The Doc's Double Delivery & Down-Home Diva

by Jacqueline Diamond

  Any further conversation with Chelsea would have to wait.

  9

  BY MONDAY, word of the pregnancy had spread throughout the office building and to various female friends and relations of co-workers. It amazed Chelsea how many people stopped by or telephoned to confirm the rumor, as if it were any of their business.

  Sandy’s sister, Louise, called in midmorning. As soon as she made sure it was Chelsea on the line, she said, “Going to bed with him was a fluke, right? You’ve always been the carefree type. So I’m clear to make my moves on the man. Correct?”

  Chelsea pictured the large-framed, fast-talking Louise leaning forward intently at her desk at the escrow company she owned. A faint tapping, as of a pen against wood, sounded in the background.

  “I’m surprised you’d want to see him again,” Chelsea said into the phone. “I thought you had him over for dinner and it didn’t work out.”

  That was putting it tactfully. According to Sandy, the date had been a bomb. “A plain, old-fashioned stink bomb.”

  “That was part of my learning curve,” Louise said. “I was taking the man’s measure. I think I know how to get to him now. Draw him out, ask his opinions, listen to the answers.”

  That was what most people did on a date, Chelsea thought, but apparently not Louise. According to Sandy, trying to have a two-way discussion with her sister was like trying to stop an onrushing freight train by standing on the tracks and waving your hands.

  “Listening to him would be good, for starters,” she said cautiously.

  “I knew you’d agree!” said Louise. “I’m glad I have your permission.”

  “I didn’t…” Before Chelsea could finish the sentence, the phone went dead against her ear. She imagined she could hear a train clicking away along the tracks as Louise lived up to her sister’s description.

  Shortly before lunchtime, Josiah Withers’s niece, Belinda, dropped by. Chelsea recognized her from her photograph.

  “No wonder Barry and I didn’t hit it off,” she said without preamble. “You were undercutting my chances the whole time.”

  “Please leave me out of it.” Chelsea knew that, after taking Belinda to the movies one night, Barry had been ducking her phone calls ever since. “Whatever happened on your date is between you and Dr. Cantrell.”

  “That’s right, it is!” Belinda plopped an apple pie onto the counter. “You’re not the marrying kind, but I am, and I made sure he knew it.”

  Since Belinda had been divorced four times, Chelsea couldn’t dispute that she was the marrying type. Besides, they shouldn’t argue in front of a roomful of patients and their mothers. “Good luck,” was all she said.

  “I carved my initials in the crust, so don’t give it to him and pretend you baked it!” Belinda said. “You probably can’t cook worth a darn anyway.”

  Chelsea opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She doubted Belinda would give her credit for having memorized the phone number of the pizza delivery service.

  The woman stalked out. The pie smelled awfully good, Chelsea thought. The crust was flaky and neatly fluted. The pie was so perfect that she couldn’t resist picking it up and sneaking a peek at the bottom of the pan.

  It was imprinted with the logo of a restaurant famous for its pies. So much for Belinda’s domestic talents.

  Still, Chelsea didn’t want to seem petty. So when Andrew drifted over, drawn by the aroma, she told him that Belinda had left the pie for Barry.

  “I’ll share it with him,” said Dr. Menton, bearing it away. “If there’s any left.”

  A short time later, when the waiting room was almost empty, three secretaries from a neighboring law firm dropped by. “My friends have both gone out with Dr. Cantrell and I’m supposed to be next,” said a wispy blonde.

  “We wondered if you’d mind if she took her turn,” added her tall, thin companion. “Everybody says you’re too independent to be tied down.”

  “No offense, but with that hair and the way you dress, you’re obviously not the doctor’s wife type,” said their buxom friend.

  Each of the three women set a dish on the counter. Tuna-noodle casserole. Potato salad. Bean-and-cheese dip.

  “I cried into mine the whole time I was making it,” said the blonde. “You can’t claim him already. I haven’t had my chance yet.”

  “Dr. Cantrell isn’t a ride at Disneyland,” Chelsea said. “He’s not required to give turns.”

  “No offense, but you might as well yield now,” said the well-endowed lady. “I hear you can’t even cook.”

  “Why does everyone assume that?” Chelsea did recall making such a statement at an office potluck once, when she’d brought fast-food fried chicken. She’d never before realized how fast word spread through the building.

  “Can you cook?” asked the tall, thin member of the group. The three of them awaited her answer with skeptical frowns.

  “With one hand tied behind my back,” said Chelsea. It was true. She’d made hot dogs once with her hand behind her back, on a dare.

  “What’s your specialty?” demanded the buxom one.

  She thought quickly. “Eggs. I made an egg dish the other night that was truly unique.” It had been unique, all right, squashed flat on the floor en route to the bathroom.

  “What’s it called?” asked the blonde suspiciously.

  “Scalloped egg à la Myrtle,” Chelsea improvised.

  The three women exchanged disappointed glances. Then they picked up their dishes and beat a hasty retreat.

  When they were gone, the mother of the only remaining patient spoke up. “I don’t know what this is all about,” she told Chelsea, “but if I were you, I’d prove them wrong.”

  “About what?” she asked, wishing they’d at least left the tuna-noodle casserole, because she was hungry. Then she remembered that the blonde had cried into it, so it was probably too salty.

  “I’d make some of that scalloped egg à la Myrtle for Dr. Cantrell,” the woman said. “That’ll shut them up.”

  “What if I accidentally poison the doctor?” Chelsea asked.

  The woman laughed. “You won’t.”

  All afternoon, Chelsea mulled this advice. She didn’t want to bring food into the office as if she were another ditsy female chasing after Barry. On the other hand, it might be fun to surprise him with something at home.

  It would be past suppertime before she could cook and get to his condo. Surely he and his father would appreciate a late-night snack, though.

  She jotted down Barry’s address from the files. On the way home, she stopped at a supermarket.

  It had a great deli counter. Really, it would be foolish to cook anything. Chelsea was about to place an order when it struck her that bringing a readymade dish would miss the point.

  “I cooked him dinner last night,” she imagined herself saying to the unholy trio from the law firm. “I made it with my own hands and he ate every bite,” she would tell Belinda. “Including dessert.”

  She could do it. Heck, she’d fixed meals for her parents for years. No need for recipes, either. Chelsea knew how to throw a dinner together and give it her own special touch.

  As a teenager, macaroni and cheese with coconut had been one of her favorites. So had peanut-butter-and-maple-syrup sandwiches. They didn’t sound fancy enough, however. She wanted to impress Barry.

  A bag of chocolate chips in a baking display caught her eye. In a restaurant, Chelsea had once eaten a spicy, chocolate-flavored Mexican chicken dish. Surely she could devise something like that in the microwave.

  A green salad went with everything, she decided, making up her menu. It needed a special dressing, of course. Mayonnaise would taste great with a few spices. Garlic and ginger, maybe.

  Her enthusiasm rising, Chelsea prowled the aisles, seeking inspiration for dessert. Orange-flavored gelatin was an old favorite, and it would solidify fast if she used ice cubes. She’d throw in a few interesting tidbits, like cheddar cheese bits and whatever
chocolate chips were left from the chicken.

  This ought to be a meal to remember. Chelsea gave a happy skip as she filled her cart.

  CUTTING HIS TRIP short because his patients needed him, Lew flew home on Monday. Father and son exchanged a rare hug at the airport.

  As he watched the older man board the plane, Barry was surprised to realize how much he’d enjoyed the visit. When he was younger, he’d viewed his father as a force of nature. Since his mother’s death, however, he’d realized Lew wouldn’t always be around. He cherished the ties between them more than ever.

  Once the plane took off, Barry departed. Only after he was on the freeway did it occur to him that he should have eaten dinner at the terminal before tackling rush-hour traffic.

  His condo in Venice lay within a few miles of Los Angeles International Airport. His father, however, had arranged a cheap flight out of Ontario Airport, on the opposite side of the Los Angeles basin. It was after seven o’clock and growing dark by the time Barry reached home.

  Chelsea stood on the front steps of his condo, holding an armful of paper bags and poking the doorbell with her only free finger. As Barry approached, he caught a whiff of scents, the most prominent being chocolate. “Hi. What’s all this?”

  She turned, startled. In the twilight, her speckled eyes shifted into a shade of sorrowful blue-green, mirroring the turquoise of her sweaterdress.

  “I did my best,” Chelsea said. “The gelatin is kind of loose and I don’t know how the Mexicans make their sauce, but I don’t think they use chocolate chips. You should see my microwave oven. The chicken practically exploded.”

  “You cooked dinner?” Barry felt simultaneously flattered and apprehensive. “Good. I’m starved.”

  “It isn’t good.” She inched aside to let him open the door. “It would be better if you were really, really full.”

  “We don’t have to eat it,” he pointed out. “I’d be happy to buy you dinner.”

  “I don’t believe in wasting food,” Chelsea said. “Where’s your dad?”

  “Eating airplane food,” Barry said. “Should I envy him?”

  “Probably.”

  She hadn’t exaggerated, he discovered when the food came out of the bags. How could anyone ruin salad? The dressing tasted heavy and oddly spiced, though, and after one bite he gave up on it.

  The chicken was worse, a tattered mess covered with brown goo. Even the smell of chocolate, normally an aphrodisiac where Barry was concerned, failed to stir his appetite. The gelatin mold could charitably be placed in the category of organic matter, but not by any stretch of the imagination could he classify it as food.

  Barry didn’t try to put a good face on it. Chelsea wouldn’t appreciate dishonesty and, besides, the disaster was beyond redemption. “What on earth possessed you to cook for me?” he asked, clearing away the bowls she’d brought.

  “Everybody said I couldn’t. Apparently, they were right.” Huddled in her chair at the dining-room table, Chelsea wound a purple-tipped strand of hair around her forefinger. With chocolate smeared on one cheekbone, she resembled a waif out of a Dickens story.

  “Everybody who?”

  “The women who want to get their hooks into you,” she said.

  “No generalizations,” Barry responded as he marched into the kitchen. “Name names.”

  “Louise. Belinda. A girl who works in the law firm.”

  “They hurt your feelings?”

  “I don’t like people stereotyping me.” Her voice drifted after him from the dining room. “I can cook if I want to. Not all experiments work out. Maybe I was trying too hard.”

  Irrationally, hope spurted inside Barry at the possibility that she’d cooked the meal because she wanted him. They were incompatible in almost every way, certain to drive each other to insanity or at least sword’s point. Yet through the kitchen doorway she looked so appealing he wanted to put his arms around her.

  As he’d guessed, she made a bright splash in the low-key condo. A ray of sunshine, although Barry hadn’t realized until now that he needed one.

  From the freezer, he took several packages of Middle Eastern food that he’d bought at a gourmet shop. While waiting for them to heat in the microwave oven, he mentally monitored his response to Chelsea.

  Heart rate elevated. Skin prickling. Other virile male reactions taking effect.

  He hadn’t felt this way about a woman since the night they made love. Despite his better judgment, she stirred him in ways no one else did.

  And she was carrying his babies. The two of them needed to find a way to share their parenting and their lives.

  What if he simply acted on his feelings? Barry wondered. They were both adults. They didn’t have to keep each other at arm’s length if they didn’t want to.

  His chest squeezed at the exhilarating prospect of making love to Chelsea again. He’d be risking the kind of emotional free fall that had followed his parents’ bitter breakup. Yet sometimes a guy just had to take a risk.

  Soon the Middle Eastern food was ready, with a dip on the side and pita bread to wrap it up. He carried the platter to Chelsea.

  She gazed at him in awe. “I can’t believe you made this.”

  “I just heated it,” Barry admitted, sitting opposite her.

  “Who cares? I love this stuff.” She dug in.

  Between his own mouthfuls, Barry enjoyed watching Chelsea eat. He loved the eager energy in her movements and her obvious relish. When the woman did something, she put her whole heart into it.

  At last she came up for air. “You don’t mind that I invited myself over?”

  “I’m glad you did.” Barry stretched his legs under the table. His trousered knee brushed her bare one.

  His whole body sparked with her nearness. How could she just sit there looking so calm while he ached for her with every fiber of his body?

  “At the luncheon, you said we needed to talk.” Chelsea reached for a wedge of baklava, the honey-drenched pastry that he’d provided for dessert. “About the twins.”

  “Let’s not worry about them tonight,” Barry said. Why on earth had he ever put so much stock in talking?

  “Really?” She gazed at him in surprise. “I figured you’d want to nail down the details of our arrangement.”

  Her blue-green knitted dress clung seductively to her shoulders and bosom, Barry noticed. “Not right now. Middle Eastern food has this druglike effect on me.”

  “And we all remember what drugs do to you,” Chelsea teased.

  “We sure do.” What a beautifully defined mouth she had. It had been a long two months without her, Barry thought. Unbearably long.

  “I want to be clear about one thing,” she went on. “I have poor judgment about men.” Chelsea rested her chin on one hand. “It’s better to keep my distance.”

  Distance was the last thing Barry intended to keep. “You could make an exception for tonight. Being under the influence of baklava is an alibi accepted in half the world’s courts.”

  She shook her head. “We really need to talk about this.”

  “Chelsea…”

  “I have to tell you something. It’s about the guy I nearly married. But it’s really about me.”

  The earnestness in her voice penetrated Barry’s haze. Much as he hoped to make love to Chelsea, he wanted even more to understand her and clear away any obstacles between them.

  “You must have had a rotten experience to make you so gun-shy,” he said. “Tell me about this fellow.”

  “Gene was a director,” Chelsea said.

  “What kind of director?”

  “Theater and a little TV,” she said. “My parents are actors, so I’ve always known people in the business.”

  Barry didn’t know any show business people himself, but he’d heard enough about their serial marriages to consider them poor romantic risks. Apparently Chelsea had discovered that fact for herself. “He turned out to be a jerk?”

  “He seemed absolutely wonderful,” she said
with a touch of defensiveness. “He was the nicest man. Considerate. Thoughtful. Always taking me places and buying me gifts.”

  “What was wrong with him?” Barry asked.

  “He was kind of controlling, and I allowed it. Only he didn’t want us to live together before we got married, which made me wonder if he was hiding something.” Chelsea sounded embarrassed.

  “You’re so outspoken, I’d expect you would have pinned him down and shaken the truth out of him.”

  “I get weird when I’m involved with a man,” she admitted. “After having two irresponsible parents, it was a relief to lean on someone. I deferred to his opinions, let him choose where I should work, even what I should wear.”

  “He picked your clothes?” Barry couldn’t figure out why a guy would want to do that. “I’d get bored tagging along to ladies’ clothing shops.”

  “He’d go shopping for me all by himself, even for my lingerie,” Chelsea said. “His taste was kind of flashy, too. But that wasn’t the problem.”

  “Are we getting to the nitty-gritty here?” Barry asked.

  Chelsea looked away from him, and for a minute he thought she wasn’t going to say any more. Then she shrugged, took a deep breath and plunged in.

  “One morning Gene slept over, while Starshine was out of town. I went out for doughnuts,” she said. “I couldn’t get my car started so I came back after a few minutes.”

  Barry tried to imagine what the man had done wrong in a few minutes alone in her apartment. “And?”

  Chelsea’s face reddened. “He was standing in front of my mirror wearing Starshine’s clothes. I mean, he’d wriggled himself into a sequined dress, put on stockings and high heels, even makeup.”

  Barry managed not to smile at the ridiculous image. Obviously, this had been a painful experience for Chelsea. “So he was a cross-dresser.”

  “I don’t know who was more humiliated, him or me,” she said. “He swore up and down that he really loved me. Maybe I should have been more understanding, but I couldn’t marry him.”