None of his family appeared to have noticed anything unusual between the two of them. It was a good omen, he hoped.
5
AS SHE MADE COFFEE in the office breakroom on Monday morning, Chelsea mentioned to the nurse, Helen Nguyen, that she’d run into Barry at the Mentons’ house the previous night. It seemed a simple way of explaining that they’d already met.
“So tell all!” Helen drummed her fingers on the counter. “What’s he like?”
“Pleasant. A little stiff.” Chelsea didn’t want to talk about him, although she could hardly avoid it.
Helen, trim and petite in her white slacks and top, wasn’t about to be put off. “Is he handsome? Is he, you know, eligible?”
“Why ask me? You can find out for yourself when he gets here in half an hour.” Chelsea, Helen and Sandy, the office manager, arrived early to prepare for the day. “Besides, you’re married.”
The nurse laughed. “And too old for him. I was thinking about my daughter, April. She’s not married yet.”
“She’s only twenty-two!”
“Old enough.” Helen produced a plate of cookies. “She baked these herself. People say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Make sure he tries them, will you? The doctors always drift by the receptionist’s desk, and I’m sure he’ll be hungry.”
“I’ll be glad to,” said Chelsea.
A few minutes later, Sandy Craven arrived. She’d brought a bouquet of roses from her garden, which she arranged in a vase on the reception desk.
Chelsea inhaled the rich fragrance. “These are splendid. What’s the occasion?”
“I thought the new doctor might like them,” she explained. Fifty and unmarried, Sandy had settled comfortably into a small home in the Palms area of Los Angeles. At her housewarming party the previous year, Chelsea had admired the flower garden, on which its owner lavished great care. “Have you seen him yet? Is he as good-looking as Dr. Menton?”
Sandy had always said she was single by choice. Had she changed her mind? “I ran into him over the weekend. He’s fairly attractive, if you like the conservative type.”
“Not for me, of course,” Sandy said. “I’m interested for my sister, Louise. I mentioned that we had a new doctor arriving, and she’s been bugging me to put in a good word. She’s thirty-eight and her maternal clock is ticking fast.”
“I’m sure Dr. Cantrell would appreciate an introduction,” Chelsea said politely, but she had her doubts.
At the house party, the overbearing Louise had prowled among the guests, buttonholing every male between twenty and sixty. She was unlikely to be what Barry wanted, although she might be what he deserved, Chelsea reflected impishly.
Last night, he’d acted standoffish. A few times, he’d looked distinctly disapproving when she spoke up for Angela. To be fair, he had no way of knowing that Grace had requested Chelsea’s help with the girl. Still, it wasn’t his business to judge her.
Their unsuitability for each other was so obvious, Chelsea couldn’t understand why she’d ever succumbed to her attraction. She must have been struck by temporary insanity.
The next staff member to arrive was Josiah Withers, M.D. The 72-year-old retiree, who had been filling in for a few months since Hugh’s departure, planned to leave at the end of the week.
He greeted Chelsea warmly. Dr. Withers was popular with the staff and patients due to his fatherly manner and obvious affection for everyone around him.
“Has my new colleague arrived yet?” he asked. “You girls must be all atwitter. A bachelor in our midst!”
“There have been inquiries,” Chelsea conceded.
“Naturally, I wish to submit my own bid.” The elderly doctor produced a photograph of a woman in her thirties with long maroon hair cut with straight bangs. “My niece, Belinda.”
“Very pretty. She’s single, I suppose.”
He sighed. “I’m afraid so. There’ve been three divorces. No, four. I can’t understand why none of the young men ‘took,’ so to speak. But five times is a charm, as they say.”
“Three times.” Noting his confused expression, Chelsea said, “Never mind. I’m sure the new doctor will be interested to hear about her.”
“That’s what I think.” Dr. Withers propped the photo behind Helen’s plate of cookies and departed, whistling.
The reception desk now resembled a shrine to marital bliss, Chelsea thought. The only people not trying to corner the eligible doctor were, apparently, her and Andrew.
A couple of patients arrived, and Chelsea checked them in. She handed the first chart to Helen, who summoned a little girl scheduled to see Dr. Withers.
A moment later, Chelsea felt the air sparkle with electricity. Her first impulse was to attribute it to the unstable March weather, until she remembered that the high-rise office building was more or less sealed off from the outer elements.
Then she caught a whiff of tropical aftershave lotion drifting from the back of the suite. Barry had arrived.
Chelsea reached into her purse for a brush and ran it through her hair. She was tempted to check her lipstick, too, but she could hear masculine footsteps heading along the hallway. She switched on the answering machine and began reviewing messages from the weekend.
An appointment was cancelled. Another patient would be fifteen minutes late. A mother couldn’t remember when she’d scheduled her baby’s checkup.
As she handled matters, Chelsea kept auditory track of Barry’s progress. He stopped halfway down the hall, presumably at the office with his name newly painted on the door. She heard the hinges creak and knew he’d gone inside.
A while later, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled again. Barry had emerged and was heading this way.
The nearer he came, the harder Chelsea had to struggle to feign indifference. Yet, she told herself, she didn’t need to pretend. She really was indifferent.
She was so relaxed, she nearly tipped her chair over by accident. So completely at ease that she chewed on a pencil for several seconds before tasting its bitterness.
“Good morning.” His brisk tone sounded impersonal. Professional. Distant.
“Yes?” As she turned, Chelsea fought the impulse to smooth down her blouse. “Oh, Dr. Cantrell. I didn’t realize you were here.”
“I just arrived.” He stood behind her in the bay, with the counter separating them from the waiting room. She could feel his presence enveloping her. “I’m afraid I don’t know the routine yet.”
“Your first patient isn’t scheduled for half an hour,” she said, trying not to notice how being seated put her at eye-level with a very personal part of his anatomy. Quickly, Chelsea grabbed the plate of cookies and extended it. “Have some.”
Barry took two. “Thanks. It was nice of you to bring them in.” She discovered it was impossible to read the expression in his eyes when she dared to meet them. He must be working as hard at his casual attitude as she was at hers.
“I didn’t bring them,” she said. “They’re a gift from Helen’s daughter, April. She’s single, by the way. I’m supposed to tell you that.”
“I see.” He glanced at the roses. “Those are a nice touch. I don’t suppose you brought them, either?”
She shook her head. “They’re from Sandy, the office manager. On behalf of her sister, Louise.”
“Is this her?” He lifted the photograph of Belinda.
“That’s Dr. Withers’ niece,” Chelsea said. “He wanted to put her bid in.”
Barry set the picture down quickly. “Am I supposed to be up for auction?”
“That’s the general impression,” she said. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Why?”
“Well, you did go to a nightclub your first evening in town,” she pointed out. “I presume you’re interested in establishing a social life.”
Before replying, Barry surveyed the waiting room, but by now the second patient had been ushered in to see Dr. Withers, so it was empty. “Listen, Chelsea, I
would appreciate your spreading the word that I keep my private life completely separate from the office.”
“Of course you do,” she said.
He didn’t seem satisfied with her answer. “I’d also like to request that you not allow others to use your desk as a dating service. I prefer not to hear about the interest I seem to be generating, however flattering it might be.”
Darn it, the man was infuriating! Bossy, cold and full of himself. Chelsea had to restrain herself from kicking him in the shins.
She wasn’t afraid of getting fired. Good receptionists were hard to find, even in Los Angeles. Still, she was wearing open-toed shoes and she might hurt her feet.
Verbal abuse seemed more in order. “Do you have any idea what you sound like?” She was about to supply some adjectives, beginning with “arrogant” and leading to “pompous,” when Andrew popped in from the hall.
“Morning, cousin!” he said.
“Good morning.” Barry managed a trace of a smile. “I was just explaining to Chelsea…”
Andrew took in the cookies, flowers and photograph. “Could those be romantic overtures?”
“Yes,” Barry said. “Some of the staff members apparently wish to fix me up with their nearest and dearest.”
“Don’t let them,” Andrew said.
“I have no intention of it.”
Andrew clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “Good. I’d hate for them to beat my time. Cindi has a friend she wants you to meet.”
He filled in the details as he led Barry down the hall. Chelsea grinned, and then wondered what she was grinning at.
Just because she didn’t want the know-it-all Dr. Barry Cantrell didn’t mean she wanted anyone else to have him, either.
WHILE HE LISTENED with half his attention to Andrew describing the charms of Cindi’s friend Philippa, Barry wondered why he’d chewed out Chelsea. After all, he was looking for a wife, so what was wrong with people offering to introduce him around?
What bothered him, he realized, was her complete lack of possessiveness. She considered him nothing more than a casual amusement to be passed along now that she was done with him.
“Yes,” he told Andrew.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll go out with her,” he said.
“Thank goodness. Cindi would have killed me if you’d said no.” His cousin gave him a rueful look. “You know how it is with wives. Well, no, maybe you don’t.”
“Explain it to me.” Judging by the hall clock, Barry still had twenty minutes before seeing patients, and this sounded interesting.
“Women love to matchmake,” his cousin said. “Married women believe true love will bloom the moment they put two single people in a room together.”
“Not any two people, surely,” Barry said.
“Cindi only knows Philippa through one of her fund-raising groups, but this morning she said, ‘You know, I’m sure it will work.’ She didn’t say why she was so sure.” Andrew chuckled. “If a man always fell for the first woman he met, you’d be walking down the aisle with Chelsea. Isn’t that a ridiculous idea?”
“Preposterous,” muttered Barry. “Now show me around, will you?”
After two years of isolation, he’d been eager to find a wife quickly, he reflected as he noted the locations of the breakroom and lavatory. Now he wondered if that was such a good idea.
Perhaps, though, Philippa would turn out to be exactly what he sought. Getting settled would certainly make his life easier.
CHELSEA WAS bent over the kitchen sink, eyes shut tight, carefully daubing the roots of her hair with black dye when she felt someone reach between her legs and tug open the cabinet. “Hey! Stop that!”
“I’ve got to finish hiding these Easter eggs,” said Starshine. “My friends will be here any minute.”
“It won’t be Easter for another two weeks!” Chelsea exclaimed.
“It’s a bonding experience,” Starshine replied.
“A what?”
“We’re bonding. You know, the other actors and me. Becoming a family. So when we get out on stage, we won’t seem like a bunch of strangers playing parts.” Moving around Chelsea’s ankles, Starshine stuffed something into an adjacent bottom drawer.
Chelsea felt a strand of long hair working its way loose from its bun. If she got black dye on one of the purple tips, she’d have to bleach the thing and redye it, which would really be a pain. “Watch what you’re doing. Those aren’t real eggs, are they?”
“Of course they are,” her roommate said indignantly, moving away. “Nothing else would create the same experience.”
“If you overlook any…”
“We’ll find them when they stink,” Starshine reassured her. “Oh, come on, look at you. What are you doing on a Saturday evening? Dyeing your hair! You should be thrilled to play host to these artists, these dramatic talents, these tortured souls.”
“You’re performing in a traveling kids’ show about how the Easter Bunny escapes from a killer robot.” Chelsea wiped her face and set the timer for ten minutes. “That’s hardly high art.”
“You left out the key word.” On her knees, with a large gold-spangled handbag dangling from her shoulder, Starshine crawled into the living room, careless of the fact that she was wearing a black-silk designer pantsuit. She shopped at secondhand stores that received donations from movie stars.
“What key word?”
Still in view of the kitchen, she stuck an egg under a loose edge of carpet. “The word is professional. We’re getting paid for this. Not much, but I bought three dozen eggs yesterday and I didn’t even use my credit card.”
“Because it’s maxed out.”
“Spoilsport!” Through the doorway, Starshine shot Chelsea a baleful look. Despite her awkward position, she looked ridiculously glamorous with her blond sweep of hair and large gray eyes.
They’d met three years ago, when Chelsea was working in the office of an actors’ agent. Starshine, an actress from Florida with a sunny personality and more ambition than talent, had been one of his clients.
She, like the others, had paid for extensive photographs and promotional materials. The agent had promptly disappeared with their money.
Even though Chelsea hadn’t known the man was a charlatan and had never received her last paycheck, she’d felt guilty, as well as sorry for the tearful, likable Starshine. So when her then roommate had moved out to get married, Chelsea had invited the would-be actress to move in.
Life with Starshine was like a roller-coaster ride. By comparison, Chelsea felt positively staid.
“Just stay out of my room,” she said. “I don’t want people searching through my rodents’ cages.”
“You don’t have to convince me! I’ll close your door and mark it No Admittance,” Starshine said. “You’re joining us for dinner, aren’t you? After we’re done, we’re going to chop these up and make egg-salad sandwiches. Or maybe we’ll devil some of them. Do you have any mayonnaise?”
“Keep your starving artist buddies out of my food,” Chelsea said. “As for dinner, I’m eating out.”
Angela had called the day before and begged Chelsea to pick her up so they could go out for dinner. Grandma was treating, she’d said, so apparently Grace wanted the pair to get together.
Chelsea would enjoy seeing Angela and hearing how the talent show was progressing. The discussion might also help get her mind off Barry.
The week had been draining, with the constant need to act as if she didn’t notice his powerful masculine presence. Everybody else certainly noticed it. Some of the patients’ mothers flirted with him, as did half the women who worked in the building.
Plates of cookies overflowed Chelsea’s desk and casseroles arrived regularly at lunchtime. Women’s phone numbers, along with a couple of apartment keys, appeared on her desk with whispered pleas to “Just give this to him when he has a free moment, okay?”
She couldn’t believe anyone would stoop that low. Barry apparently couldn’t be
lieve it, either. At least he’d stopped holding Chelsea responsible for the little gifts that flourished on her desk, and simply accepted them with a resigned nod.
The timer rang. Chelsea rinsed the dye out of her hair and styled it. The purple tips remained intact, thank goodness.
By the time she finished, Starshine’s buddies began trooping into the apartment. They were an odd-looking bunch, from the tall, lanky man who played the killer robot to a large-toothed woman who, judging by her flat-footed walk and habit of giving a little hop from time to time, was perfectly cast as the Easter Bunny.
Starshine, who played the ditsy character of Friendly Bunny, fit the role as she scurried through the living room serving hors d’oeuvres. These consisted, alternatively, of squiggles of homogenized cheese and dabs of cream cheese on crackers, Chelsea noted as she swiped a couple.
“I see an egg!” crowed the killer robot, stuffing his mouth with crackers.
“They’re not very well hidden,” complained the Easter Bunny. “Really, Starshine, you should have consulted me. I’m the expert.”
Did these people retain even the remotest contact with reality? Chelsea wondered. Glad for an excuse to leave, she grabbed her purse and went to get Angela.
The girl bounced out of the house as soon as Chelsea’s car halted. Now that she’d washed the green spikes out of her hair, Chelsea could see that the short haircut flattered her. Her dark-pink dress with spaghetti straps suited her, too.
“You look great,” she said as Angela got into the Honda hatchback. “More grown-up.”
“Mom let me pick the dress. Well, she let me pick three, then she made the final cut.” The girl smiled. “Things are better now, thanks to you.”
“Your mom and dad deserve the credit,” Chelsea said. “Not all parents listen to reason.”
“Did yours, when you were my age?”
The car started down the circular driveway. “My parents acted like kids themselves.” They’d been a lot like Starshine, she realized, which might be why she tolerated her roommate’s shenanigans. “I could pretty much do anything I wanted.”
“Wow.” Angela sighed.
“I also got to cook dinner most nights, take care of the laundry and make sure the bills were paid,” Chelsea said. “I could balance a checking account before I learned algebra.”
The Doc's Double Delivery & Down-Home Diva Page 6