Dr. Wonderful

by Charlotte Douglas

With the soothing rustle of the breeze in the trees, the gentle motion of his chair, the lack of the distracting blare from a television and the bothersome rumbling of traffic, Matt had to admit there was something hypnotic about the mountain atmosphere that unraveled the tension in a man’s muscles as effectively as a massage.

  Or maybe the woman beside him had something to do with how he felt.

  He’d surprised himself earlier by his impromptu proposal of marriage. Although he’d asked in jest, the idea had taken root with a certain allure that he couldn’t shake. Despite the hundreds of beautiful women he’d treated in his practice or partied with in Hollywood and Malibu, the prospect of marriage to any one of them had never crossed his mind.

  He’d already determined that Rebecca’s natural manner made her different from the others. But there was more than that. Maybe it was her complete indifference to him as a man. Had he taken her attitude as a challenge? Maybe if she showed some interest in him personally, her appeal would lessen.

  The silence on the mountain was deafening. Only the slightest ruffling of leaves and the muted creak of the rockers broke the stillness. If he stayed here long, Matt thought, he’d soon go into withdrawal, longing for the sixty channels on his wide-screen television or a quick drive to Sunset Strip for some delicious food and trendy atmosphere at The Standard.

  “What do people do around here for entertainment?” he asked.

  She looked at him askance. “Most folks work so hard, by nightfall or on Sunday, they’re happy to sit on their porches and relax.”

  “I saw a television in your living room. You and Emily ever watch it?”

  “The mountains usually block reception. Sometimes, if weather conditions are right, we can tune in the Asheville stations, but we don’t count on it.” She drank more of her coffee. “Besides, Emily would rather hear stories.”

  “You read to her?” A pleasant childhood recollection of sitting on his mother’s lap as she read to him flashed through his mind, something he hadn’t thought about in years.

  “We don’t get our stories from books. Storytelling is a family tradition. No one could tell a story like my granny, but I try to fill the void and keep the oral tradition going. I hope one day Emily will tell these stories to her children.”

  “Tell me a story.” He surprised himself with the suggestion, but he enjoyed the slow, soft drawl of her voice and wouldn’t mind listening to more.

  “What kind would you like to hear?”

  He’d expected her to be coy, to want to be begged to perform, but she hadn’t hesitated.

  “What are my choices?” he asked.

  “Humorous stories, stories that teach a lesson, like in ethics or history, ghost stories—”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “You would if you lived in these mountains for a while.” Her smile was challenging. “People have written entire books on Tarheel ghosts. And ghost stories are Emily’s favorites.”

  “Okay, I’m game.” He settled deeper into his chair. “Let’s see if you can make a believer out of me.”

  She straightened her back and cleared her throat. “Back at the turn of the century, in a small town on the other side of Asheville, a farmer built a new home for his family.” Her voice had deepened and taken on a more serious tone. “The day they moved into the new house was a long and happy one, and that night, long after his usual bedtime, the farmer sat in the front parlor, reveling in his new domain before turning in.

  “He wound the mantel clock and set the time, noting it was almost midnight, the time the nightly freight train passed down in the valley on its regular run. Still too excited to sleep, the farmer lit his pipe and returned to his chair by the fire.

  “As the clock struck midnight, the farmer could hear the whistle of the passing train. To his amazement, the front door that he had locked and bolted earlier swung open as if pushed by an invisible hand.”

  An owl hooted eerily in a nearby tree, as if right on cue, and the temperature of the breeze dropped a few degrees, raising goose bumps on Matt’s arms. He had to give her credit. Her delivery was perfection, better than any of the actresses he’d dated.

  “The farmer jumped from his chair,” Rebecca continued in a dramatic tone, “and hurried to check the door. His entire family was asleep. No one else had been in the room, nor could he find a sign of anyone on the porch or near the house. Perplexed, the farmer locked the door again and went to bed.

  “The second night he retired at his usual time, making certain to lock the front door securely. But when he awoke the next morning, the door stood open. In the weeks that followed, the farmer, members of his family and even some of his neighbors sat up until midnight. All observed the same phenomenon. When the midnight freight passed, the door swung wide as if opened by some ghostly hand.”

  Matt smiled to himself. He’d already figured out where the story was going. The door’s opening had a scientific explanation, and he wondered why Rebecca had chosen this particular tale to convince him of the existence of ghosts.

  “Now, the farmer was an intelligent man,” Rebecca said, “and didn’t believe in spirits. He knew there had to be a practical reason for the door that opened itself. So he wrote to the university at Cullowhee and asked if scientists could study the site.

  “Within weeks, several geologists had analyzed the ground beneath the farmer’s house and concluded that the same bedrock under the house ran into the valley beneath the train tracks. They concluded the rumblings from the train traveled through the rock, setting up vibrations that caused the door to swing open on its own.”

  Feeling smug that he’d been right, Matt waited for the ending.

  “Happy that he’d solved the mystery of the self-opening door, the farmer thought no more about it, other than to make a point of closing the door each morning when he awoke. Months later, however, he was up late with a sick cow. Passing through the living room on his way to bed, he noticed the time was almost midnight. He could set his watch by the train whistle. But as the clock struck twelve, not a sound issued from the valley below. As the last chime died away, however, the front door creaked on its hinges and swung open.

  “The next day, the farmer learned that the midnight freight had been delayed by a rock slide on the other side of the mountain—but his door had opened, nonetheless. No longer skeptical about the presence of a ghost in his house, he put the place up for sale and moved his family to another mountain.

  “The next family didn’t stay long in that house, either, and soon the house was abandoned, its reputation too well known for anyone to dare living there. Years later, the midnight freight run was canceled, but even today, for those who are brave enough to visit the decrepit house, someone—or something—opens the door at midnight.”

  She sat back and laced her hands around her now-empty coffee cup.

  “A great story,” he conceded, “but you made it up, right?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “The phenomenon’s been documented.”

  Her response startled him, and he wouldn’t have believed it, except for the fact that Rebecca seemed too much of a straight shooter to lie. “And there’s no explanation?”

  Her enticing smile widened. “Not unless you believe in ghosts.”

  He couldn’t decide whether she was teasing or serious and was surprised when she rose from her chair and wished him good-night. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock, far too early for his usual bedtime, even factoring in jet lag.

  “Pleasant dreams,” she said with a hint of teasing.

  “Any resident ghosts I should know about?” he asked.

  “Only Granny, but she won’t hurt you.” She slipped inside the house, and again, he didn’t know if she’d been serious or pulling his leg.

  What he did know was that he wanted a Warwick woman in his bed, and it sure as hell wasn’t Granny’s ghost.

  He rose and followed her inside, where she started up the stairs. “Rebecca, aren’t you going to lock the door?”r />
  She paused and turned. “You can, if it makes you feel safer. No one in Warwick Mountain locks doors. Crime isn’t a problem here.” Her green eyes twinkled. “And locks don’t keep the ghosts out.”

  Recalling the state-of-the-art security system in his Malibu home, he shook his head, feeling as if he’d traveled either back in time or to a foreign land.

  Rebecca started back up the stairs, then stopped again. “By the way, please call me Becca. Everyone else does.”

  “Sure.” The name suited her. Unpretentious and to the point. “Good night, Becca.”

  Maybe he’d allowed his desire for her to show in his voice, because a flush started at the base of her throat and worked its way to her cheeks. “Good night, Matt.”

  She almost ran up the stairs and disappeared around the landing without a backward glance.

  Matt, feeling suddenly lonely, entered the guest room and stripped off his clothes. Although the room was snug and attractively furnished with antiques and country quilts, and the bed comfortable with sheets fragrant with fresh air and sunshine, he feared he’d toss and turn for hours. Surprisingly, he drifted almost instantly into a deep sleep.

  Until an icy hand caressed his cheek and jerked him wide awake.

  Chapter Five

  Startled, disoriented, and remembering Becca’s warnings of Granny Warwick’s ghost, Matt bolted upright and gazed around the room, seeing no one in the pale moonlight that streamed through the windows and dimly lit the space. The fluorescent dial on the bedside clock read twenty minutes past midnight.

  “Dr. Matt,” a shaking voice whispered beside the bed. “It’s me, Emily.”

  Matt spotted the girl, whose head barely reached the top of the high bed. “What are you doing up in the middle of the night?”

  He reached for the lamp on the bedside table.

  “No!” She grabbed his hand. “No lights! You’ll scare them.”

  Her hand was freezing, and he could feel her shivering. In the faint light, he could barely make out her thin cotton Scooby Doo pajamas. He grabbed the extra blanket at the foot of his bed and flung it around her.

  “Is something wrong?” He wondered why the child hadn’t gone to her mother. “Is your mother all right?”

  “She’s asleep,” Emily said.

  Matt thought longingly of the deep, peaceful sleep she’d disturbed. “Then why did you wake me?”

  “So you can see the ghosts. Lizzie won’t believe me. But she will if you see them.”

  Matt shook his head in an attempt to clear the dregs of sleep. The entire Warwick family was obsessed with ghosts. “Ghosts don’t exist except in stories.”

  “They’re in the woods behind the house. I saw them. Come see.”

  Taking a look and proving nothing was there would be the only way to dissuade her and send her back to bed. Matt started to swing out from under the covers, then remembered he slept nude. “Wait for me in the hall. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Once Emily had left, he jumped from the bed, shivered in the frigid air and quickly pulled on his slacks and shirt. Barefoot, he joined Emily in the hall. “Now, where are these so-called ghosts?”

  Clasping the blanket around her with one hand, she grabbed his hand with her other and headed for the kitchen. When she tripped over the blanket, he caught her before she fell, then scooped her in his arms and carried her.

  “We can see from the back porch.” She twined her tiny arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder with a trust that touched him. He’d never held a child before, hadn’t realized how sweet one smelled, how fragile one felt. For the first time, he wondered what holding a child of his own might be like.

  Matt carried her through the kitchen, stepped out the back door and stopped short. Deep in the woods far behind the house, two lights bobbed up and down through the trees, then stopped, hanging as if suspended in space.

  “See,” Emily whispered in his ear. “I told you.”

  “I see,” Matt whispered back, “but they’re just lights. Somebody’s carrying them, but that doesn’t mean they’re ghosts.”

  “Somebody want to tell me what’s going on?” Becca’s voice demanded behind them, shattering the stillness and echoing across the yard.

  In the woods, the lights went out.

  “Emily and I were looking at the strange lights,” Matt said.

  “What lights?” Suspicion put an edge to Becca’s voice.

  “Ghosts were in the woods, Mommy, but you scared them away.”

  “Come inside before you freeze to death,” Becca said. “Both of you.”

  Following Becca, Matt carried Emily into the kitchen. Becca closed the door behind them and snapped on the light. Matt blinked at the sudden brightness, then blinked again at the sight of Becca in sweatpants, socks and an oversize T-shirt, her hair tousled from sleep, her cheeks pink with alarm and her green eyes narrowed in contemplation. His throat went dry with the thought that, if she looked that alluring in casual wear, what might a Victoria’s Secret creation do for her?

  Another emotion, as strong as desire, swept through him, and the strong surge of protectiveness startled him. He’d never had that response to a woman before—except for his mother in the last stages of her illness. Becca Warwick was a paradoxical mix of self-confidence and vulnerability. She carried herself with a defiant lift of her perfectly shaped chin, as if life had knocked her off her feet once, and she dared it now to take a swipe at her again.

  “Emily woke me up and asked me to look at the lights.” His emotions left him strangely tongue-tied, feeling almost guilty, like a little boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I didn’t want her leaving the house alone, not if someone was out there.”

  “Was anyone there?” Becca asked. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “There was lights, Mommy. Ghosts.”

  “There were lights,” Matt agreed, “but I couldn’t tell what they were. Does someone live back there?”

  Becca shook her head, and a frown creased the smooth skin between her eyebrows. “It’s all woods for miles.”

  “See,” Emily said with an emphatic nod, “I told you they were ghosts.”

  “I doubt that, young lady.” Becca reached for her daughter and Matt handed the girl over. His hand brushed Becca’s, warm and soft, and desire speared through him.

  “Probably hunters after coons,” Becca told Emily. “I’m putting you to bed.”

  Becca gathered her daughter close, then turned to Matt, her expression softening. “Thanks for looking out for her.”

  “My pleasure,” Matt said, surprised to realize it really had been.

  “Will you turn out the light?” Becca asked.

  Matt nodded, waited until they’d reached the stairs in the hall, then switched off the light.

  As he crawled between the cold sheets in the guest room, he thought longingly of what it would be like to have Becca there to help him warm them.

  BECCA COULDN’T DRIFT back to sleep. She kept picturing Matt with Emily in his arms, and the scene filled her with guilt. For years, she and Emily had done fine, first with Granny, then just the two of them. But seeing Matt holding Emily tonight had brought home with a vengeance the fact that her daughter had no significant male figure in her life.

  Sure, there was Uncle Jake, but he was such a crusty old codger, he sometimes frightened the little girl. Her heart ached over Emily’s comments at supper about wanting a daddy. But Becca could think of no way to explain to a four-year-old that her father hadn’t wanted her or her mother.

  Trying to find a comfortable position, she turned on her stomach and punched her pillow. This was all Matt Tyler’s fault. Emily hadn’t said anything about daddies until the doctor had arrived. And Becca hadn’t felt the stirrings of dissatisfaction, the sense that something was missing from her life until the too-damn-handsome Dr. Wonderful had shown up at her door.

  She slugged her pillow again. She didn’t need a man to make her happy. She’d be
en perfectly content with Emily and teaching at the one-room schoolhouse. So why did she ache now for something she couldn’t name?

  The quicker she could move Matt out of her house in the morning, the better. Then her association with him would be limited to introducing him to his potential patients. After that she could forget he existed.

  But right now, he was lying in bed in the room below hers, his rugged good looks and easy charm enough to make any woman’s hormones turn on her.

  Becca took a deep breath. Grady had had that effect on her and look where she’d landed. She wouldn’t trade anything in the world for Emily, but she’d learned a valuable lesson. Never again would she risk such heartache and humiliation. No matter how much her rebellious hormones yearned for Dr. Wonderful, her brain knew he was a playboy who would never commit, never leave the luxurious and exotic Beverly Hills for the hardscrabble mountain life. Any relationship with him would be temporary.

  And disastrous.

  Even after resolving the issue, however, she took over an hour to fall asleep.

  EMILY WAS STILL sleeping when Becca tiptoed down the stairs at dawn the next morning, and the door to Matt’s room was closed. She was looking forward to a peaceful cup of coffee alone while she mulled over the best way to approach the McClains about agreeing to authorize Lizzie’s treatment.

  Before she reached the kitchen, a forceful knocking sounded at the front door. When she opened it, three of the four Habersham sisters stood on her front porch. With their large bright eyes, fragile bones and brightly colored dresses, they looked like a trio of colorful sparrows.

  “We’ve come to see the doctor,” Hettie, ninety-one and the next to the eldest, said. “We know he’s here. That’s his car, isn’t it? Here awful early, isn’t he? ‘Less he spent the night?”

  “Come in.” Becca ignored Hettie’s question, swung the door wide and ushered them into the living room out of the early-morning mist that swirled on the porch. She had already noted that Grace, the eldest, wasn’t with them. “Is Grace ill?”

  “Her rheumatism’s acting up,” Fannie, the youngest at eighty-three, announced, “so she didn’t feel up to the walk down the mountain this morning. But she’ll be right as rain when the weather dries out.”