by Susan Wiggs
Her obsession with Caleb was like a chronic condition. One she never wanted to get rid of.
She couldn’t stop thinking about his touch and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners even before a smile reached his lips. She couldn’t get enough of the deep, assured pitch of his voice and the unique cadence of his speech. She got high on the smell of him alone. The way he looked at her and listened to her as if she were the only person in the world.
Each time she thought about Caleb, everything else ebbed away, including all the other obligations and duties that used to fill her every waking hour.
When they weren’t together, she had trouble concentrating on anything other than the next encounter. The feeling she’d had the moment he’d kissed her—that utter bliss, that warm surge of tenderness, that lively tingle of sexual excitement—it was a ridiculous craving, but one she couldn’t deny.
A feeling this strong was dangerous. Yes, dangerous, because it was so enormously distracting. She had stopped caring about everything else except the rush of unbidden yearning. She didn’t worry about being swept away by passion. She wanted it.
She was utterly beguiled. Some people might call it chemistry, but it was more like electricity. Caleb Stoltz had hit the switch that turned on her whole body.
Sometimes she tried to reason the feelings away. She was a woman of science, for Chrissake. She should know better. Attraction was a function of pheromones, a chemical reaction, waist-to-hip proportion according to some studies, human instinct regarding genetic differentiation according to others. She thought she understood her hidden sexual archetype. Yet this defied all logic. No empirical data made sense when she found herself caught up in a moment of wonder at the depth of her attraction.
She kept waiting to discover that he was boring or narrow-minded, that he had no interest in the things that interested her, that his mind was closed to new ideas, his heart to new feelings. Instead, each moment she spent with him revealed more about him—his effortless masculinity, his kindness, his inventive mind and tender heart.
If they were ever intimate, would it be as intense as she imagined?
And she imagined this a lot. She was imagining it when she knocked on the door across the hall the next morning, and Caleb opened it. He was dressed for work, ready to catch the seven o’clock bus to Grantham Farm.
“My parents want us to come to their place for dinner,” she said.
“All right,” he said simply.
“Is it?”
“Sure. Folks eat supper with their families every day.” He closed the door quietly behind him. “I have to get to the bus.”
“I’ll walk partway with you.” Outside, they fell in step together. The pavement was damp and acrid-smelling with a light rain, and the morning held a slight chill, an early hint of autumn.
“So anyway,” she said, wishing this did not make her nervous. “About my parents . . . They’re kind of intense.” She adjusted the shoulder strap of her bag. She flashed on memories of childhood mornings, heading off to school with her backpack, her parents bidding her goodbye. They were always affectionate, but their unspoken expectations made her school bag feel weighted with bricks.
He gave her a slight smile. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
She gently slugged his arm. “Hey.”
“This worries you a lot,” he said.
“No, it doesn’t. Yes, it does. I hate that it does. See, my folks have very specific ideas about . . . Shit. They think you and I are— Never mind. Let’s just get it over with. Can we meet at the hospital after you visit Jonah tonight?”
“Sure.” He stopped walking and studied her intently for a moment. Then, very gently, he reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand. “Don’t worry, Reese. I’ll behave myself.”
“It’s not your behavior I’m worried about.”
He lowered his hand. “Good to know,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
The blustery early-fall weather quickened Reese’s steps as she walked with Caleb to her parents’ place. “It’s a fair hike,” she said. “If you’d rather go by car—”
“I don’t mind walking.”
“All right. It’s quicker to take the pedestrian bridge. It goes through a kind of rough neighborhood, though. Not exactly the most scenic area.”
“Are you saying it’s not safe?”
“I’m saying it’s rough. If I were walking by myself at night, I’d probably avoid it. With the two of us early in the evening, I’m not worried.”
“Then I won’t worry either.”
The truth was, she felt safe with him, whether or not the feeling was warranted. A brisk autumnal wind swirled through the cracked streets and alleyways of the blighted neighborhood. Abandoned warehouses with broken windows were surrounded by razor wire and warning signs. Dilapidated tenements hunched shoulder to shoulder above hole-in-the-wall convenience stores, payday loan centers with burglar bars, and bail bond offices. Broken-down cars and walls covered with gang symbols lined both sides of the streets. Panhandlers and tweakers loitered here and there, but none of them paid much attention to them—until they reached an intersection at the edge of the district.
“Help a brother out?” asked a hulking guy covered in layers of old clothing and street dirt.
Reese held Caleb’s arm. “Sorry,” she murmured, trying to brush past him.
Caleb slowed his pace. “What kind of help are you looking for?”
“Whatever you can spare,” the guy said, holding out a hand seamed with grime.
“Caleb—”
“Here you go, friend, and good luck.” Caleb handed him a few dollars. Then he shook the man’s hand, looking him in the eye and offering a warm smile.
“Uh . . . thanks.” The guy stepped back, then turned and walked away.
Reese knew better than to point out all the reasons it was a bad idea to give to panhandlers. There was no point. Besides, the way Caleb had given the money—acknowledging the man’s humanity and wishing him well—was above reproach.
She sighed. “You’re a good person. So much better than I am.”
He tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm. “Handing a fellow money doesn’t make me nice. Just means I had a bit to spare.”
“It was good of you to speak kindly to him, though. Most people, even if they hand out spare change, don’t even acknowledge the person.” She sighed again. “The city can be a hard place to live. Sometimes I fantasize about going someplace else, way out in the country. I think I’d like that.”
“Then maybe you should try it.”
Her mind flashed on the meeting with Dr. Lake and Dr. Shrock. She shook her head. “Not possible. My whole life is about this medical career. Big-city hospitals for the next seven years at least, and after that, I’ll join my parents’ practice. I swear, every vacation will be out in the country.” She saw his mouth lift briefly in a smile. “You don’t take vacations, do you?”
He shook his head. “Very foreign concept, for sure.”
She was relieved when the distressed neighborhood gave way to the quiet splendor of Fitler Square, a century-old park surrounded by vintage brick buildings, tree-lined streets, and well-tended gardens with fountains and sculptures. At the edge of the old district by the river, her parents’ high-rise soared like an obelisk of glass. The level of luxury here was almost embarrassing—the grand entry, the iron-clad security, the understated elegance of the lobby. Every detail of this place was designed to impress, and to highlight the success of its well-heeled residents. She watched Caleb taking it all in with his typical openness and ease.
Their footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor as they crossed to the elevators. She waved her access card in front of the one marked Private and they stepped into the gilded, mirrored capsule. She waved the card again, and the elevator floated to the penthouse on the twenty-second floor. The door hissed open, directly into her parents’ home.
“Welcome to Casa Powell,” she said a tad too brightly as
she stepped out of the elevator. To her relief, he didn’t look nervous at all. Nor did he seem intimidated, the way some of her friends did when she brought them here. He simply waited with his customary patience.
“Hey, Mom, Dad,” she called. “We’re here!”
“Come in,” her mother warbled, her midheeled pumps tapping on the hardwood floor. She looked picture perfect in a simple couture dress and cashmere wrap, her hair and makeup flawless. “We’re just getting drinks on the veranda.” She hugged Reese, then greeted Caleb with a handshake. “I’m Joanna,” she said. “It’s probably standard to say I’ve heard so much about you, but I haven’t. I’ve heard almost nothing about you.”
“Mom—”
Caleb smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “In that case, I reckon we’ll have plenty to talk about.”
The expression on her mother’s face almost made Reese laugh aloud. Even Joanna Powell was not immune to Caleb’s looks. She fake-fanned herself. “You, young man, are already delightful. Come and meet Hector.” Grabbing his hand, she towed him across the apartment, past designer furnishings and museum-quality art, through the French doors to the expansive glass-railed terrace with a lap pool, potted trees, and a full bar. A cocktail-hour playlist drifted through invisible speakers.
“It’s chilly tonight, but I wanted you to see the sunset,” she said. “I had Quentin fire up the propane heaters for us.”
“Hi, Dad.” Reese went over to the bar, which was dramatically lit from beneath. An array of bottles were lined up on a shelf behind her father. “Whatever you’re putting in that shaker, make mine a double.”
“Tough day today?” He gave her a hug.
Tough evening looming ahead, she thought. “This is Caleb Stoltz. Caleb, my father, Hector.”
“A pleasure,” her father said. “What’s your poison?”
She could tell it was one of those phrases that had Caleb flummoxed. He hadn’t watched enough cheesy TV shows. “Would you like something to drink?”
“A glass of beer, please.”
They brought their drinks to a table under a pair of gently glowing heaters. “Cheers,” said Reese’s father, lifting his highball glass.
“We’re so glad you could come—both of you. It’s been nearly impossible to wrangle a visit from our own daughter, she’s been so busy.”
Caleb offered a pleasant nod. By now Reese knew he wasn’t given to small talk. He didn’t seem to need to fill silences.
“So, Reese tells us you’re from the country.” Joanna waited with an expectant smile.
“Yes. It’s a town called Middle Grove, up north and a bit west of the city.”
“And how are you liking Philly?”
Christ, thought Reese. He’s here because his nephew has been mangled, not to visit the fucking Liberty Bell.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“Hector and I love it here,” Joanna announced, indicating the panorama with a sweep of her arm. As promised, the sunset was glorious, the clouds shot through with fire to the west. “I miss our home in Gladwyne, but when Reese went away to college, it seemed to be time for a change. We were a bit apprehensive about moving so close in. Then we found this place, and it’s the best of both worlds.”
Unlike other friends Reese had brought here, Caleb didn’t effuse over the magnificent home, the artwork, the mind-blowing views from the floor-to-ceiling windows and rooftop terrace. It simply wasn’t his way.
“The main thing is that we got to keep our golf membership,” her father said. “Is your beer all right?” he asked. “I don’t have much of a palate for it.”
“Delicious, thank you,” Caleb said.
“This is such a crucial time in your career,” Hector said, turning to Reese. “Fill me in on your progress with the Match. Do you have a plan for ranking?”
Great. Let’s talk shop in front of our guest. “It’s going fine,” she said. “And of course I have a plan.” She looked around the terrace, hoping to change the subject. “The place looks great. Like a five-star hotel.”
“The ranking, for the uninitiated, is the process of matching medical students with their residency programs,” said Hector, turning back to Caleb.
Uninitiated, thought Reese. Why did that sound so patronizing?
“Man, I remember those days so well,” her father went on. “I lay awake night after night, trying to make sure I did the right thing. Do I put Mass General at the top, or Johns Hopkins? And then there was an opportunity at the Mayo Clinic . . . It was agony.”
“I’m not in agony, Dad.”
“What’s your top-ranked program at the moment?” her mother asked.
“Well, the ones Dad just mentioned, and right here at Penn, of course.”
“We’d like to see you taking your life more seriously. With the Match coming up, things are going to get very real very fast.”
She flinched at the implied criticism, then glanced at Caleb to make sure his eyes weren’t glazing over.
Her dad sent him a sorry-not-sorry look. “Big step for our little girl,” he said. “We want the best for her.”
“Perelman at Penn is the best for global health studies,” Caleb said. “For surgical technology, it’d be Johns Hopkins.” He looked from one startled parent to the other. “Been studying on it. On account of Jonah.”
“Oh,” said Joanna. “That’s . . . admirable.”
“I interviewed for a rural residency program, too,” Reese said. Might as well get that out there now.
“Rural?” Her father swirled the ice in his glass. “They don’t train pediatric surgeons out in the country.”
Reese tried not to bristle. “They train family physicians.”
With an expression of bemused tolerance, Caleb followed the conversation as if watching a Ping-Pong match.
“That’s not your chosen specialty,” her mother said. “You don’t want to spend your time treating earaches and hay fever.”
Reese could feel the conversation wandering into treacherous territory. “Hey,” she said, “I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”
“Ah, I hope you brought your appetite. Quentin went to the farmers’ market this morning, and he’s been cooking all day.”
They went inside and gathered around the table, which was set with bone china and crystal, the water tumblers and wineglasses precisely lined up, the array of silver carefully laid on crisp linen napkins.
Quentin came out of the kitchen. “All set?” he asked.
“Starving,” said Reese, and she introduced him to Caleb. She couldn’t bring herself to say Quentin was an actual butler. It sounded so pretentious.
“Crostini with prosciutto and burrata,” Quentin said, serving the starters.
Caleb leaned over to Reese. “It’s a ham and cheese sandwich.” Then he smiled at Quentin. “And who doesn’t like a ham and cheese sandwich.”
Quentin grinned. “Yep. The burrata was made fresh this morning. I have a nice Lambrusco to pair with it. Enjoy.” He filled everyone’s glasses.
The food was delicious, but it was pretentious, too—a salad of fennel and blood oranges, a ragout of foraged mushrooms and farro, a dessert that looked more like a 3-D collage on free-form glass. Throughout the meal, Reese’s parents were at their condescending, judgmental best.
“I find it so intriguing—that you’re Amish,” Joanna said, as if encountering a rare disorder. “We’ve never met someone who’s Amish before, have we, Hector?” She paused for a moment. “No, wait, I have a colleague in Lancaster, remember her, Reese? Lane St. John. She was a professor of genetics studies, and both her sons went to Princeton. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there.”
No, Mom, you just wanted to bring up Princeton. “Lane had this amazing housekeeper, an Amish girl. And I mean, amazing. She did everything—ironed the sheets. Baked bread and pies from scratch. Scrubbed the front walk on her hands and knees. Did all the mending and alterations. Incredible. My colleagues and I were totally envious. We all wanted one.”<
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Reese gritted her teeth. Her mother had not just said that.
Yes, she had.
Caleb, on the other hand, took it in stride. “I reckon we could all use somebody like that,” he said with a cocky grin. “Where’d your friend get her, at the Kmart?”
Joanna had the grace to blush. “I only meant, a young woman with that skill set is a rare find. Most girls in this day and age don’t focus on domestic arts.”
Stop talking. Reese tried to telegraph the message across the table. “I made a berry pie from scratch the other day,” she said, almost defiantly. Something about her parents made her feel twelve years old again.
“It was delicious,” Caleb said. “Jonah, my nephew who’s in the hospital here, is still talking about it. Your daughter’s been kind to us since the accident.”
“That’s nice to hear,” said her father. “I imagine it’s quite a culture shock to go from your Amish community to the city.”
“It’s different, for sure. I wouldn’t call it a shock, though.”
They grilled Caleb with questions designed to discomfit him, to make him feel out of his element, less than. He answered with unflappable honesty, talking easily of farm life, the close-knit community, the history of his family, which had occupied the same home for six generations.
“I wish I had better gardening skills,” her mother said. “I’ve been thinking of adding a garden out on the terrace. Do you think that would work? And beehives. Did you know urban beekeeping is a trend? Maybe you could give us some pointers.”
“Just because he’s Amish doesn’t mean he’s a walking, talking Farmer’s Almanac,” Reese pointed out.
He grinned at her. “Could be I am.” He turned to her mother. “Bees and butterflies won’t venture to the top of the building, so the hives will help with the pollinating.”
“Oh, that’s smart. I’ll get Quentin on it next spring.”
Reese gritted her teeth through coffee and digestifs in the lounge room. Caleb politely declined and just as politely gave his attention to the art collection as her mother talked about her favorite pieces.
