A DOCTOR'S VOW

by Christine Rimmer

  She was too cute. Too cute by half. It hardly seemed possible that a woman who looked like that could have made it through the grueling grind of medical school, internship and residency.

  But then again, there were her eyes. Wise eyes, with humor in them and faint blue smudges marring the tender skin beneath.

  Ryan turned his gaze to his son. Andrew wore some kind of light pull-on jacket, obviously borrowed from the woman. The jacket was wet and Andrew's head was down. He stared at his waterlogged slippers and chewed his upper lip.

  "Ryan, what is it?" Lily, his mother-in-law, had appeared at the top of the stairs. Ryan felt a degree of relief. Lily would deal with this. "Oh, my!" Lily's hand flew to her throat. "Andrew, you are drenched."

  Ryan stepped aside as Lily rushed down the stairs, headed straight for his son. "Oh, just look at you. What have you been up to?"

  Ryan said, "Evidently, he paid Dr. Powers a visit."

  "A visit? To Dr. Powers? In the middle of the night in this weather? That's not like Andrew, it's not like him at all." Lily glanced from Ryan to the redhead and back again, her mouth pursed in disbelief. Then she turned to her grandson and accused in an injured tone, "Andrew. I just cannot believe that you would do such a thing."

  Andrew said nothing. He went on staring down at his soaked bedroom slippers and continued to gnaw away at his poor lip.

  Even Ryan, who knew less about children than he probably should, given that he had three of them, could see that his son wasn't about to explain himself now. He suggested, "Lily, it really is late. How about putting him back to bed now? Let him sleep on this tonight. And we'll discuss it tomorrow."

  "Well, of course." She held out her hand, and wiggled her fingers impatiently. "Come with me, young man." Andrew's jaw had that mulish set it sometimes got. Still, he pushed back the sleeve of the too-big jacket and put his hand into his grandmother's. Lily sent the doctor an embarrassed smile. "I am so sorry about this."

  Ronni smiled back. "There's no harm done."

  Clucking and sighing, Lily led Andrew back upstairs.

  Once the two had disappeared on the upper floor, Ryan turned to the little doctor. She looked at him as if she wasn't sure what to do next.

  He felt the same. He should probably thank her and tell her good-night. But then again, maybe he ought to see if she could provide a few details about what his son had just done. He cleared his throat. "I know it's late. But do you think you could give me a few minutes before you go back to the guest house?"

  "Sure."

  "Do you … want to take off your coat?"

  She blinked and put her hand protectively against her chest. "Oh, no. It's fine. I'll need it again in a few minutes, anyway."

  "Right." He probably shouldn't have asked. He could see the collar of a robe beneath the coat, but still, taking it off might have felt too much like undressing. Undressing.

  What had made him think of that, for pity's sake?

  Damn, this was awkward—the two of them standing here by the front door in their pajamas, at two in the morning.

  Maybe if they got more comfortable…

  "Come on," he said. "Let's go into my study. We can sit down in there."

  She looked at him for a moment, her head tipped to the side. He was absolutely certain she was going to say no. But then she said quietly, "That would be fine."

  He gestured toward a door a few feet from the bottom of the stairs. "Right through there." He led the way at first, but then stopped to open the door for her and flick on the light. "Have a seat." She went on ahead. He smelled the cool dampness of rain as she passed. Rain and something else, a faint perfume, as inviting as it was subtle and fresh.

  She took one of the two leather wing chairs opposite the desk.

  He went around the desk and dropped into the big, deeply tufted swivel chair behind it.

  Once he'd sat down he said, "So…" And then he wasn't quite sure how to go on.

  She pulled herself straighter and cast a glance around—at the leather-bound books that lined the bookcases, at the arrangement of family photos that stood in contrasting frames on the credenza a few feet away. At the broad expanse of desk between them, which was empty except for a leather blotter and a marble pen stand.

  He knew what she was thinking. "I don't use this room too much," he said. "I have my office at Memorial."

  She made a small sound of understanding. "It's a good room for work. Attractive, masculine … and comfortable. Or it would be comfortable, with a little more clutter."

  "It's hard to clutter up a room you're never in."

  "Yes, I suppose you're right." She shifted a little in the chair. And then she waited, giving him a chance, he knew, to take the lead. As a general rule, he was a man who had no problem taking the lead.

  But for some reason, right now, he didn't seem to know quite where to start. He cleared his throat. "I guess I'm hoping that you know something I don't—about what my son just did."

  She looked down at her flashlight—and then leaned forward a little to set it on the edge of the desk. "There honestly isn't much to tell. He came over to check me out—in the middle of the night. It was a case of iffy judgment and bad timing, that's all."

  "Wait a minute. The way I see it, he broke in to the guest house."

  She shook her head sharply. "No, he didn't. Not exactly, anyway. To him, the guest house is part of his home. He didn't really think of it as someone else's house. He even knew where the key was—where his mother had left it, under a flowerpot outside."

  "Fine. He didn't break in. He had a key. But I think the real question is, why did he let himself in at all?"

  "He said he wanted to make sure about me. He wanted to be certain I was no threat to him or his family."

  "Where would he get the idea that you were a threat?"

  She sat back again then and smoothed her coat a little more neatly over her knees. "My guess? He didn't think I was a threat, not really. But he still had to be sure."

  "But you said that he said—"

  "Mr. Malone, your son is a very mature, very responsible little boy. I really do think he was only doing what he said he was doing—making certain that I was okay, that I wouldn't do harm to him or his family. He's realized now that, at least while I'm staying there, the guest house isn't part of his house. He sees that letting himself into my bedroom in the middle of the night is not acceptable. And he's promised me he'll never do such a thing again."

  "He promised you."

  "Yes. He did."

  "You sound as though you believe him."

  "I do believe him. And since we're on the subject, there's another thing…" He wasn't sure he wanted to know what, but she told him, anyway. "It would mean a lot to him if you would call him Drew."

  "He said that?"

  "Not in so many words. He asked me to call him Drew—and he said he keeps telling you and his grandmother that his name is Drew now."

  Ryan caught her implication. It didn't particularly please him. "But we don't listen, right?"

  She shrugged. "Often, children of Drew's age feel a need to improve on their names. Maybe it's the urge to take more control of their lives as they mature. Or maybe just part of the natural process of self-definition. Whatever. All of a sudden, Arlenes become Leenas. Jasons insist that you have to call them Jake." She had a dimple on the right side of her mouth. He watched it deepen as she grinned. "I modified my own name at about Drew's age, to tell you the truth. I remember constantly telling people, 'Not Veronica. Ronni. Ronni with an i.' The change has stuck, too."

  She looked so pleased with herself. He couldn't resist prodding her a little. "It made that much difference to you, to be called Ronni instead of your real name?"

  She came right back. "Ronni is my real name."

  He shrugged. "I'm only saying, what's wrong with Veronica?"

  "Nothing. I just wanted to be called Ronni."

  "With an i."

  "Right."

  "But why?"

&nbs
p; She let out a slightly irritated little grunt. "I thought I just told you. I needed … to redefine myself. On my own terms."

  "When you were Drew's age, you thought of that? That you needed to redefine yourself?"

  "Not consciously, no. But in retrospect, I know that's what I was doing."

  "And that's what Drew's doing?"

  "I think so, yes."

  Ryan let a moment pass before remarking, "You got a lot out of my son tonight, about how he feels and why he did what he did—which you really seem certain he won't do again."

  "Is that an accusation?" She laughed then, a laugh with a purpose he easily recognized: to soften the challenge in her question. She definitely knew how to handle herself, this red-haired elf with the knowing eyes.

  "No." He looked at her levelly. "It was not an accusation. It was merely an observation. And a compliment."

  She thought that over, then said softly, "A compliment. Well, all right. Thank you, then."

  "You're welcome." He wanted to smile, but he didn't. To smile right then would have felt like an admission of something—an admission he wasn't quite ready to make. "You're good with children. But then, I suppose it goes with the territory."

  She frowned—and then caught his meaning. "You mean, being a pediatrician?"

  "Yes."

  "You know what? You're right. I'm an expert on kids." She flashed that dimple at him again. "So listen to the expert. I really think Drew just feels responsible. He wants to look out for the people he loves. And I don't think that's a bad thing at all."

  "He's nine years old." Ryan spoke more gruffly than he meant to. "It's not his job to be responsible."

  Ryan himself had felt responsible from the age of four. He didn't want that kind of crushing emotional burden laid on his children. Perhaps he wasn't as involved with them as he should have been. But he provided well for them. There was no reason they shouldn't feel safe and well cared for.

  "Drew might only be nine," she said gently. "But his age doesn't change the way he feels. And as I keep telling you, I don't think what happened tonight is anything to get too concerned about—unless it's a part of a pattern."

  "No. I'm sure it's not. My mother-in-law said it—tonight was completely unlike him."

  "Well, good then. As long as it doesn't happen again, my advice is…" She paused. "Wait a minute. Do you even want my advice?"

  "That's why I asked you in here." Or at least, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, it was the reason I gave myself for asking you in here…

  She leaned toward him once more. "All right, then. My expert advice is to talk it over with him—and then let it go."

  He couldn't hold back any longer. He let himself smile. "All right. I'll do that." She smiled in return. He looked at her wide mouth, at that dimple. She had a true redhead's skin—pale, creamy pink, with light freckles dusting her brow and the bridge of her nose. She really did look so young, especially right now with her face bare of makeup, still damp from the rain.

  He was staring again. And he shouldn't be.

  Just as he shouldn't be thinking how cute she was. Shouldn't be thinking that maybe he'd had more than goodwill on his mind when he'd offered her the guest house for a month.

  At the time, right after Marty Heber had introduced them, when she'd mentioned her housing problems, he'd told himself that it never hurt to do favors for other professionals in the medical community. A lot of his job was about raising funds—and funds were always easier to come by when a man had the sense to hold out a helping hand at every opportunity.

  Besides, he had reasoned, she would present no inconvenience to himself or his family. The guest house had its own separate access and its own small yard. Other than the occasional polite wave when they met in passing, he'd foreseen no other contact between them.

  Yet here they were, on her first night in the little house, sitting across from each other in their pajamas, discussing the uncharacteristic actions of his older son.

  And here he was, staring too much. Thinking that he could sit here for a long, long time, just looking at her, just watching her smile.

  Dr. Powers must have decided he'd gaped at her long enough. She started to reach for her flashlight.

  And he realized he wasn't going to let her go. Not yet. He said, "You're finding everything in order, then? Over at the little house."

  She left the flashlight where it was. "Yes. It's lovely. Thank you for offering it to me."

  "No problem. No problem at all."

  "Good. Well then, I—"

  "Tell me more."

  "Excuse me?"

  "About Ronni. About how she's different from Veronica."

  She laughed, a slightly nervous sound. "Oh, come on. It's very late and I should—"

  "I'm interested. I really am. And besides, it's raining hard out there. Too hard. You can't leave yet."

  "I can't?"

  "No. You have to wait till it eases up."

  She was watching him doubtfully. "What if it doesn't ease up?"

  "It will. Eventually. And I honestly do want to know all about why you changed your name."

  "You're serious?"

  "I am." He leaned forward a little. "Come on. The difference between Ronni and Veronica."

  She hesitated—and then she confessed, "Veronica is … a little shy."

  "Shy?" He made the word an encouragement.

  And she volunteered a little more. "Veronica lacks confidence. She … worries too much."

  "You were like that? As a young child?"

  She tipped her chin at a defiant angle. "Yes. But I got over it."

  "By changing your name?"

  "No, the name was just the outward manifestation of the change."

  "Sounds very deep."

  "You asked."

  They laughed together then. And she challenged, "What about you? Didn't you ever want to change your name, or change something about yourself?"

  "Now you've got me thinking about it, I believe at one point I really wished my name was Bud." He pretended to glower at her. "Don't laugh. When you're in fifth grade, Bud can sound like the name of a really manly kind of dude."

  "So Ryan wasn't manly enough?"

  "I've learned to live with it."

  "Good. I like it a lot better than Bud."

  "Then I think I'll go ahead and keep it … as long as you like it."

  She blinked—and her expression turned wary. Her hand started edging toward the flashlight again.

  Before she could touch it, he commanded, "Forget it. Stay here. It's still raining hard."

  "But I—"

  "Uh-uh. Stay here." He glanced around at all the gold-tooled leather volumes that lined the walls. "This is a comfortable room. You said so yourself. We might even get a little reading done."

  "Great idea. Two strangers. Reading in your study in their pajamas. In the middle of the night."

  "We're not strangers. We're neighbors, remember?"

  "Oh, that's right. Neighbors."

  "And I've just shared with you my deepest personal secret."

  "You have?"

  "Yes. That once I wished my name was Bud—and now you should reveal something about yourself."

  "I already did, remember? Ronni and Veronica? Why I changed my name?"

  "I remember. And what I meant was, you should reveal something more."

  "Like what?"

  "How about telling me why you went into pediatrics?"

  She didn't have to stop and think about that. "The usual reason. I like kids."

  "As opposed to adults?"

  "Not as opposed to. It's a preference. Children are so … naturally optimistic. I like their sense of wonder, and their simplicity. And they are incredibly resilient."

  "Which means fewer of them die on you."

  It was a hard way of putting it, but she didn't argue with his assessment. "That's right—and now it's your turn. What made you choose hospital administration, of all things?"

  "I like being in co
ntrol."

  She made a face at that. "And that's all?"

  "I like working with people. I enjoy organizing projects, seeing things through from conception to completion."

  "You mean you like running things."

  "That's right. Is there something wrong with that?"

  "Not a thing." She grinned. A moment passed where the only sound was the rain outside.

  He saw her glance at that flashlight, so he asked her another question about her work.

  She sat back, getting more comfortable. And for a while, they talked about their jobs, the challenges and the rewards.

  Eventually, she got up. He didn't try to stop her, since she didn't reach for the flashlight first. She went over to the credenza to look at the family photos there. One by one, she picked up the pictures, studied them, then set them down.

  When she came to a studio shot of Patricia, she asked, "Your wife?"

  He nodded. "It's been a little over two years since she died. Acute myelogenous leukemia."

  In her eyes, he saw a doctor's understanding of the words: cancer of the white blood cells, starting in the bone marrow, multiplying swiftly until they disrupted the production of normal blood cells. And then moving out, into the bloodstream, invading organs and tissues, especially the spleen and the liver.

  "We thought she had a bad case of the flu. Not four months later, she was dead. It was … hard on all of us. And on Andrew—I mean, Drew—particularly, I think. He was seven, old enough to understand what was going on a little better than Lisbeth and Griffin could, old enough to have some idea that he was actually losing his mother, to know that when she died, she really wasn't coming back."

  Ronni made a low, musing sound in her throat. There was a world of understanding in that sound. And sadness. Very carefully, she set the picture of Patricia in its place with the others. She returned to her chair, but then didn't sit down in it.

  "I should—"

  He put up a hand. "Hear that? Still raining…"