A Mother for His Adopted Son

by Lynne Marshall

  “Well, that’s wonderful.”

  “I don’t know about wonderful, but there is Thai food involved, so it won’t be all bad.” No, she wasn’t looking for a relationship, that was for sure, especially not with a doctor. Her overbearing, demanding, perfectionist father had pretty much messed her up forever in the male/female department. But a simple evening out, gazing at a way more than decent-looking guy, who also happened to smell really good—she couldn’t help noticing during lunch—wouldn’t be a total loss of an evening, would it?

  “Oh, now, Andrea, maybe he’ll be nice.”

  And maybe Dad was actually the greatest guy on earth, but somehow Andrea had never noticed it before? “He seems nice. But let’s not read more into this than necessary. I’m making an eye for his adopted son, so I think he may just want to pay me back somehow.”

  “Oh, I see.” Mom went quiet.

  Her mother rarely invited Andrea to dinner, but now that she was on the new medicine regimen for her debilitating depression, she seemed to have more energy and to be more interested in interacting with people. Andrea hated to put her off. “Can we get together Friday night?”

  “Oh, Friday is a bad night for your father. He’s got a weekend conference to attend in Sacramento and he’s leaving that afternoon.”

  “We could make it a girls’ night out, just the two of us.” Andrea had learned as a child how fragile her mother was emotionally, especially after marrying a guy like Andrea’s dad, and her insecurity about being loved was still a weakness. The last thing Andrea wanted to do was blow her off without making replacement plans. Besides, she’d much rather have dinner with just her mother than both of her parents.

  “That might be fun, but let me fix dinner,” her mother said. “We can stay in and eat here.”

  Aware that her mother was still dealing with her reclusiveness and anxiety issues, Andrea wouldn’t push it. “That’s fine. I just want to spend time with you. Plus you know I love your cooking.” Growing up, watching her mother always trying to impress her father with her cooking skills but always coming up short for her perfectionistic father, had taught Andrea not to even try to learn to cook.

  “I’ll keep it simple, but it will be great to see you. Seems like forever.” Her mother’s “simple” was fifty times better than anything Andrea could come up with.

  “Barbara! Where’s my gray tie? Did you iron those shirts for me?” Andrea’s father’s voice boomed in the background, demanding as always.

  “Oh! Um, let me do that right now,” Barbara said, her voice shifting toward trying-to-please mode from the relaxed state a second before. “I’ve got to go, honey. See you Friday. I’ll tell Dad you said hi.”

  “I’ll bring dessert!” She’d buy it from the local bakery.

  And that was that. Dad bellowed, Mom jumped. Too bad antidepressants couldn’t change that well-worn routine, too. And for the record, she hadn’t said hi to her dad.

  * * *

  Sam picked up Andrea after work on Thursday, having removed his tie from a gray denim shirt and wearing a sporty black lightweight zip-up jacket and dark jeans. She’d dressed nicer than usual for work, had even worn wedge-heeled sandals, knowing tonight was their date, and had rushed to change when the department closed. She’d hoped her straight-legged beige pants and gentle yellow boat-necked sweater would be nice enough for dinner out, and, seeing his casual appearance, she decided she’d made the right decision.

  “Hey.” His genuine expression gave her the impression he was happy, and maybe a little excited about seeing her.

  She was flat-out nervous, since he was the first guy she’d wanted to go out with in months, and worked hard to cover her nervousness and focus on the meal part, not the date. “Hi. I’m starving—how about you?”

  “Definitely. Hmm, you smell great.”

  “Thanks. Sometimes I worry I smell like acrylics and wax after working here all day. I didn’t overdo it, did I?” She’d used a sample she’d gotten at a cosmetic counter the last time she’d bought eyeliner. It had an almost stringent citrusy scent in the container, but softened on her skin. Or at least she hoped so.

  He stepped closer and sniffed the air, but she got the distinct impression he’d wanted to test her neck, which kind of excited her. “Smells great to me.”

  Their eyes connected and something fizzed through her body. “Thanks.” She pretended to hunt for her purse while she regained her composure. What was it about Dr. Sam Marcus that shook her up so much, especially since she’d seen him in another light at his house? This guy wasn’t all boom and bluster, like her father. He was obviously a caring father who’d taken in a special-needs kid. One of the good guys, and good guys were even scarier than the bastards.

  When they arrived at the Thai restaurant, it was only six, but the place was already crowded. Wall-to-wall tables lined up with little care for intimacy, just straight row after row from one end to the other of the modern Asian eatery. Though there were more secluded tables outside, enclosed by an intricate white wrought-iron fence to separate them from the boulevard, Sam thought the street noise would be too distracting and said so. So they took a table inside by a window with tall bamboo on the other side.

  “It’s not much for ambiance, but I endorse the food one hundred percent.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  They grinned at each other all through dinner. Sam obviously enjoyed his Dutch beer, and Andrea savored her sweet Thai iced tea. She liked the end-of-day stubble on his cheeks and chin, and how his hair wasn’t neatly combed. She thought the creases around his mouth made him look distinguished, but the one-sided dimple kept him cute, all-American-boy cute. She’d never call him classically handsome because he had so much more appeal as a good-looking, everyday kind of guy. The part of his face she hesitated to study was his eyes. Those baby blues seemed to reach right inside her whenever they talked, and she got occasional prickles down the back of her neck. It was a feeling she’d nearly forgotten, that “thing” that only certain men set off. Between eating all the great food, their conversation still managed to be nonstop.

  Who’d have thought a stuffy, overbearing doctor could be so easy to talk to?

  “No, no. I can’t,” she said, when he offered her one last bite of the fried bananas. “I’ll burst.” She was definitely thankful she’d worn her semi-loose envelope-hem sweater.

  So he popped the last bite into his mouth and chomped down, shaking his head over how good it tasted. He sat back in his chair. “Do I look like a satisfied man? I’m just asking.”

  His frequent, silly outbursts always made her grin. “You definitely look like a man who’s enjoyed his food so much he has a bright yellow curry stain above his pocket.”

  He pulled in his chin and glanced down, then frowned. “I swear, I think Dani’s eating habits are wearing off on me.” He dipped his cloth napkin into the remaining glass of water and attempted to do a quick cleanup, which only drew more attention to the stain, which struck her as downright sweet.

  “Dr. Sammy! Dr. Sammy!” A high-pitched child’s voice cut into the moment. Sam lifted his brows and followed the sound.

  So his patients call him Dr. Sammy, how adorable. Could this man be any more appealing?

  “Hi!” He waved at a little redheaded boy who looked no more than eight, as he walked by with his parents on their way to being seated. The mother stopped.

  “That new medicine you prescribed has done wonders.”

  Like a true gentleman, “Dr. Sammy” stood and spoke quietly to the boy’s mom, though briefly. Andrea looked on with a strange feeling growing inside. Admiration. This was a good guy who took his job seriously, and who didn’t just talk the talk but walked the walk. He cared about people. He was single and he’d adopted a son. With his profession, he could have indulged himself with everything from travel to grown-up toys like cars and
boats to women, but he’d chosen to go on medical mission trips, settle down and raise a son...who’d lost his eye and needed special care. She’d never met a man like Dr. Sammy before.

  The negative side of her allowed one little thought to slip past. What was the catch? Was he too good to be true? Maybe she’d seen the real Dr. Marcus the first day she’d met him, and for her taste that’d been way too much like dear old Dad. Maybe he was on his best behavior tonight and it was all a facade.

  Andrea hated how her father still negatively influenced her life and her thinking toward men.

  She took one last drink from her tea and stood when Sam offered her his hand. “We ready?”

  “I’m going to have to waddle out of here,” she said, “but, yes, thanks.”

  The odd thing was he didn’t let go of her hand as they walked back to the car. The warmth of his solid palm flat against hers turned out to be far more distracting than the loud car noises, brakes and horns along Hollywood Boulevard, or the ugly earlier memories of being raised by a man like Dad. Sam’s grip felt warm, and if hands could actually do this, it also felt sexy. She pursed her lips, wondering what to make of everything.

  * * *

  Sam walked Andrea to the apartment door. The sturdy Spanish-styled beige triplex dwelling had two units downstairs and a larger single unit upstairs. Andrea’s was on the lower right, with rustic red Saltillo tile on the entry porch and an azalea shrub in a huge terra-cotta container right next to the door. He’d been surprised to learn she often took public transportation to work, and he wondered happily if maybe today she’d chosen to do it because they’d had plans for dinner and she wanted a ride home from him. He wouldn’t let that fact go to his head, but it sure made his outlook optimistic about what might come next.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  Of course! “Sure. Thanks.”

  She unlocked the solid dark wooden door and flipped on lights. The funky yet hip apartment showed a different side of the Andrea he’d come to know at the hospital. The walls were covered in paintings that he knew for a fact he couldn’t afford, and he wondered how she could. Rather than sit down in one of the boxy chairs or on the trendy urban home-styled sofa, he walked around the room and admired each one of the amazing conceptual modern paintings that featured mostly bright colors and abstract designs and patterns. “These are something else.”

  “Thanks.”

  Then his eyes caught sight of another one, very different from the others, in a corner by itself. It was a long rectangular canvas featuring a single eye peeking through a keyhole in an old door. From his own reading on the topic, he recognized this style as something called photorealism. “I’d buy something like this. It’s really special.” It spoke to him, seemed to nail how he’d felt as a foster kid at first, watching life through a keyhole, not really a part of it. Sometimes he still felt that way.

  “Thank you.”

  “Who painted all of these?” He squinted to read the tiny signature but couldn’t quite make it out.

  “Oh, let’s see. Um, me.” She pointed to one of the bigger paintings, then another. “Me. Oh, and me and me.” She ended by pointing to the door and keyhole, his favorite. “Me.”

  He did a double take and his brows had to have risen a good inch. “Wow. You’re really talented.” She’s an artist? Hadn’t he sworn off the artistic types after Katie, the actress, had chosen a recurring bit part on a TV sitcom to being his wife and an adoptive mother? “Now I get why you were reading that book on Jackson Pollock yesterday.” Andrea possessed significant talent, he couldn’t deny that.

  “I don’t paint anything like him, but I love his renegade approach to art.” She threw her jacket over a chair. “He inspires me to take chances.”

  “So, let me get this straight. You’re an artist who works at the hospital, making prosthetic eyes for people.”

  “Correct.”

  “But—” he glanced around at the spectacular paintings “—painting is your first love.”

  She stopped and sighed. “I have to be honest and say yes.”

  Uh-oh. Been there with Katie. “So if a millionaire bought all of your paintings, you’d walk out the door of St. Francis of the Valley and never look back?”

  She stood perfectly still, clearly weighing the truth of her answer. Her eyes drifted over the walls of her apartment, studying her own work for just a moment. “In a perfect world, yes. But I have a grandmother I respect and a father who would hound me to death if I dared. And, honestly, I love my patients and the fact that I can improve their lives.”

  He didn’t like the sound of the first part of her answer one bit. It meant she worked in the O&A department against her will. In fact, he hated the answer so much that a yellow flag waved in the recesses of his mind. Artists were flighty. People you couldn’t depend on. Sign him on to the grandmother and dad’s side. The thought didn’t seem fair to Andrea, though. It felt kind of selfish, if he was honest, but after his experience with Katie his perspective was blurred. Then there was the second part of her answer—she loved helping people and obviously got a lot out of the job in that respect. Life was never black-and-white, and in her case he preferred the gray areas.

  There was something about Andrea that called out to him. He genuinely liked her, she was attractive, talented, fun to be around, and she gave a damn about people. She also happened to turn him on. Very much. His instinct said to go for it, kiss her. Damn. Why couldn’t he think straight? He’d blame it on the carb high from the Thai food, but the concern about her being an artist was still enough to trip him up.

  “Would you like some coffee or wine?”

  “The wine sounds great, but can I take a rain check? I need to pick up Dani.” His son was a logical excuse, and an honest one. He really did need to go get him.

  Sam glanced around the living room. He liked the feel of her home, especially liked her, and would’ve liked to stick around, yellow flag or not, because she was so damn hot. But he was a father and knew for a fact that Dani slept best in his own bed. Which was a great argument for finding a babysitter besides his foster sister—who couldn’t do nights—one who would come to his house. Being a parent, especially a single father, had been a steep learning curve, and this moment had just taught him something else, besides caution about the new lady in his world—the value of a teenage, pay-by-the-hour babysitter. Did they still exist? He’d make a mental note to follow up on the idea ASAP so he wouldn’t have to miss out on another invitation like this from Andrea, if she ever gave him one.

  He noticed Andrea’s disappointment over his rain check on the wine. It was in her nearly Keane-like eyes, which surprised and pleased him at the same time. Was she as interested in him as he was in her?

  But she recovered quickly. “Sure. After that huge dinner I should put some time in on the treadmill anyway. A glass of wine would definitely interfere with that.”

  He’d enjoyed every second of watching her tonight over dinner. She’d eaten like a champ, and she’d parted her hair on the side and swept her bangs, the only long part of her hair, to one side, accenting her round face, big eyes and sharp chin. The short-haired style was definitely growing on him. She’d held up her end of the conversation throughout the evening, too, and he’d never felt the need to fill in lag time. She hadn’t said a thing about her talent, either. Humble. Another good trait.

  It made sense that a trained artist would be right for the job of re-creating eyes, and he assumed every eye was unique in some way, and an artist would be best to detect the difference. Now he was glad grandmother Judith had assigned her to his son’s case. Glancing around her walls at the bright colors and splotches of paint that, though seeming random, still managed to grab an immediate reaction from him, he realized that Andrea was special, someone he wanted to know more. Even though he’d been kicked hard in the relationship solar plexus by Katie
. Andrea was different. He had to keep that in mind.

  Hell, Cat would be the first to chew him out for comparing the two women. And he didn’t know Andrea well enough to pigeonhole her anyway, but she’d admitted art was her first love. She’d be willing to walk away from ocularistry if the artistic opportunity arose. Theoretically. But why should that matter? He wanted to get to know her better, and that part, the glutton-for-punishment part, the part that still insisted women didn’t stick around for him, made him nervous. All because she was so damn appealing.

  He was a father now, with a son who needed much of his attention and a job that needed the rest. Was there even room for a woman?

  The silent pause had grown long and awkward. He’d been overthinking things, like always. That was another thing that being a foster kid had taught him—consider all possibilities, because life could change at a moment’s notice. “I guess I better be going.”

  “Okay,” she muttered, resigned. Disappointed? He hoped so because he sure was.

  “Nice apartment, by the way,” he said, thinking how lame he sounded, and turned to leave.

  Andrea strode toward him with those crazy-sexy platform sandals tapping on the Spanish tile and something on her mind, and he stopped dead in his tracks. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was giving a clear sign, so when she got close enough he held her upper arms and moved in for a kiss that evidently she had already been planning on. Great, the feeling was mutual. But was he sure it was a good idea?

  Right now, who cared?

  Her hands wrapped around his neck and that sexy fragrance he’d picked up on back at the hospital lingered in the air. He liked it. A lot. Her mouth felt fresh, tasted sweet, like her tea, and full of life. Every worry about her being an artist flew from his head. She kissed like a curious explorer, and he dived in with enthusiasm and soon did some serious investigating of his own. He liked the warmth of the inside rim of her lips, the feel of them on his, the fact that she opened her mouth and invited him in, then put him under her spell. She was a creative kisser, as she was a creative painter, and he soon got swept away.