by Janet Dailey
There. That had been pretty blunt. Surely she would get the idea that he wanted her gone.
"No, thank you," she said, standing up and collecting her things into the bag. "I can find my way out alone."
"But I insist," he replied, following after her as she headed for the door.
"Goodbye, Katie.'' She bent over the girl and placed a quick kiss on her forehead. "I'm sorry you got hurt, but you did a wonderful job with your swimming lesson. I'll drop by to give you another one soon."
She nodded a goodbye to Bridget, then headed out the door. He followed at her heels.
"Just a minute, Dr. Barclay," he called to her as she was about to climb into her pickup. "I'd like to have a word with you."
"Well, I don't think that I want to have a word with you. Unless, of course, you're going to offer me an apology for your rudeness."
"Not on your life! What do you mean 'apology'? You're the one who took off with my kid without asking me first. You're the one who got her hurt. And what"s this about you teaching her to swim? You've got a hell of a nerve, Doctor. But you'd just better back off when it comes to my daughter."
"Mr. Stafford..." She drew a deep breath. "You are acting like a first-rate jerk. I haven't known you very long, so I can't tell if it's because you are a first-rate jerk, or maybe it's just a temporary lapse in your social skills due to indigestion, a painful hangnail or constipation. For Katie's sake, I'm going to assume the latter."
She spun on her heel and climbed into the pickup. He tried to think of some great, smart-aleck retort, but he was so mad that his mind was blank.
"I suggest," she said, "that you take a big healthy dose of castor oil and sleep with a coat hanger in your mouth. Maybe you'll wake up tomorrow morning with a load off your mind and a smile on your face."
He sputtered. He fumed. He thought of a perfect rebuttal. Scathing, insulting, crude... almost vile. Absolutely perfect.
But, unfortunately, by then Dr. Rebecca Barclay was five miles down the road and long out of sight.
Chapter Four
Are you mad at me, kiddo?" Michael studied his daughter's bent head as they helped themselves to the last two pieces of Double, Double, Cheese and Trouble pizza on the platter.
He had taken Katie to her favorite eatery in an effort to cheer her up, but so far it wasn't working. She had been unnaturally quiet during the meal and had turned down an offer to play video games with him in the adjoining arcade.
Something had to be wrong. And Michael had a sinking feeling that he knew what it was.
"Well, are you?" he asked again when she didn't answer.
He reached across the table and tweaked a lock of her hair.
"No," she said, so softly he could hardly hear her.
Her tone was anything but convincing.
"I think you are. It's okay, Katie. We can talk about whatever is bothering you."
She looked up at him with those beautiful blue eyes that constantly broke his heart, and he could see that she was much more than just angry; she was deeply hurt.
"Is it about what happened this afternoon?"
She nodded.
"What did I do wrong?" he asked, dreading the answer. Why were the members of the male gender forever messing up with the females in their lives? If a man wasn't disappointing his mother, it was his girlfriend, sister, wife or daughter. A guy just couldn't win with a woman, no matter what age.
"You were mean to Dr. Rebecca," she said, her lower lip quivering.
He reached out and touched it with his fingertip. For the thousandth time he reflected on the fact that she was so soft, so sweet, and that he was so lucky to have her in his life.
"Do you really think I was mean?" he asked.
Again, she nodded.
"I guess I came down on her pretty hard, but I was worried about you. I was mad that she took you without asking me. I was upset that she let you get hurt."
"But that wasn't her fault. We didn't see the rock through the water. And it wasn't a big deal anyway. It hardly hurt at all. Dr. Rebecca was being nice to me, and we were having a really good time until..."
"Until I messed it up?"
"Yeah," Katie admitted, hanging her head again. "I was looking forward to coming home and telling you how good I did on the swimming stuff. But then..."
"So, tell me now. How did you do?"
Her eyes brightened and she wriggled in her seat with excitement. "I did great! Dr. Rebecca said I was very brave. First I did the mouth part—you know, sticking
my mouth under the water and blowing bubbles. Then I did my nose, then I floated on my back and did my ears. That was really weird and it sorta tickled. And then...and then...! did the eyes! I stuck my whole head under the water! All the way! I did it three times, and the last time I even opened my eyes. Right there, under the water, I opened them and looked around. I could see Dr. Rebecca. She was under the water, too, making a funny face and waving to me!"
Michael's heart warmed to see her so excited. She truly had enjoyed the afternoon, thanks to Rebecca Barclay. And the experience had obviously been worth a little cut on the foot.
He had been a first-rate jerk.
"I'm sorry, kiddo. Really, I am."
"Thanks, Dad. But you shouldn't tell me," she said. "Dr. Rebecca is the one you yelled at."
His stomach tied into a ball at the mere thought of approaching that woman and offering an apology. But what was a guy to do? He was wrong. His daughter knew he was wrong. They both knew he owed the doctor a heartfelt apology. Maybe he should kiss her ring and oil her feet while he was at it.
"Okay, okay, I'll tell her I'm sorry, but—"
"When?"
"When...ah, yes, well..."
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? I have a lot of things to do tomorrow, and I don't think I'll have a chance to..."
Thick, dark lashes batted over brilliant blue eyes; the rosebud mouth began to tremble again.
"All right, all right. Tomorrow."
Katie grinned, satisfied, and licked the last bit of sauce from her fingers. "You know," she added slyly, "you could ask her out on a date—a nice romantic dinner, a movie, a little mo-oo-onlight dancing."
He growled and tossed a piece of crust at her. "Watch it, kiddo. You could have to weed that flower bed beside the driveway."
"The one with all the dandelions and crabgrass?"
"That's the one."
She considered for a moment, then said, "Okay, just buy her a double-decker ice cream cone, and we'll call it even."
"I've been instructed to buy you ice cream. A lot of it."
Startled, Rebecca looked up from her examining table where she was clipping the right wing feathers of a parrot named Frederick. Michael Stafford was standing in her doorway. He wore an off-white linen shirt, just-right-tight jeans and a smile on his face that reminded her of the grins worn by a few sheep she had treated in her career.
Fred squawked and flapped, obviously irritated by her hesitation.
"What?" she asked, unable to believe what she had heard.
"I said..." He hesitated. "I'd like to buy you some ice cream, as a way of saying that you were right and I was a jerk. Or so I've been told by my eight-year-old daughter."
"I see." She paused to comfort Frederick, who had decided that the examination and feather clipping had gone on long enough. Fortunately, she was nearly finished, close enough to agree with him.
Stroking the bird's head and tickling the back of his neck, she coaxed him into his portable cage. His owner, Marge, would be by to get him soon.
She walked over to the sink and washed her hands, trying to decide how to react to this less than enthusiastic invitation. Half of her wanted to accept—okay, more than half—but the rest wanted to stomp across the room and slap him silly.
"Katie thinks you were a jerk, huh?" she asked as she turned toward him and stood with arms crossed over her chest and a defiant look on her face. "So do I. But the important thing, Mr. Stafford, is what you t
hink."
He sighed and walked into the room. Looking weary and frustrated, he sat on one of the stools beside the examining table. "First, please stop calling me Mr. Stafford. People only call me that when they're mad at me or trying to sell me something. Just call me Michael."
"I'm not trying to sell you anything, Mr. Stafford," she said.
"Secondly," he continued, ignoring her subtext, "I agree with my daughter—and with you—or I wouldn't be here. I might buy ice cream on command, but I only apologize when it's from the heart."
He took a deep breath and looked her square in the eyes, causing her pulse to pound hard enough to lower her cholesterol level for six months.
"I was unfair to you yesterday," he said. "I was rude, insensitive and stubborn. I don't blame you for being mad at me. I'm mad at me, too, possibly more than you and Katie combined. To be honest, I was feeling guilty that / hadn't taken the time to teach her to swim, that I hadn't shown her the swimming hole, that I hadn't been there when she was hurt. And I took it out on you. I'm truly sorry. Will you forgive me?"
For a moment she saw that same beguiling expression in his eyes that she had seen in Katie's. And, as with the daughter, she couldn't resist it.
"Yes, all forgiven, all forgotten," she said. "You don't even have to buy me ice cream if you don't want to."
"Oh, no, I have to do the ice cream bit or Katie will go on strike and not clean that grungy room of hers for two weeks. How do you feel about banana splits?"
After eating the first third of her ice cream and spending twenty minutes in conversation with Michael Stafford, Rebecca decided that she loved banana splits. Funny, she couldn't recall one tasting this good before.
The ice cream parlor was one of the most charming food establishments in town. Its stained glass lamps gave the dining room a cozy glow. In traditional, turn-
of-the-century style, the tables and chairs were ornate filigree of white wrought iron with marble tops. A miniature train circled the room on a narrow shelf just below the copper tiled ceiling, puffing smoke and whistling when it passed the front door.
"This was a good idea," she said, dipping into a bit of whipped cream stained pink from the maraschino cherry juice. "Tell Katie I like it when she takes charge of her father."
"No way. The kid's got me under her control too much already. There's no point in encouraging tyranny."
Rebecca couldn't help noticing, not for the first time, that Michael Stafford had a breathtaking smile. And she couldn't deny the way she felt when he flashed it in her direction. Did he know the effect he had on women? More specifically, on her?
Probably, she decided. Most gorgeous men were all too aware of their attractiveness. Rebecca had never found herself drawn to that type—at least, not for more than a few minutes. She found their vanity diluted their overall appeal.
But Michael didn't seem vain. Guarded, maybe a bit sarcastic at times, deeply hurt, but not conceited.
"Tell me about your business," she said, fishing for an impersonal line of conversation. Her heart seemed to be leading her mind down paths that were best left unexplored.
"We import specialty automobiles from Europe," he said, seeming pleased that she would ask. "Usually, we have an interested customer first, then we use our contacts to locate what they want and bring it in for them. I've been in business for seven years, and I make a pretty decent living at it. What else would you like to know?"
"What do you like best about what you do?" she asked, hoping the answer would tell her something new about this man who kept himself so closed off from the rest of the world.
He thought for a moment before answering. "The challenge, I suppose, of finding exactly the right car, of being able to fulfill a lifelong dream for someone. Many of these people have been saving for years in hopes of owning that one special car. Besides, most of our cars are vintage classics, and some are in really bad condition when we get them. It's wonderful to rescue an old Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost from a scrap pile in Britain and bring it back to life."
"You like to take something old and worn-out and make it young again," she observed. "I wish I could do that for some of my patients. What do you like least?"
"Sometimes I'm not fulfilling a lifetime dream. Some customers are just spoiled and the car is nothing but another expensive toy to them. I still get paid, but it isn't as satisfying."
Silently, Rebecca digested this information. She had thought him a materialistic workaholic, spending long hours in search of the almighty buck. But he didn't seem to care that much about money. So why did he work so hard?
She didn't have to think too long about that one. He threw himself into his work because he was a man running scared. Scared of his own emotions, scared of loving, scared of losing and hurting.
She knew the feeling.
When they had finished their splits, he ordered a cup of coffee for each of them, then settled back to drink it. "Tell me about your work," he said. "What do you like and what do you hate?"
"I suppose it sounds pretty sappy, but I really do love the animals. I enjoy helping them, relieving their pain when I can, preventing it sometimes."
She looked into his eyes to see if he found her silly or overly sentimental. But she saw something unexpected in those blue depths—respect.
"You have that special gift, Dr. Rebecca," he said. "I've always admired someone who has the healing touch. Being a healer, of man or beast, must be a wonderful way to spend your life."
Rebecca started to reply but was interrupted by a buzzing vibration against her ribs. She sighed as she reached down and unsnapped her pager from her belt.
"This," she said as she pressed the button to display the telephone number, "is what I don't enjoy about being a vet. I seldom get to eat or sleep without being interrupted at least once."
When she saw the number and the 911 suffix, her heart sank. Instantly, she knew who was calling and why.
"Is something wrong?" Michael asked.
"Yes, I'm afraid so. Ifs the Rileys, an old couple with an ancient golden retriever named Midas. He hasn't been doing very well lately." She replaced the pager on her belt and grabbed her purse. "They live only a few blocks away. Would you mind terribly dropping me off there? They'll give me a ride home."
"Of course." He tossed some bills onto the table and followed her to the door. "But when I take a lady out- even for ice cream—I also take her home. I'll give you a lift there, but I'll wait while you do your doctoring thing."
"Thank you," she said, grateful for his company. But as they walked across the restaurant parking lot to the Jaguar, she recalled the details of Midas's condition and had some misgivings. "I appreciate your offer, but I don't know if you'll want to be along on this one, Michael. Not all of a vet's stories have happy endings."
He thought for a moment, then nodded solemnly. "I understand. But if it's going to be a difficult call, wouldn't it be easier to have a friend along?"
"Yes," she said, not caring what the implication might be, what a comforting, male presence might mean, how the events of this afternoon might complicate her life. Against her will, she thought of Tim and how much she missed having someone go with her on these difficult calls. "It would make it a lot easier," she heard herself saying. "Thank you, Michael."
Beatrice and Jack Riley had each other, pretty good health for their seventy-plus years, a small house with
a rainproof roof, a 1956 Chevrolet that they had bought new and Midas.
In dog years, the golden retriever was older than either of them, and Rebecca had been called out several times in the past few months to address his various aches and ills.
But the last time she had been to the little house on Cleveland Avenue, she had suspected that Midas wasn't long for this world.
Her suspicion was confirmed the moment she stepped through their doorway and saw him lying on his blanket in front of the fireplace. No matter how sick he had been before, he had always rushed to the door to greet her. But now, he simply l
ay there, the only sign of life his chest barely rising and falling.
Beatrice Riley ushered Rebecca and Michael inside and closed the door behind them. Rebecca briefly introduced Michael to her, then turned her full attention to the dog.
"He seemed kind of under the weather last night," Beatrice said. "More than usual, that is. And this morning, he couldn't get up. He hasn't moved or eaten all day and he's been whimpering constantly. I know he's in pain. That's why I called you."
"Yes, of course, Bea," Rebecca replied. "Don't worry. You did the right thing."
The retriever was lying on his left side, his nose pointed toward the fire. As she knelt beside him on the floor, his tail gave a faint thump of recognition.
"Yes, Midas, ifs me," she said, stroking the once beautiful golden coat that had lost its luster. "Ifs that mean woman who sticks needles and thermometers in you and makes you take rotten-tasting medicines."
Gently, Rebecca ran her hand along his spine, searching for the growth that she had discovered on her last visit. There it was, next to the vertebrae, at least twice the size it had been only a few weeks before.
The dog whined more loudly as she palpated the area around the lump. "I'm sorry, Midas," she said, stroking his ears instead. "I didn't mean to hurt you anymore, old boy. Is it pretty bad? Yes... I thought so."
Looking up at Beatrice, Rebecca saw the anxiety, the sorrow in her eyes. Michael stood behind her, wearing a similar expression. They both knew. Rebecca had only to speak the words, but they were the most difficult words she had to utter in the course of her work.
"The tumor has invaded his spine, Bea," she said softly. "That's the reason for his paralysis. There's nothing we can do about that. As I told you before, it's too involved for surgery."
Beatrice said nothing but nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
"Where is Jack?" Rebecca asked, looking around, hoping Bea wouldn't have to endure this experience alone.
"He's gone to Orange County, to visit his sister. She hasn't been feeling well either."