  "A word of caution seemed apropos."

  "I appreciate it, but I seriously doubt my heart is in any significant danger." She reached into the refrigerator and withdrew a carton of orange juice. "Besides, I'll only be here another twenty-six days." And he'll be gone by mid-August.

  "I know this may be hard for you to believe, 'Mother,' but not everything in life follows a timetable." Her sister's voice grew distant and dreamy. "Art and I only knew each other eight days before we got married."

  "Don't say things like that. The whole idea makes me extremely nervous. It's a miracle you two are still together."

  "The miracle is that I found him, Di. Staying together is the easy part when it's right."

  "From your mouth to God's ear," Diana muttered.

  If Mary Ann Marino thought Diana was an optimist, she would find Paula downright loony. How she'd love to be the one to introduce those two polar opposites.

  "Keep your eyes open," Paula commanded in her best married-sister tone of voice. "You never know when the right man will come around the corner."

  "Well, he'd better not come until I've lost weight," Diana said, pouring orange juice into a Big Bird paper cup.

  "Maybe it's too late. Maybe you've already met him."

  "Maybe you've lost your mind."

  "I have a sixth sense about such things, Di, and I have a feeling -- "

  "Sleep well, Paula, and good night."

  An answering machine.

  Definitely.

  #

  The woman's eyes were anxious and bright with tears. "How is he?"

  "It was touch and go, but I think he'll make it."

  "Will there be any side-effects?"

  "Some slight swelling, but nothing serious. Compresses should do the trick."

  The elderly woman's smile was a sight to behold as she clasped Gregory to her pouter-pigeon bosoms. "You know how dear Jo-Jo is to me, doctor. Words seem insufficient to express my thanks."

  He kissed her cheek and extricated himself from her Chanel No. 5 embrace. "You'll have Jo Jo with you quite a few more years, Mrs. Burton."

  "When can he come home, doctor?"

  "How does tomorrow morning sound?"

  "I shall be here when your doors open!"

  He walked Mrs. Burton out to the front door then locked it behind her and closed the blinds. How little it took in the scheme of things to make a person happy. He found a way to keep an old woman and her ancient terrier together a bit longer. It wasn't front-page material but it probably did more for Mrs. Burton's health and well-being than the latest wonder drug.

  And it did a hell of a lot more for him than all the fancy parties and seminars he'd hosted back in the old days when he served as the glamour boy darling of the New York Animal Hospital in Manhattan, catering to the pampered pets of the equally pampered carriage trade.

  He'd arrived in New York fresh from veterinary school, filled with lofty ideas about the relationship between man and beast, and how noble it was to care for the lowest of God's creatures.

  Before he knew what hit him, he found himself guesting on all the talk shows, lending his name to a book for Doubleday, putting together a video on pet care ("Smile, Gregory darling, smile!") and, not incidentally, falling in love with media-savvy socialite Hayley Carter Caldwell. He led a charmed life and had no reason to believe things would change until, three weeks after his thirtieth birthday when he was diagnosed as having Hodgkins and he stopped being a golden boy and started being a man.

  A man who was sick. A man who was scared. A man who had needed a hand to hold in the darkest hours of the night when he wanted to give up the ghost and end the pain.

  There was nothing like a bout with cancer to show you who your true friends were -- and Gregory discovered, in record time, that the word cancer was the most powerful four-letter word of them all. Friends fell away from him like autumn leaves on a windblown oak tree. He grew skinny and bald and short-tempered; the reporters and photographers and society groupies looked for greener pastures.

  And he found that it didn't matter. He discovered he was stronger than he'd imagined, more self-sufficient, more determined -- and if that determination sometimes looked like selfishness, so be it. He walked through the fire for two long years and came out the other side.

  Alone.

  He quit the New York Animal Hospital, sold his co-op on Central Park West, and juggled his priorities. He also discovered that Hayley loved the spotlight more than she loved him and not even that was enough to shake his conviction. He knew what he wanted and how to get it; he understood the way few people did that time was precious and he determined never to waste time doing anything he didn't want to do.

  He left Manhattan behind and he'd never looked back. He made new friends, established a thriving veterinary practice and gained stature in the community. Although he did volunteer work for a local Cancer Care affili
ate, he'd been able to divorce himself from the disease that had almost taken his life until the day Joey Marino was diagnosed. Then it all came rushing back at him -- the cold sweats, the fiery nightmares, the dark fear that he'd gotten off too easy, that he didn't deserve what he had, that somehow, sometime he would have to pay for his good fortune -- even though he had already paid dearly for the privilege of life.

  He wished he could give his strength to Joey but that was a fool's errand. There was nothing he could do for the boy, nothing Mary Ann could do. It was all written somewhere and nothing anybody could say or do would change it. Certainly his staying in East Hampton wouldn't change things, no matter what Mary Ann said. Damn it, he loved the kid but this trip was his prize for staying the course and he intended to be out on the high seas when he hit the magic five year mark and was officially deemed "cured." He'd earned these three months sailing the Caribbean and if at times his conscience nudged at him -- well, he'd discovered years ago that the road Joey was on was a road you could only walk by yourself.

  Better the kid learn it now.

  He turned and strode back into his private office and looked down at Daisy and her pups, asleep on their bed of newspaper and straw. What was wrong with him, anyway? All he did was give Mrs. Burton some good news and suddenly he was thinking about things he'd believed buried deep in his subconscious.

  Maybe it was the weather.

  "Get real, Stewart," he mumbled, reduced to talking to himself.

  It was Diana Travis. Ditzy, foolish, opinionated, lovely Diana Travis with the two little nieces and the fat cat and the oddest way of making him feel more alive than he had in years.

  He'd see her again tomorrow. He'd see the dimples in her cheeks as she smiled, hear the sweet clear sound of her laughter, feel her skin so soft and tender beneath his hands tomorrow. He'd --

  Tomorrow?

  He'd see her tonight or know the reason why.

  #

  The most amazing thing about the fifth of July was the fact that Diana actually unpacked her computer and got it set up on the rented computer stand at the far end of the solarium. While she hadn't done any real work, save for shuffling and re-shuffling the ream of notes she'd accumulated, at least she was ready to begin.

  The second most amazing thing about the fifth of July was the fact that she had somehow managed to keep herself from picking up the telephone and calling Gregory. He had been on her mind constantly from the moment his car disappeared down the driveway last night until right this very moment. He had even featured prominently in a number of dreams that were quite explicit -- and quite delightful. Why had she ever been foolish enough to believe that not seeing him today would make her more inclined to settle down and work?

  "Because you're an idiot," she said out loud as she sat down on a plastic lawn chair in front of the television. Obviously she wasn't going to do anything more challenging than eat dinner, play with the girls, and consider -- however briefly -- the possibility of doing some serious work. What on earth had happened to the organized, efficient, disciplined Diana Travis of just a few days ago? It seemed from the moment she climbed into the rented station wagon and headed toward East Hampton, Diana's entire life had taken a 180 degree turn into something that resembled a 1930's screwball comedy.

  Would the real Diana have been sitting there eating leftover potato salad and laughing as Laverne and Shirley argued about who was the best bottle-capper in Milwaukee? Would the real Diana have let five perfectly fine work days slip away while she played with the twins and swam in the pool and wasted ten dollars in quarters on that ridiculous bathroom slot machine?

  Unfortunately the real Diana was nowhere in sight and the current Diana Travis was more than willing to spend her time eating, sleeping, and daydreaming about the gorgeous Dr. Stewart.

  She fed the girls during Happy Days and was back in front of the tube by the time the theme song for The Mary Tyler Moore Show was almost over. Who said she'd lost her scheduling talent anyway?

  Their stomachs filled, the twins were playing on the floor of the solarium while Boris watched over them with a mournful eye. "Read the instructions!" the bird cackled as the girls labored to build a castle with their red-white-and-blue blocks. Ignatius, sprawled atop the television like a decadent prince, merely yawned. Mary Richards was screwing up her courage to ask Mr. Grant for a raise when the front doorbell rang and Diana nearly dropped her glass of iced tea in surprise.

  The repo man? she wondered as she headed through the endless foyer. A short man in a bad suit had made a surprise visit to Gull Cottage that morning, not long after Paula's phone call, to retrieve the antique wall clock.

  Was the papier mache shark swimming on the dining room ceiling next?

  She straightened the hem on her shorts and smoothed her t-shirt then opened the door wide.

  "I'm through with waiting!" Gregory Stewart, large and male and extremely determined, swung her up into his muscular arms and carried her into the foyer, kicking the heavy door closed behind him. "We're running out of time."

  With that he covered her mouth with his in a kiss that was even more demanding than the kisses they had shared less than twenty-four hours before.

  "Gregory, what on earth -- "

  "Quiet," he said, then kissed her again.

  "What on earth has gotten into you?" she managed after she caught her breath.

  "We only have twenty-six days left. I'll be damned if I waste them."

  Her heart throbbed painfully inside her chest. This shouldn't be happening...her schedule...her weight...the fact that it wasn't anywhere near Labor Day yet....

  But there she was in the arms of the most splendid man she'd ever seen, dizzied by his kisses, swept away on a wave of sheer emotion unlike anything she'd ever experienced before.

  "Are you going to call the police on me?" Gregory demanded.

  She blinked, trying to clear away the haze of passion that clouded her vision. "Are you dangerous?"

  "Yes." His breath was hot and sweet against her skin. "Very."

  "Good," she said, delighting in the sensation of being cradled in his powerful arms. "I like dangerous men."

  He kissed her jaw, her throat, his teeth nipping sharply against the sensitive flesh in a way that made her gasp with pleasure. "God, you smell wonderful," he murmured, his mouth pressed against her ear as she melted against his chest.

  "Are you sweeping me off my feet, Dr. Stewart?"

  "Any objections?"

  "I'll let you know."

  "We have no time to waste."

  "You're right," she said dreamily, wrapping her arms tightly about his neck. "Kiss me again."

  "My pleasure."

  Oh, no, she thought as his mouth claimed hers. That's where you're wrong, Dr. Stewart. The pleasure was most definitely hers. She felt tiny in his arms, delicate and cherished and more womanly than she'd felt in a very long time. His chest was a solid wall of muscle, warm and hard and wonderfully male; he smelled of sunshine and sea air and the subtle, indefinable scent of desire.

  He drew his tongue along the place where her lips met, coaxing, tempting, and she needed no encouragement to allow him entry to her mouth, gasping at the force and heat of his possession. His tongue slid deeper into the moist cavern, thrusting, the rhythm quickening until it matched the furious thundering of her blood.

  From somewhere came the sound of laughter, high and girlish, but Diana pushed it from her consciousness. There wasn't room for anything save the sound and scent and sight of him -- and the staircase that beckoned them upstairs. She'd cut her teeth on Gone With the Wind and knew full well the significance of a sweeping staircase -- and a man strong enough to whisk the woman he wanted into his arms and carry her upstairs without his legs buckling beneath him.

  His grip on her tightened; she could almost imagine she felt his muscles swelling with renewed power. This was a man who could give Rhett Butler a run for his money.

  This was....

  "We have company."

/>   This voice she couldn't dismiss as her imagination -- not with his lips against the curve of her throat the way they were. Her eyes fluttered open as if she were awakening from a deep sleep.

  "Wh-what?"

  He inclined his head toward the ground. "Take a look."

  Kath and Jenny were entwined around Gregory's knees and looking up at them in open curiosity.

  "Me! Me!" they cried in unison. "Up!"

  "I don't believe it," Diana said into Gregory's shoulder.

  "I do," he said. "They have their mother's sense of timing."

  How could she have forgotten her curly-haired chaperones? "I think you'd better put me down."

  He set Diana down carefully. "I thought they'd be asleep by now."

  "Not for another hour."

  "Makes you wish it wasn't Daylight Savings Time, doesn't it?"

  The truth was, it made Diana wish quite a number of things, most of which she couldn't tell him in front of the twins.

  Kath and Jenny tugged again at his pants leg and raised their volume. "Up!"

  "I think they mean business," Diana said.

  With a good-natured shrug he scooped them up into his arms and Diana fought with a ridiculous surge of envy directed toward her very own nieces.

  "Have you had dinner?" he asked.

  "Potato salad."

  He made a face. "There's a good Chinese place in town. Best shredded beef for miles."

  "Afraid not." She gestured toward the two little girls in his arms. "It's almost their bedtime."

  "We could find a sitter."

  "I don't think so, Gregory."

  "Looks like we have a problem, doesn't it?"

  Her heart sank at the look on his handsome face. "I guess it does."

  "We could have had a terrific dinner. Hot and sour soup; dim sum; broccoli in garlic sauce -- "

  "I really wish you wouldn't do this, Gregory. You're not making this very easy." She had willingly taken on the responsibility of caring for the girls but, truth to tell, she'd never expected someone like Gregory Stewart to come along and disrupt her carefully scheduled month at Gull Cottage. "If you feel like going out for Chinese, by all means, go out for Chinese."