I shivered. It was too close to the truth. “Why should I? When you were deceiving me.”
“No. I just didn’t tell you what direction my . . . thoughts were tending. I wasn’t sure of them myself.” He shook his head. “What did you think was going on? Why did you think I was hanging out with you all this time?”
“All this time is only a couple weeks. And I thought you were looking for an excuse to quit psychiatry, to decide you had to give it up. And then I decided you just liked interfering. That you thought I was going to get in trouble unless you kept close tabs on me.”
“Well, that’s true. But it didn’t last. I started looking forward to seeing you. And looking for excuses to be with you.” He smiled slightly. “It’s not like I’m insulting you. This is just . . . a romantic invitation.”
That sounded so, well, inviting. Old-fashioned. Almost Jane-Austen-like. Hardly dangerous at all. But I knew better. In a cool tone that, I hoped, belied my panicked posture, I said, “This perhaps isn’t a good time for that. For me, I mean. It would be . . . you know, a rebound, since I’ve just been through a mess with a man your age, and I know all too well what that means. Loose ends, fear of aging. That’s all I need, a man who’s on the brink of a midlife crisis.”
He crossed the room and took my hand and pulled me up against him. “Sweetheart, did it ever occur to you that maybe you’re my midlife crisis?”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, that’s when a man is likely to choose someone completely inappropriate, someone who is likely to make a real mess of his life.”
“Me?” I was a little flattered, really. Especially when he was holding me that close, as if he knew he should let me go but couldn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t pull away, why I let him hold me like that. Mike Warren, holding me. Kissing me. Telling me I was his midlife crisis. It was too unreal for a rational response—part and parcel with my life this last few hours: the storm, the accident, the snow in July, the living room dimly lit and abnormally neat now that Tommy was gone, the late-night trembling in my muscles, the sleet still glittering like pearls in his dark hair. All unreal. “Inappropriate? Me?”
“Yeah. Who could be worse? I mean, you’ve got a serious problem with the whole idea of commitment. You resist real intimacy. You’re saddled with a kid, just when I’ve gotten mine out of the house. You’ve got some strange obsession with your ex--”
“It’s not an obsession. I’m just—”
“Right. Anyway, you’re clearly not anyone who is going to treat me to some long-term healthy relationship with mutual respect and caring. You’ll probably lead me into mayhem and madness, and then dump me for some twenty-five-year-old ballplayer.”
“Oh, sure. Just what I want in a man. Game playing and a big bat.”
“Then maybe you’ll run off with a rich guy in a yellow Lamborghini.”
That sounded sort of like jealousy. Didn’t it? I played with the pocket of his T-shirt and decided to find out. “Will and I have been friends forever. We get along very well.”
“Getting along is dull. You need a challenge.”
“Maybe I don’t want a challenge. Maybe I want someone who makes me feel comfortable.”
“Oh, he might make you feel comfortable. But I’ll make you feel safe. Eventually.”
“How?”
“Because I don’t have my eyes on some other prize. I don’t need to fall in love every month. Once more is plenty for me.”
He’d broken the rules. I didn’t want that word, that . . . L-word. I pulled out of his arms and paced the room, flipping on lights. “It’s not right for me. For you either, but especially not for me.” I glanced at him, dreading his reaction. Would he insist? Would he give up?
“I understand. You need time.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll give you a week. Don’t forget to set the alarm.” And without another word, he walked out the door.
Alone now, deflated, protests dying useless on my tongue, I went back around the room, turning off most of the lights I’d turned on. Men! Even Mike, who occasionally seemed fairly evolved, thought desire could be marshaled to a timetable. He’d give me a week. Wow. What a gentleman.
A week. Next Tuesday. Something in me started to tingle.
I got into bed and lay there. I couldn’t sleep. Why hadn’t I noticed? I should have noticed. That night at the gala, when we danced. But I’d been clueless.
Of course I was clueless, I told myself defensively. No one could have imagined that Mike Warren—my marriage counselor, for heaven’s sake—would have been interested in a relationship. Even if he did dance with me.
I groaned and felt on the headboard for the phone. “Tell me,” I demanded when he answered. “Why now? Why tonight?”
“I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to kiss you. Your mouth.”
Was this Mike Warren? Always so remote, so apart, so calm? He didn’t sound so calm anymore. Neither did I, when I replied, “You just wanted to kiss me?”
“Yes. Hey. Touch the phone. With your mouth.”
I couldn’t help it. I . . . kissed the phone. Oh, God, I was crazy. So was he. “You’re crazy.”
His voice became huskier. “Are you in bed?”
I parried that. “Are you?”
“No. I just got home. Going to take a shower.”
This last came muffled, and I knew he must be pulling his shirt over his head. I knew what was coming next and panicked. “Okay. Good night.” I banged down the phone and lay down and gathered the blanket tight around me, and waited like that until sleep finally came.
THE NEXT MORNING I walked out of the house and almost stumbled over a branch from the oak tree. The driveway, the yard, the street were scattered with debris. There was more junk in the river, an oil drum, a tire, floating by in the rushing current. What a mess. I spared a moment to imagine what Will’s poor car looked like after a night in the water.
It took ten minutes to clear the driveway, and I decided the yard could wait for Tommy’s return. More carefully now, I threaded my way through storm detritus to the office.
Barb met me at the door, brandishing a newspaper. There, under a banner about the flooding, was a headline, Netmore Chief Saved From Drowning. Fortunately, I wasn’t mentioned, and Mike was identified only as “a local physician driving by” who saw the lights and stopped to help. I knew that reticence would last only until the press got hold of the accident report. And then, presumably, the banner would read something about Netmore Chief and a DUI charge.
I didn’t tell Barb everything; no use burdening her with my suspicions. But I filled her in on Will’s condition and the fate of his car. She, like Tommy, had lusted after that car. When I asked if she needed Will’s signature on any papers, since I was on my way to the hospital, she shook her head. “I’ll run it all by later. Hope it’s not his writing hand that’s in a sling.”
“Unfortunately, it’s his right arm. But I’m sure he can make an X with the left hand.”
I took a cab to the hospital and was glad to see yet another security guard installed outside Will’s door. He checked my ID and name against a list on a clipboard, and let me go in.
Will was sitting up in the big hospital bed. He greeted me with a shame-faced grin. “Your boyfriend was just here. I’d beat him up, but they won’t let me out of bed. Not to mention the bastard saved my life.”
I could feel the blush all the way to my forehead. “Not my boyfriend. How are you feeling?”
“Lousy. The police came by earlier. Not a pleasant bunch.”
Just then Mike came in, looking official in a lab coat. I glanced at him, said hi, and looked resolutely back at Will. Mike and I would talk later.
“So did you get charged?” Mike asked. There wasn’t much warmth in his tone.
I wasn’t one to excuse drunk drivin
g, so I didn’t waste much sympathy on Will. Just as well. He replied, “First offense, solid citizen, big contributor to judicial campaigns. Plus, no one got a usable blood sample within three hours of the accident. My lawyer thinks the charge will be dropped to reckless driving. I’ll just get a lot of bad press and a suspended license for a month.”
Mike went to the bed and peeled up a bit of the bandage over Will’s temple. “At least you’ll have the scar longer than that. And the headache too, if there’s any justice.”
“Thanks a lot, doc,” Will said. “Look, I know I deserve worse. But it’s not going to happen again. I was lucky. Of course,” he added ruminatively, “I still don’t get that sawhorse.”
I glanced at Mike. He shrugged—that meant it was my job to broach the subject. So I did. “Uh, Will, remember what we were talking about at Gillie’s?”
“The lawsuit. That’s all you ever want to talk about anymore.”
“I told you that I thought Murdoch was dangerous. Well, I think—we think—maybe he set this up for you. That he caused your accident.”
Will’s brow creased as he considered this. “You mean, like he put the sawhorse there? Right on the other end of the bend? So I’d swerve and go into the water?” He shook his head. “That would take some major planning. And he’s just a hick, remember.”
I noticed that he didn’t question Murdoch’s capacity for violence, only for organization.
“Not just a hick,” Mike put in. “He’s an inventor. He might be self-taught, but he does chemical experiments in that lab of his. So he knows how to plan. And we did see a pickup truck coming out Ford Road just a minute or so after you crashed. He could have parked the truck uproad, watched you crash, and then recovered the sawhorse with no one the wiser.”
“But why?”
“Who is named executor of your estate in your will?” I asked.
“My personal attorney. Mom’s the major beneficiary. So?”
“So say you die. What would the attorney advise your mom about this lawsuit?”
Will looked at the sling on his arm. “I suppose he’d tell Mom it would be best to settle.”
“Just as Wanda would have settled if you hadn’t decided to hang tough,” I said. “Look. I think he killed Don.”
Will looked thunderstruck. But that gave way to amusement. Typical. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but the only way grown men fall out of buildings is by jumping.”
“No, he didn’t jump. He was pushed. Possibly by Murdoch.”
“Right, sure. Two murders—just to get us to settle this lawsuit?”
“He thinks he’s justified. He thinks you both cheated him.” Mike crossed his arms and leaned against the closed door. “Men murder for much less.”
Naturally, now that a man had spoken, Will could take it seriously. I could see the gears beginning to turn in his mind. “So, if he tried to kill me and failed . . . now what?”
Mike shrugged. “There’s a guard at the door. I didn’t want you killed in my hospital. After you’re discharged, it’s your problem.”
Will groaned. “A bodyguard. That’s so bogus. Everyone will think I’m a wuss.”
“No, they won’t,” I put in comfortingly. “They’ll think you must be richer than they realized. And pretty soon there’ll be a new trend, with all the hot software guys hiring muscle.”
The current muscle knocked at the door. “There’s a lady here said she has some work for Mr. Bowie. Name of Barb Lynn.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “My partner. She has some papers for you to sign.”
The security guard held the door open, and Barb came in, her skirt short, her smile bright, her arms loaded. She had brought considerably more, I noted, than a folder of papers awaiting signatures.
“I’m lending you a laptop,” she said, dumping the case on the easy chair next to the bed. “The touchpad’s configured for left-handed use and voice commands. It’s got that beta version of Alien Inlanders the kids are all playing. And you can check your email too.”
Mike glanced at me and nodded towards the door. “See ya.” I said as I followed him out, but Barb was already occupied with booting up the laptop, and Will was talking animatedly about the game he was designing in his spare time, and neither noticed us leaving.
We walked sedately past the guard and got in the elevator. As soon as the doors swooshed shut, I found myself in Mike’s arms. “Someone might—” I murmured against his mouth.
“I know.” He kissed me, slow at first, as if he didn’t trust himself, and then harder, and my arms tightened around his neck and my head swam and . . .
The elevator slowed, we let go, and I smoothed my blouse and hair. I’m sure we both looked perfectly innocent when the doors opened on the front lobby. I didn’t care so much for my own sake, but Mike worked here, and I could just imagine what the gossip would be like if he were found nuzzling a visitor in the elevator. Worse yet, the single nurses would realize he was eligible again and go after him. Not that I should be concerned with that, I told myself, even as he took my arm in that protective fashion that made the shivers start up again. I could do this. I could give into this feeling; I could have him without losing myself.
In the car we kissed again, and there was no reason to stop—except for the gear shift, the heat that built up around us once the doors were closed, and a nagging memory that we were supposed to be headed somewhere to do something important. I wanted to hold him, to feel his linen shirt warm under my fingers, to close my eyes and still see his face. Mike slipped his hand down my bare arm, and, still kissing me, turned the key. The air conditioner came on with an expensive hum, and sighing, I moved a couple inches back. “We have to go.”
Without a word he put the car into gear and headed out of the parking lot.
“Okay,” I said when it became clear that he wasn’t going to bring up the subject of us. “Here’s what I’ve decided. We’re adults, and we can handle it. I mean, an adult relationship.”
“What’s that like?”
I shot him an annoyed glance. “Mature. Focused.”
“Focused on what?”
“On being good to each other. On being close but independent. On being . . . well, limited.”
“Limited to what?”
Somehow this had been easier when it was all still in my head and he wasn’t asking questions. “Just limited to one part of our lives. I don’t want complete connection. I mean, I don’t want a man in the center of my life. I don’t want to share a house, or finances—and the way my finances are at the moment, you should be glad—and I don’t want us to get involved with each other’s kids.”
“So what do you want?”
“I want . . .” Sex. Boy, howdy. My whole body was on alert. I suddenly remembered what it was all about. But I couldn’t say that. “I want to have fun. To keep it light and fun. I don’t want this to be too complicated. I don’t want to angst about it. I’d like to . . . go out to dinner on weekends, and, you know, hold hands under the table.”
“We can do that.” His hand moved from the gear shift to my leg, and up to my hand. The hand that was in my lap. More sirens. Flashing lights. Tornado alarms.
I couldn’t withdraw my hand, because then he’d be touching—Never mind. “And some phone calls. During the week, when we’re not seeing each other. And maybe, if it works out . . . After dinner. If it works out. If I can get rid of my son for the night. Maybe you can . . .” this came out strangled, as if my mother had her hands around my throat. “Spend the night.”
“Just occasionally. After dinner, you mean. For fun.”
“Yes. For fun. Nothing complicated.”
He squeezed my hand. “Sorry. Not possible. It won’t happen. Wouldn’t last.”
I felt an abrupt sense of loss. But I couldn’t lose something I didn’t have.
“Why not?”
“Because it won’t be enough. So, it’ll get complicated. We’ll want more.”
That was a relief. I thought he meant that the relationship wouldn’t last. Then I remembered my resolve. “I’ve already done the deep complicated connection thing. At first it seems wonderful and intoxicating, but pretty soon I’ll feel like I can’t live without it. It’ll feel like addiction.”
“Addiction. Why do you characterize it that way?” He was back to sounding neutrally interested. I considered punching him, but held back. He was driving.
“Because . . . because I’ll grow to need it. And there’ll be these tentacles that reach into every area of my life, and every area of me.”
Thankfully, he didn’t remark on my mixed metaphors. “It’s a gamble, to be sure.”
I smiled at him gratefully. “I’m glad you understand.”
“Oh, I understand. I just don’t agree. We’re not simple people. We won’t have a simple relationship. It’s already complicated by our history together.”
“Like I could probably sue you for exploiting the connection between doctor and patient?”
He made a creditable imitation of nonchalance, but I noticed he took his hand away from my lap. Boy, did I notice. “You’d lose. Medical practice is judged by medical doctors in this state, and they hate to close off options for themselves. Especially those in small towns, where if they couldn’t date patients, they would never go out at all.”
“I wouldn’t sue you anyway,” I admitted.
“Thank you. And I’ll try not to exploit you.”
His mock-gravity made me smile. He could always make me smile, even when he was infuriating me. It was the most dangerous thing about him. Well, that and the . . . the feel of him, so taut and still against me. “I know that’s not what’s going on here. But it does complicate matters. You know too much about me. Like . . . everything.”
He shook his head. “Almost nothing. I don’t know what you eat for breakfast—”
“Nothing. A cup of coffee, and yes, Doctor, I know it’s the most important meal of the day, but I’d rather save my calories for dessert after dinner.”
Until Death Page 28