She pulled over and started to get out of the car. Damn. She’d probably need shoes to cross the dirt to the truck.
Her red strappy heels certainly didn’t feel right, or good, to put on. But she wobbled her way up to the ordering counter of the truck where the open window was up high, and she had to crane her neck to read the even higher menu.
“Hi.” The man peering out the truck’s order window had a broad, florid face with a nose as wide as a spoon. His eyes were friendly, and he looked at Naomi with curiosity. “You want breakfast?”
“I can have breakfast?” Naomi had thought it just sold tacos.
“’Course. Everything?”
“Then heck, yeah.”
The day was getting even better. She leaned on her car in the warming sun, waiting, and tilted her head back. A block away she could hear the ocean, a low, dull roar that sounded almost exactly like the freeway had when she lived in San Diego. Two seagulls in the parking lot squabbled over a dirty tortilla.
“Hey,” called the man. He held out her burrito. “Have a good day, pretty lady.”
It was foil wrapped and huge. Naomi could tell it was going to be fantastic. “Thanks.”
Back in her car, she realized she felt like a different person from the one she’d been the day before. And she was too sleepy to examine why. She needed home, a shower, a pot of coffee, and the incredible-smelling burrito, and she’d be able to face going in to the office.
Where she’d face the man who’d had his fingers and—oh God—his tongue inside her last night. Naomi felt heat rush through her again.
What with Rig last night, and hugging Shirley this morning, she was on a roll. Who knew what wild and crazy out-of-character thing she might pull later? She might jump out of an airplane. Or even call her mother of her own volition! Naomi grinned at the thought.
But that whole Rig thing. She was going to keep a lid on it, unless she knew exactly what she was doing. He’d almost gotten to her last night. She knew it, could admit it, if only to herself. And that made her nervous.
She stepped happily into her house, pleased that it would be just as she’d left it, rules of order maintained in her friendly jumble, clutter corralled so that she understood it. Order, perfection, peace. They were all integrally linked, and Naomi loved the feeling of—
Oh, crap. She didn’t love the furniture in the living room being moved so that the couch now faced the fireplace. She didn’t love the sink being full of dishes. She didn’t love the look of the pan on the stove that had apparently boiled over and hadn’t been cleaned up. Oh, Anna.
At least she had her bedroom. Her sanctuary.
She opened the door, and pulled back the curtains to let in the light. Something groaned under the covers.
Naomi screamed. Whatever it was in the bed screamed, too, and burrowed farther.
Anna.
Ripping back the coverlet, Naomi said, “What the hell are you doing in here?”
Anna squeaked again and then gave a weak giggle. “You scared me,” she said. “Why did you scream?”
“Because, unlike you, I’m not in the habit of finding strange people in my bed.”
Anna sat up slowly, scooting backward so that she could rest against the headboard. “That’s just rude.”
“I know.” Naomi felt immediately guilty. “I apologize. Cheap shot. But you scared me.”
“You?” Anna pulled the sheet over her belly and up to her chin. “There was a mouse in my room.”
She was already calling it her room.
“I don’t have mice,” Naomi said. “Did you actually see one?”
“Well, no, but I heard something scritching under the bed, and then it sounded like it ran along the baseboard and into the hall.”
“So whatever it was, and I doubt it was a mouse, wasn’t even in your room anymore?”
Anna’s eyes were round. Guileless. “But what if it came back?” She sat up straighter as Naomi opened her tiny closet. “Where were you, anyway? I kept expecting you to kick me out of bed when you came home.” She pointed to the window, where sunlight was streaming around the slits in the venetian blind.
Naomi tugged a hand through her hopeless hair. Did she still have time for a shower? It didn’t matter if she was late, she needed one, if only to rinse the smell of Rig off her body, to wash the two of them out of her mind. “I was out.”
“With Rig? I knew it! I fucking knew it.” Anna’s face was smug. “I think you make a good couple.”
Naomi couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve seen him twice.”
“Three times. Hey, are you blushing?” Anna crowed. “You are. Like a schoolgirl!”
“I’m not. It’s just warm in here. And anyway, aren’t you supposed to be at work to open in,” Naomi looked over Anna’s shoulder at her alarm clock, “twenty-five minutes?”
“Oh, shit!” As much as an almost-full-term pregnant woman could, Anna hopped out of bed and darted into the bathroom.
Well, there went Naomi’s chance of hurrying.
She took her burrito out to the back porch. In between bites, she worked on the shawl, which was actually growing—Naomi could finally see some progress. At the end of each full repeat, her brain was always confused with the change, all the sudden K2togs and SSKs that followed the rows of plain garter stitch, but at the present moment, she understood these increases and decreases. She was starting to be able to read the lace. A little bit.
While she ate and knitted, she studied the backyard. She loved it out here, all flowering shrubs and native plants that she’d put in instead of the grass that had been here when she moved in. She’d hired a landscape company to do the heavy lifting, but she’d chosen and put in the plants herself, and since they were all drought-resistant native plants that flourished in their coastal clime, she barely ever had to water. She just weeded a bit every few months, and let the garden go. Naomi had thrown out a wildflower seed bomb in early spring, when they got most of their rains, and now her favorite California poppies nodded their heads next to forget-me-nots and Indian paintbrush.
The burrito was delicious. Naomi took her time with it. She breathed. In. Out. Early sunlight filtered through a few puffy clouds, and the day promised to be warm. A perfect beach day.
She felt more alive than she had in longer than she could remember. Her sister was living in her house, and Rig was tangling her brain waves like a ball of laceweight rolling on the floor, and Naomi didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Chapter Thirty-five
Reward yourself for good behavior: if you finish a sweater, make a quick hat. If you finish a challenging piece of lace, cast on for chunky cables. Remember to treat yourself well.
—E.C.
Rig woke to disappointment that felt like a giant storm swell rolling under his bunk. Naomi wasn’t there next to him, she wasn’t curled in his arms like she had been all night. It wasn’t that much of a surprise, honestly—he should have guessed she’d run at the first light of dawn, but he’d hoped that he’d awaken with her, and that he’d be able to convince her to stay a little longer.
Instead, all trace of her was gone save for the lingering sweet scent that still hung in the air like a ghost.
Oh, and the bra that was stuck under the door between the bedroom and the bathroom.
Rig laughed and gently pulled it free. Red lace, with that underlining of black … was it silk? Whatever it was, the bra was pretty, but looking at it, Rig could only think of what had been inside it last night. What he’d taken out of it.
The thought hit him like a punch.
Slow down, Keller. It had been a really long time since he could think of a girl he wanted to wrap back up like a sexy package—the bra, the panties, the long red silk shirt—just so he could take them off and start touching her again.
Danger. The signs were obvious.
Now was about reconnecting with his family. Taking the time to rebuild his relationship with his brother. To be a good son and uncle. To help the Keller
men with their grief. Someday he’d find his own soul mate and settle down, but it wasn’t time for that yet. And Naomi wasn’t his soul mate. Obviously. She was a highly driven professional career woman, a little too tightly wound for him to consider anything more than a dalliance of the sort they’d had last night.
She also made tiny mewling whimpers of pleasure when he stroked her with his tongue, noises that made him harder than he’d ever been. She hadn’t seemed highly driven or wound tight last night. God, he ached right now, just thinking about it.
For a little while, maybe he’d continue to ignore the signs. It was like driving in a foreign country—you didn’t need to understand the directions just to stay on the road. He left the house, shutting his door with a click. Had Naomi kept her shoes off while she flitted through the garden to the street? Or had he just slept through the noise of her leaving? He checked to see if Shirley was in the garden, as she sometimes was early in the morning, but she wasn’t, and her car wasn’t in the driveway. She was working at Tillie’s, then.
He felt a half smile on his face. He touched the lace of Naomi’s red bra in his coat pocket. It was going to be a great day, and he had the best job in the world.
When he stepped into the office, chaos swirled like a storm. Three people were in line, two of them looking furious. Anna was behind the reception desk, her hands up in the air as if she was being robbed. Naomi was scuttling around behind her, filling her arms with files, setting them down, then grabbing more papers. She looked out and met his eyes. For a moment, he felt her remember the night before—he saw a flare of heat in her emerald eyes—and then her face went blank.
“You’re late,” she said. “We need you back here, now.”
“Coming,” he said. And then to the woman in line who looked the angriest, he said, “Good morning. Yellow’s a great color for you.”
The woman’s shoulders relaxed and she smiled. “Well, thank you.” She ran her hands down the velour jumpsuit she was wearing.
He pushed through the door into the back area. Naomi stopped in her tracks and stared at him.
“I thought I was going to be late, but you’re even later than I was. You know it’s nine thirty already? And we’ve had patients since before nine? I’ve been doing everything I can, and I’ve seen two so far, but Anna is so far behind in what she has to do that I’m afraid nothing’s going to get done at all. She hasn’t even started phoning in prescriptions, or sorting lab results, and if Bruno was here everything would be fine, but he’s not—” Her voice broke off, and she frowned even harder. “And that’s your fault. So is hiring Anna. We are better than this here.”
“You were in such a good mood last night.”
A hint of rose crept across her cheeks that made him long fiercely to cross the room and kiss her senseless.
“Yeah. I was.” Her voice was softer. “I was even in a good mood this morning, but not since the office exploded.”
“I’ll help. You take a patient back, and I’ll help Anna sort it out.”
Naomi puffed air out of her cheeks. Then she said, “That’s very reasonable. Thank you.”
He laughed. “That looked like it hurt to say.”
Her eyes looked wounded. “No. Your idea is a good one. I’ll go get Mr. Cruz.”
Damn. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. Maybe he could make her laugh instead. “Oh, Naomi?”
She stopped, one hand on the door to reception. “Yeah?”
“You left something at my house.” He pulled just the strap of her bra out of his pocket so that she could see it.
“Oh! You shouldn’t have …” Naomi stammered. “Dammit. Give it to me,” she said, crossing the room in three quick steps. She snapped it out of his pocket, ran to her office, opened the door, and threw it in. He pictured it landing on her desk, draping from her lamp, and smiled.
“Do I get a reward?” he asked as he went to help Anna.
“Oooh!” Naomi sounded both angry and amused, like a child being teased with a toy just over her head. He liked it that he could make her sound like that. She needed to relax more, obviously, and good God, if that wasn’t a worthwhile way to spend some time, he didn’t know what was.
Chapter Thirty-six
If you have a sick feeling about the edge, or the cast on, or even the yarn itself, trust that feeling. You’re always right.
—E.C.
Naomi stretched and looked out her office window. Once Rig had jumped into the fray, the rush had eased, and the work flow had been manageable. No matter what, it would have been a busier day than normal, a summer cold going around that had every mother worried. It would play itself out, and in the meantime, Naomi took a lot of temperatures and discussed the color of sputum with concerned parents. She herself was fighting a stomach-ache, probably from the way it tightened up every time she saw Rig. Just one time, as they’d passed in the hallway, she’d met his dark eyes. Instantly, she’d felt that deep, internal heat flare to life, and the amused look on his face told her he knew what he was doing to her.
She’d made an iced coffee in the break room and retreated to her office, dousing her feelings with chilled caffeine.
Anna had finally caught on to the rhythm—that, or instead of filing things, she was just throwing them out. Naomi doubted the latter, though. She knew her sister was smart. She’d just never been … very focused. Now that Anna was sitting at the desk, Naomi found it more difficult not to get her hopes up that she would stay. But she had to remember: this was temporary. It always was with Anna.
Naomi tilted back in the chair
Her heart still ached for the baby. God, what kind of life was her sister going to give an infant? Why couldn’t Anna have used birth control, like a sensible, sexually active woman? Abortion this late was unthinkable, of course, but earlier on? When she was only a month or two along? Surely her sister had considered it?
Outside on the sidewalk, a tiny old woman moved at what must be slower than a snail’s pace, leaning on her walker. At one point her head dropped onto her chest, and she stood there, swaying. Naomi stood up halfway, ready to run outside if the woman dropped, but after what appeared to be a micronap, she raised her head and moved on, one inch at a time.
What kind of life had that woman had? Was it one full of love and laughter, kids and grandchildren? A husband who adored her? Or was Naomi looking at her own future, alone, slowly making her solitary way down a concrete sidewalk?
She ran her fingers along the arms of her father’s office chair. As always, touching the pleated, worn leather soothed her in a way usually only knitting did. When she was a child and begged to be taken to her father’s office, he’d perch her in his chair when he left the room to see patients. He’d let her draw on his prescription pads with the thin blue pen he favored. “Sit there. Draw me something.”
“What should I draw?” she’d ask.
“Something good. Something you like.”
She’d draw a stick figure in a white coat and dress, a gigantic stethoscope around her neck, and high heels.
Her father would laugh when he came back and pretend to misunderstand. “I don’t wear a dress! I don’t wear heels.” He was waiting for her answer, and she knew the correct one.
“No, Daddy, that’s me. I’m going to be a doctor, just like you. And sit in a chair like this one. And have a nurse and my own thermometer.” Thermometers, with the way the mercury slid up and down, had been magical to her.
“You shall have as many thermometers as you like, my little monkey. Now, scoot over and let me sit there.”
Naomi brought herself back to the present, her fingers still tight around the leather arm of her chair, and checked on the woman moving outside again. She’d gone another seven feet, and Naomi hoped she didn’t live more than another block or so away or she’d be out there all month.
At least he’d known that was what she wanted, to follow in his footsteps. He’d done everything right, and damned if she wasn’t still trying to live up to him. The
chair, and a few of his old medical texts, were all she had left of him.
And God knew, he’d never had an office romance. He’d be horrified if he’d ever known that was exactly what she was doing.
Was last night just an aberration? Naomi could try to think of it as that. She’d had a plan—it hadn’t been a good one, and it hadn’t worked.
Why, then, was she completely unable to stop listening for Rig’s boots in the hallway? Being with him had scrambled her circuits, and electricity was zapping around, but charging the wrong areas. Well, she supposed they were the right areas, sometimes … Spinning a pencil in her fingers, she watched as the old woman finally turned the corner and was out of sight.
Rig. She sighed again, knowing she sounded like a crushed-out teenager. Sinking farther into the chair, she spun the pencil so hard she lost control of it, knocking herself in the chin with the lead.
She stood quickly, crossing the room to the bookcases, and, randomly, pulled out her father’s New England Journal of Medicine, from the week of September 9, 1984. This was where the game had begun, so many years ago. This was why she’d kept such out-of-date magazines for so long.
Late at night, as a child, waiting for her father to come home from work, unwilling to phone her mother who was so busy with Buzz and the new baby, she’d flip through the pages of his medical journals while asking a question in her mind. If the divined passage answered it, then she’d done it right. If it was a garbage answer, she’d have to study the section and learn it, to make up for playing such a silly game.
Nowadays it worked a little better with Eliza’s books. But this was all she had here at the office.
Closing her eyes, Naomi flipped the pages of the journal. What would Daddy have thought of Rig?
Carefully, carefully, she let her finger trail down a page, and then stop. She opened her eyes.
Professionalism is the most important part of gaining a patient’s trust. Little things, like a firm handshake, and addressing them with their correctly pronounced surname, can go a long way toward inspiring a useful doctor/patient relationship. Even professional clothing—correct, pressed, the expected white coat—can translate into trust.
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