The Holiday Triplets

by Jacqueline Diamond

  Was that a heartbroken cry from Colin? she wondered as she marched away. No, that screech came from a toddler whose toy had just been snatched by a preschooler.

  And I thought my pediatric training gave me an edge on this mom business.

  Sam found Jennifer waiting by the door. “Listen, I have an idea about the press,” her friend said as they exited.

  “Good. I’ve got more than enough to handle without them.” How ironic that in the past, Sam had rather enjoyed talking to the media. Now she disliked having them dog her footsteps, or stroller tracks.

  “Once the public’s curiosity is satisfied, they’ll turn to other things.” Jennifer kept pace along the corridor. “Ian still does the occasional interview for Flash News/Global.”

  He’d covered an international beat for the syndicate until signing a book contract to write about medical advances affecting women. “So?”

  “Ian mentioned he’d like to discuss the counseling clinic with you, so why not let him write about the babies, as well? Video, still photos, the whole shebang. His stories go all over the world. That ought to slake people’s thirst for triplet news.”

  Sam paused in a corner to let an employee in a wheelchair scoot past. “What did you inhale for breakfast?”

  “Excuse me?” Her friend regarded her in surprise.

  “You’re usually such an expert, Jen, but more publicity? Next you’ll be proposing I star in a reality show.”

  Jennifer tapped her foot angrily. “That’s insulting, Sam.”

  Perhaps she had gone too far. “I’m sorry. But I’m also right. Think about it.”

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment idea. Forget I mentioned it.” Her friend took a deep breath. “Changing subjects here, I have some good news about the clinic. Ian may have found a sponsor. She’s dynamic and well connected, and she’s looking for a project to pour her energies into.”

  “To raise funds for—that kind of thing, right?” Not a do-gooder socialite who wanted to play at actually running the place, Sam hoped.

  “I’m sure she’d be more involved than that.” Jennifer didn’t seem to pick up the warning note.

  “An amateur who jumps on every health care trend that comes along? Or a control freak who never met a piece of paperwork she didn’t love? Email me with the details and I’ll check her out.”

  Jennifer bristled. “Sam, the clinic doesn’t belong to you. It’s named after my son. You decided to take on three babies, which I applaud you for, but you can’t keep the clinic under your thumb forever.”

  “I don’t plan to. Once we’ve found new quarters and a professional director, I’ll be happy to let go.” Overjoyed, in fact.

  “Without help, you may never be able to afford a director,” Jennifer answered tightly. “This clinic means as much to me as it does to you. I was thrilled when Ian said he had a patron in mind.”

  Sam had already done more than enough arguing for one morning. Besides, she valued Jen’s friendship. “Let’s table this discussion, all right?”

  “Fine. But not for too long.”

  “I’ll get back to you. I promise. And I do appreciate how much you and Ian care about the clinic.”

  All the same, uneasiness dogged Sam as she made her way to the medical building next door. She wasn’t trying to hang on to the clinic. She simply refused to see it follow the same misguided path as the medical center itself.

  Once a full-service community hospital, Safe Harbor had been converted into a facility primarily serving women and their babies. While that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, it meant taking in fewer charity cases and reaping larger profits. She understood the financial realities involved. For heaven’s sake, she’d remained here in part because of her own financial realities—paying off medical school debts.

  As for the counseling clinic, she’d established it as a place where women and families could drop in without worrying about who qualified for what or whether they played nice with an intake counselor. What about the cranky, the messy, the offbeat clients who didn’t “show” well in front of bureaucrats?

  Sam had worked too hard to get this place off the ground. She wasn’t about to let it become a plaything for rich dilettantes who acted noble while serving only the right kind of clients, the ones who looked good on posters and appeared suitably grateful.

  True, she couldn’t hold on to the reins forever. But she didn’t intend to let her new status as a mother stampede her into abandoning her vision.

  OVER THE COURSE OF THE WEEK, to Mark’s relief, press interest was deflected by the birth of twins in Los Angeles to a 60-year-old mother who’d been an Olympic gold medalist. Controversy swirled over the mom’s age, but her unusually strong physical condition and determination to have children qualified her for special consideration, according to the world-renowned fertility expert who’d helped her conceive.

  The expert, Dr. Owen Tartikoff, flew from his home base in Boston to congratulate his patient and appear on several newscasts. A man of strong opinions—some called him abrasive—he was scheduled as the keynote speaker next fall at the fertility conference that had drawn Chandra’s interest.

  To his gratification, Mark managed to arrange a private meeting, at which he described the plans for the new fertility center and attempted to recruit Dr. Tartikoff as its director. Intrigued by the idea of building his own program from scratch, the man agreed to further discussions.

  That would be an incredible coup. Yet, for now, Mark had to sit on the possibility. Aside from informing Chandra and Tony, he couldn’t mention the matter to anyone. If word leaked out prematurely, it would be awkward for Dr. Tartikoff’s current employers and might even kill the deal.

  As for Sam, she continued her jam-packed schedule, putting in extra hours the following weekend to make sure she had the fundraiser well in hand. In the mornings, when Mark walked to work with her and the babies, she seemed as alert as ever, and insisted she’d slept plenty even though the night nurse advised him privately that Sam caught at most five hours.

  He could see for himself that she was pushing too hard. The next time he brought food, Sam thanked him and spent the rest of dinner poring over reports on her laptop, keeping up with her position as head of pediatrics. When he asked why she was so determined not to let up in any area, she brushed aside his concerns.

  “That’s just who I am,” she insisted. “If I’d wanted an easy life, I wouldn’t have gone into medicine.”

  That attitude wasn’t unusual among doctors, Mark had to admit. He’d observed surgeons ignoring their bodies’ demands while performing complicated operations that lasted more than a dozen hours.

  We expect too much of ourselves. Wasn’t he almost as bad, seeing patients, performing surgery, running a hospital and getting up early to help Sam bring the babies to work? The busy schedule energized rather than drained him, but then, he was getting sufficient rest.

  The next Friday morning, eight days before Christmas, Sam snapped at him for bumping the stroller too hard on their walk. “I hope you’re planning to take it easy this weekend,” Mark responded. “You’re worn out.”

  From the fiery look she shot him, he expected an argument, but she apparently reconsidered. “I am kind of tired. I’ve arranged for a sitter to come in tomorrow afternoon so I can sleep and catch up on my bills.”

  “Put the emphasis on the sleep,” Mark warned. “I don’t want to pull rank, but if you’re worn to a frazzle, I’ll have to insist you take leave from your hospital duties.” Her work with private patients lay beyond his control, however.

  “You wouldn’t!” She swung around on the sidewalk.

  “Your behavior is becoming obsessive.” Until he spoke the words, he hadn’t fully realized that was the case. “It’s almost as if you’re addicted to adrenaline.”

  “I’ve always been addicted to adrenaline.” Her voice had a ragged edge. “So are you.”

  “You rest tomorrow and Sunday, too. If the sitter lets you down, call me.”

&n
bsp; “What? No golf?” It was the closest she’d come to teasing him in days.

  “Tony, Ian and I are playing tomorrow,” Mark conceded as they resumed their pace, Sam leading the way. “But I’ll have my cell with me.”

  She shook back her hair. “Lori’s swinging by in the morning. We’ll be taking the kids on a stroll and to our coffee klatch. But after the sitter arrives, I promise to hit the hay.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He didn’t remind her that the clinic was running out of time to find new quarters, because the last thing Sam needed was more pressure. Jennifer had mentioned a potential sponsor, which sounded terrific, except that so far Sam hadn’t pursued the matter. Mark supposed he could stall the corporation until the end of January. But no longer.

  He’d really like to offer more help. When it came to obsessive behavior, though, hadn’t his experiences with his sister taught him that more was never enough?

  Sooner or later, Sam had to face reality. That would be the time to step in and help sort things out.

  PLAYING GOLF SLUICED AWAY the pressures and concerns of the week. Although Mark wished Samantha had agreed to let him teach her how to play, he enjoyed being out here with his friends, too.

  He loved the pine-scented air of the golf course, the steady, unhurried pace, and the excitement of each hole when the possibility of a perfect shot—a rare hole in one—loomed as a distant but achievable moment of glory. He’d scored a couple of them over the years, mostly through luck, but the joy remained brighter than any trophy.

  As Tony collected his ball at the last hole, Mark didn’t mind that his score, while respectable, left him behind his two companions. He’d fallen in love with the sport as a teenager, when it was the only thing he and his father shared. If not for golf, he’d have grown up scarcely knowing Dr. Robert Rayburn. And although Mark always played with a competitive spirit, he’d been glad that he occasionally lost to his dad, because the man seemed mellower when he won.

  After moving to southern California, Mark had tried skiing. For a while, he’d driven to the nearby mountains at least once a month during the winter and occasionally in summer for a change of pace. He’d even bought a cabin there as an investment. Now he mostly kept it rented out by the week, because after the initial challenge, he’d returned to his first love.

  Golf.

  At the nineteenth hole, as the on-site restaurant was termed, the men discussed the latest football results over buffalo wings and beer. “I’m hoping to score some press tickets to the Rose Bowl,” Ian said. “As a special treat for Jennifer.” The game was played on New Year’s Day in Pasadena, about an hour’s drive from Safe Harbor.

  “You’re sure you won’t be wasting them?” Tony asked. “Most women aren’t that crazy about football.”

  “My sister’s a big soccer fan.” Ian’s twin sister lived in Belgium with her husband and kids. His family had moved all over the world as they were growing up, Mark recalled.

  “Well, Jennifer isn’t your sister,” Tony pointed out. “Did you ask her?”

  “If she turns you down, I’ll go,” Mark volunteered.

  “Lucky man. You don’t have to check with anyone,” Ian said. “Not that I envy you being single.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” And yet, oddly, Mark felt a hollow twinge as he said that. New Year’s Day…he had no plans. What would Sam and the kids be doing?

  Sleeping, he hoped.

  “Take Jennifer to the Tournament of Roses Parade instead,” advised Tony, the only one of the men who’d grown up in southern California. “You have to practically spend New Year’s Eve waiting on the sidewalk to land a good position, but those floats are fantastic up close. And you can attend the game later, if you do manage to get tickets.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Ian promised.

  “Oh, wait,” Tony said. “Forget the sidewalk. There’s VIP seating. If you have enough pull to get tickets to the game, I’ll bet you could get some to the parade, as well.”

  “I’ll definitely look into it.” Ian turned to Mark. “By the way, did Jennifer talk to you about Eleanor Wycliff?”

  The name rang a bell. “Isn’t she the widow of that federal judge who died while under indictment for bribery?”

  “Technically, she isn’t his widow—they were divorced,” Ian said. “But that’s right. I interviewed her about the case a few months ago, just before he died.”

  The man had succumbed to a heart attack, Mark recalled. “What about her?”

  “Their seventeen-year-old daughter, Libby, took her father’s death hard, as you can imagine,” Ian explained. “Eleanor’s wealthy, and she’s been looking for a project that she and Libby could work on together, not just a charity to throw money at, or a place to serve hot soup on holidays.”

  “How’d she get interested in the clinic?”

  “She heard on the news about it having to move and remembered that it was named after my wife’s son,” Ian replied. “She’s eager to serve on the board, except that we don’t have a board yet.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “It would be, except that Sam practically bit Jen’s head off when she mentioned I was talking to a sponsor.” Ian shrugged. “Jennifer thinks she can’t bear to lose control.”

  “Especially not to some amateur. Isn’t that how she put it?” Tony must have discussed this with Jennifer, too.

  “How did I miss all this?” Mark wished he’d paid more attention to the PR director’s comments.

  “You’ve been busy,” said his sympathetic staff attorney.

  Mark shook his head. “Not that busy.” How frustrating for Ian to find a backer, only to run into Fortress Samantha. In her physical and emotional state, she might be turning down the clinic’s salvation. Did she have the right to do that? “I’m not even sure who the clinic belongs to.”

  “It’s not incorporated,” Tony said. “It belongs to whoever funds and operates it.”

  “Up to this point, that’s been the hospital,” Ian put in.

  “Sam would disagree,” Mark said. “She believes it’s hers. Besides, the hospital has no interest in holding on to the clinic.”

  “Well, my wife has strong feelings on the subject,” Ian returned tightly.

  Squabbling between Jennifer and Sam could only hurt both women as well as the clinic. Besides, once Sam caught up with her sleep, put Christmas behind her and had to stare eviction in the face, surely she’d be more amenable to the offer. Especially if they paved the way diplomatically.

  “Here’s an idea,” Mark told the other men. “Ian, why don’t you invite Mrs. Wycliff and her daughter to the fundraiser? Perhaps they could take an hour or so out of their Christmas plans to stop by and meet Sam.”

  “To discuss the clinic?” the writer asked.

  “She might mention her interest, but ask her not to make any specific proposals yet. This is just to break the ice. I have a feeling that seventeen-year-old girl will melt Sam’s heart.” Mark hoped so. “I’d like this to feel like a partnership rather than a coup.”

  “Sensible,” Tony agreed.

  “Mrs. Wycliff is a bit of a powerhouse,” Ian warned. “She’s used to having her own way. But she’s done a lot of organizational work with charities before. I’m sure she knows how to smooth things over.”

  “Excellent.” Mark’s cell rang. Not surprising, given the unpredictable nature of childbirth. In fact, he’d enjoyed more uninterrupted time this afternoon than usual. He answered, “Dr. Rayburn,” and hoped this wouldn’t be an emergency.

  Turned out that it was. But not the medical kind.

  Chapter Eleven

  “She’s having a meltdown,” Lori gasped into Mark’s ear. “I’ve never seen Sam carry on like this.”

  “She’s supposed to be resting.” Surely the sitter should have arrived by now.

  “Resting?” his nurse went on. “She didn’t even get to finish her coffee this morning. There was supposed to be a Christmas party for those
teen girls she counsels, and it got screwed up, so somebody begged her to rescue them.”

  “She isn’t a party planner,” he growled. Sam should have better judgment than to take on such an unnecessary task.

  “I think it was Candy who called,” Lori admitted.

  Sam obviously felt an obligation to the triplets’ mother. “What happened?”

  “Sam insisted on picking up party platters and decorations. She had the triplets with her, so of course I helped.”

  “Thank you.” He hoped Sam appreciated her friend’s dedication.

  “During the party, Candy started acting possessive about the babies, and she and Sam had some kind of blowup. Candy stomped out, complaining that they were her kids—it was scary. Then we got home late and the sitter had given up waiting and left. Sam’s in a foul temper, the babies are crying, and frankly, I’m fed up.” Lori’s voice broke. “She accused me of being bossy and interfering. Me! I’d walk out, but I hate to leave the kids. I’m not sure Sam’s up to coping with them right now.”

  Nearly two weeks of sleeplessness and too much work had finally pushed her over the edge. Somebody had to call a halt to this downward spiral, and like it or not, Mark was elected, both as hospital administrator and as Sam’s friend.

  Suddenly, he got an idea. Not merely an idea—a potentially dangerous but irresistible plan.

  He was going to stage an intervention.

  SAM COULDN’T STOP PICTURING the horrible moment at the party when she’d realized Colin was missing. Earlier, she’d seen Candy playing with him, so, trying not to panic, she’d gone in search of the young mother.

  After another girl reported seeing Candy take the baby out of the community center, Sam had hurried to the parking lot. There, she’d spotted Candy preening in front of a tattooed, long-haired man astride a motorcycle. Cradling Colin in the crook of his arm, the man stood there revving his bike as if about to shoot into gear.

  Sam didn’t remember exactly what she’d said, but she’d grabbed the baby away and given both the man and Candy a piece of her mind. Unbelievable, to expose a fragile infant to exhaust fumes, germs and the possibility of being driven unsecured on a Harley.