by Alice Audrey
Diane caught herself as she started to lean forward, hands out. She hardly knew the man, even if he had made himself at home on her couch. Maybe if she got his attention back to business they could both pretend she didn’t find him irresistible.
She glared into his half open eyes. “What did you need to get?”
“Get?” he slurred. He abruptly gave her an owlish blink and sat up.
“What do you want from your suitcases?”
Fatigue rolled off him in visible waves. He slumped forward and dropped his face in his hands. He looked as much grief-stricken as tired. “Nothing. I just need…time to think.”
It amazed her that he could function. “Did you drive home like this?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. I had to.” He squinted up at her. “They kept dragging me in. I tried sleeping in the parking lot, but they found me. Could I trouble you for water? I don’t have a cup.”
Diane eyed his belongings. “You don’t?”
Eight suitcases and a couple of boxes? He didn’t have furniture either.
“Would you rather have some coffee?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly, then rubbed the dark circles under his eyes before letting his hands drop. “Just water.”
“I’ll be right back.” She went to the kitchen, put a finger under the faucet, and waited for the water to turn cold.
Maybe she was being harsh. From what she saw go out on moving day, the college boys upstairs hadn’t left a stick of furniture. Trigvey needed a place to stay, whether he realized it or not.
She filled the glass, and hurried out into the living room, but it was already too late. Trigvey was fast asleep.
****
“Hey, sleepyhead.” Gentle hands rocked Trigvey’s shoulder. “Are you going to sleep all day?”
Something soft brushed his neck. He lifted a hand and found it ensnared in yarn. An afghan? He was covered in an afghan? He blinked awake and looked up to find his neighbor looking down.
He threw the afghan aside and sat up.
She scrambled backward so they wouldn’t bump heads. Dark brown hair hung in curtains around her delicate features and her wary brown eyes watched him with concern.
The back of his neck burned with embarrassment. His face was rough, his neck was stiff and his bare feet touched soft wool carpet. He’d lost his shoes somewhere. The suede sofa and homey furnishings brought everything back. “I didn’t mean to collapse on you.”
“You must have been very busy.”
Trigvey sat upright. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to abandon everything in Chicago. “Look, I’ll just get my stuff and get out of your way.”
Her glance ran from his shoulders to his feet in a quick flick. “Do you have to be somewhere?”
He glanced down, saw what he was wearing and groaned. He didn’t want to talk about his profession, assuming he was still a doctor when the dust settled.
“So…you’re a doctor,” she said.
Darlene? Deirdre? Diane. Her name was Diane. “Yeah.”
“That’s funny. I’m a claims adjuster at American Families Insurance.”
“Small world.”
“I don’t remember seeing Trigvey Taylor on anything.”
A part of him warmed. She’d remembered his name. “I transferred up here from Chicago on the Fifteenth.”
“Where are you practicing?”
Her eyes were wide and guileless. She was only being friendly. She couldn’t know how unpleasant he found her questions right now.
“I work in the ER at Meredith General.” Lord, don’t let her ask how his day had gone.
She sat on the seat next to him, threaded her fingers through her hair, then let her hands drop heavily. “You have no idea what I thought when you first moved in.”
“Drug dealer? Maybe Mafia?” He hadn’t forgotten.
“No, I—” She shifted weight uncomfortably. “Well, yeah. I did.”
“It’s all right. I would never have pegged you for a claims adjuster.”
She twisted to face him, not quite settled, but not ready to leave. “What did you think I do?”
“Off-hand?” He’d thought she was a homebody. But you didn’t make a career out of that. “Interior decorator. Your apartment looks great.” He settled deeper into the couch and stretched one arm along the back. Soft and welcoming. “You have a great couch.”
“Really?” Her gaze ran over the scattering of watercolors on the wall beyond him, touched on an art deco side table, a straight backed chair with home-made cushions, and finally settled on the royal blue, oriental carpet. “I pride myself on my home.”
“You should. The only things out of place are mine.” He didn’t want to get up.
“Would you like some coffee? I have English muffins.” She stood before he did, slightly flushed, her hand on the back of her chair as if ready to dash once she chose a direction.
“That’s very generous of you. I don’t have any food yet.”
“I guessed as much,” she said.
He followed her into the kitchen. At first, he tried not to notice the sway of her jean-clad hips. Then he reminded himself he didn’t have to be professional. Besides, he liked her and he was starting to think she might like him.
She got a mug off a knob-rack set between a half-filled wine rack and the toaster, and fumbled. He caught her hand before she could drop it. Her fingers were soft and smooth, and trembled slightly. He kept the mug and tried to put aside the lingering sensation of her touch.
The coffee smelled wonderful, but had barely begun to drip into the pot. He would have to wait.
“I take it you don’t have a girlfriend or anything.” She didn’t look at him.
“How’d you know?”
She kept her eyes on the coffee maker. “If you did, you wouldn’t have ended up here last night.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Guess not.”
She glanced at him.
Was that pity? Why would she feel pity—except he had arrived on her doorstep in the worst condition of his life. Tired and dirty, with blood-stained hands. And she didn’t know the half of it.
She filled his mug with richly fragrant coffee.
He hadn’t taken a single sip, yet he already felt jittery.
“I don’t…I don’t have a boyfriend either.” She gave him another quick glance. He wasn’t sure if she was nervous, or coy.
“Good.” The word popped out, surprising him. The last thing he wanted was to encourage yet another over-eager husband hunter.
Her cheeks turned red.
“I mean,” he said quickly, “if you had one, he might have gotten nasty about last night.”
The moment stretched painfully. Maybe he should extricate himself. Trigvey shifted his weight uncomfortably, but before he made his excuses she put a plate of perfectly browned English muffins on the counter. As he reached for one she pulled them away.
“Wash your hands,” she said. “And your wrists. Be sure to wash your wrists.”
Only when Trigvey ran the water did he realized his hands were blood-stained. Or rather his wrist was. When had….? Ah, yes. But that patient had lived. Quick intervention and a stint was all she had needed.
He tore his gaze off his arm and went to the sink. Lathering as if about to go into surgery, he carried the suds all the way to his elbows.
A plate hit the table.
Then Diane was there, leaning around him to look in his face. She was so close and smelled so good, like sunshine and English muffins.
“I think your hands are clean,” she said.
“Yes. Yes of course.”
“Are you all right?”
There was so much compassion in her voice and the butterfly-light touch of her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t deserve such kindness.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
He turned to the table and sat down, then glanced at her as he took one of the English muffins.
Diane didn’t notice, too busy fixing one for herself.
<
br /> Maybe she wouldn’t ask too many questions if she focused on something besides him. “Mmmmm,” he said. “This is wonderful. What kind of jelly is this?”
“It’s plum jam. I made it myself.” She slowly settled in a chair diagonal from him.
“The afghan and table, too?” He didn’t wait for her nod, assuming she did all the handicrafts in the place. “You’re quite the Renaissance woman.”
“Don’t tease.”
“I admire your talent. Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I don’t mess with electricity. Otherwise I’m pretty handy.” Her eyes danced with laughter. She took a big bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Have you always been an ER doctor?”
He didn’t want to talk about the ER. He stared down at his plate and hoped she would change the subject.
The silence stretched.
Diane didn’t fidget, merely ate her breakfast.
“For a while, I was in thoracic surgery,” he said. “That’s my father’s specialty.”
She watched him from across the table. “It sounds challenging.”
“I was good at it.”
“Why aren’t you doing it now?”
He added sugar and cream to his coffee from the little enamel creamer and sugar bowl. He must have taken too long, because when she spoke again, she changed the subject.
“I have some bacon if you’d like.” Diane pushed her chair back.
“I don’t want you to go to that much trouble.”
“I don’t mind. I like to cook for other people. It’s much better than cooking for myself.”
He shoved back from the table and stood. “No—I have a lot to do. Beginning with getting my belongings out of your apartment.”
Chapter Three
Diane kicked herself. Men like him, the winners who had everything from looks to money, didn’t have any need for a low level drone like her. He probably thought she was too needy and he’d be right.
If she didn’t watch herself, she’d end up hanging on his every word, waiting on him hand and foot. Never again.
At least she hadn’t made a big production of breakfast with something like pancakes. She stood and rinsed out her mug before putting it in the dishwasher. Thumps and bumps came from her living room.
She refused to look until a ding sounding suspiciously like her Tiffany lamp was followed by a muffled grunt. She hastily dried her hands.
His mouth compressed in a grim line, Trigvey had tucked a suitcase under each arm and picked up his black duffel. As she entered the living room, he marched for the door.
“I’ll help,” she said firmly.
“No need,” he called over his shoulder. He fumbled with the doorknob.
She turned the knob for him. “No offense. But I can’t wait to get that part of my living room back.”
Diane grabbed a duffel and followed him up the stairs. The staircase, lit only by a small window, went up in a straight line of battered wooden steps along the outside wall to a small, square landing, then veered to the right for the last five feet where it let out on another small landing in front of his door. Diane almost bumped into him as he struggled with the suitcases and his key. It slid in easily enough, but wouldn’t turn.
She put the duffel down. “Let me try.” She grabbed the handle on the door and tugged before turning the key. “Old places like this tend to have warped doors. If I were the landlord I’d take care of it, but I’ll bet the landlord wouldn’t reimburse me if I did. They hardly ever do.”
He gave her a small grin. “You remodel, too?”
“I do a little fixing up when I get the chance.” She didn’t want to look at him. “If I could ever scrape together a down payment I’d turn into one of those people who lives in a house just long enough to make it nice, then sell at a profit and move on to the next house.”
Not that she would ever really want to sell. But at least that way she could justify her compulsion to turn everywhere she lived into a model home.
He dumped his luggage a few feet into the apartment. “Not me. I like to stay put once I’ve settled.”
He shoved past her and started back down the stairs, clearly bent on removing his belongings from her apartment as quickly as possible.
If she wasn’t careful, she’d say or do something to give herself away. He might accuse her of being a gold digger, the way her ex-fiancé had, and hadn’t that been a laugh?
She clattered down the stairs after him. “You say you like to be settled, but you’re a renter like me. You don’t even have dishes.”
“I just sold my place in Chicago, fully furnished, to the friend of a friend. He travels, and didn’t want to mess with it.” Trigvey grabbed two soft-sided suitcases, and turned toward the door.
She grabbed another suitcase. “You owned a house?”
“A condo. My parents bought it for me. They bought everything in it except for my clothes and a few personal items.” He shrugged, the motion slow and awkward under his load.
Diane would bet her bottom dollar all he had now were the things he’d bought with his own money. “You wanted a clean break?”
“Yeah.” He brushed past her, headed for the hall.
“So…did you quit thoracic surgery when you left Chicago or before?”
“Long before.” He paused on her threshold and gave her a hard look. “I interned in pediatrics, like my mother, then shifted to thoracic, then went to endocrinology.” He laughed ruefully. “I probably would have settled on something by now if people didn’t keep tapping me.”
They stood together in her doorway doing nothing more than look at one another. The man was too handsome, rugged yet caring with his soft mouth and day’s growth of beard, clearly intelligent with his sharp eyes, and giving her his full attention. He waited as if expecting a reaction.
She shifted her load, to one side and wedged it against the jamb. “Tapping you?”
“I have a four point oh grade point average, and I’m good with my hands. I pick up techniques quickly. People are always inviting me to join clinics and organizations.”
Could he be any more eligible? He belonged on the society pages, which as far as Diane was concerned meant he was totally off limits.
“Then why aren’t you married?” she blurted.
“I’m too busy.” He stared at her. Definitely not friendly. “Are you looking to fill the position?”
“No! Not at all.”
“Really,” he muttered. He picked up his suitcases.
“It’s not that I don’t like you, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not…” She stopped herself from saying she wasn’t a gold digger. Maybe he wasn’t thinking that way about her after all.
She juggled the suitcase off her hip, and followed.
Trigvey glanced over his shoulder and gave her a crooked smile, a touch cynical and a little condescending, but forgiving as well. “Yeah.”
It only took one more load to move the rest of his belongings. All too soon, she found herself standing in his freshly-cluttered apartment, trying to come up with an excuse to hang around. “So, um…I better go.” She gestured toward the door.
She glanced around the bare apartment. Hardwood floors echoing the shape of her own apartment looked so different with no area rugs or furniture, only bits of debris which made her itch to pick up a broom. The morning sun shone brightly through un-curtained windows and highlighted the dust motes floating in the air. She could do a lot here, if she were willing to bully her way in. She glanced over to see Trigvey look away, his brow furrowed.
“You should go.” He didn’t sound thrilled.
She leaned toward the door, then shifted away from it, glanced out the window and generally felt uncomfortable. “I could show you around town,” she said.
He glanced at his watch. “I’m back on rotation the day after tomorrow. Between now and then I have to turn this place into a home.” He waved unenthusiastically at the room in general.
“Showing you around town
won’t take long. There are people who have lived in Madison for years and still haven’t walked down State Street or visited the Civic Center, or even been inside the Capital Building. You should check out all the attractions of a place as soon as you can because once you’ve been living there a while, you’ll never have time.”
His laugh was self-deprecatory. “You’d better go, because I really need a shower.” He shooed her off with a friendly wave.
Shot down.
Her hand jerked up spastically, but she didn’t wave back. That would have been even dumber.
Chapter Four
Trigvey shut the shower off. He felt better being clean, but he still needed to shave. He dug his razor out of his suitcase, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind. Once facing the mirror, he couldn’t do anything.
A man had died. Thinking about it made his insides feel shaky.
He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, then grabbed the razor. It shook in his hand. He set it down, took a deep breath, then picked it up. The whiskers had to come off.
The moment the patient stopped breathing replayed in his mind while Trigvey’s razor hovered in the air.
The injection had still been in his hand. Everyone had looked at him, the nurse who gave him the syringe, both of the orderlies holding the patient down, the intern who had brought him in on the case and the one who had been waiting in the bay when Trigvey arrived, they all looked at him. Though he knew there had been no accusation in anyone’s eyes, he felt himself fall from the God-like pedestal on which they had set him.
The razor still hung in the air. His arm felt cold and tired despite the heat. He shook his head. Too much thinking wouldn’t get the whiskers off.
One side was clean and smooth when he heard the commotion in the hall. He stuck his head out to find Diane, arm fully extended, thrashing at the end of Miranda’s grip. Miranda’s other hand lingered on his doorknob. No doubt Miranda had dragged Diane up here, going so far as to brazenly let herself in.
“Hello! Anyone here?” Miranda called.
Trigvey stepped out of the bathroom, shaving forgotten. “Something wrong?”
“She,” Diane pointed at Miranda, “doesn’t think we spent enough time together today.”
