Let It Be Me

by Becky Wade

  Sticking her phone in the pocket of her white jeans, she started back up the path. Her house came into view. Small, yet also an architectural work of art.

  After she’d accepted her position at Misty River High, she’d spent a Saturday touring available houses with her Realtor. They’d viewed a string of conventional, uninspiring homes. Then her Realtor had said something along the lines of “This next one is a little unorthodox, but it’s in a great location and the price is right.” The older woman hadn’t sounded hopeful, so Leah hadn’t felt hopeful, either. Then her Realtor had come to a stop here, at the base of the steep driveway. Leah had peered out the car’s front window and promptly fallen in love.

  The majority of Misty River homebuyers sought out rustic cabins, traditional brick homes, or the spindly Victorians in the oldest section of town. Not Leah. This mid-century modern gem suited her taste perfectly.

  The kitchen occupied one end, the dining room and living room sat in the middle, and the two bedrooms and one bathroom occupied the other end. Glass trimmed in dark khaki paint comprised almost the entire front of the flat-roofed structure. The effect of the whole was very much that of a building striving to live in harmony with nature.

  She’d hired workers to refinish the floors and install white stone countertops in the kitchen and bath. Together, she and Dylan had replaced the kitchen’s knobs and pulls. They’d repainted the walls that had been painted originally and left natural the surfaces that had been natural from the start.

  When they’d filled the space with her collection of simple, 1950s-inspired furniture, everything had fit as if the house had been made specifically for them.

  She let herself inside. “How’s the homework coming?” she called in the direction of Dylan’s lair.

  Ominous silence. Four years ago, one of her former students had committed suicide at the age of seventeen, the age that Dylan was now. That event had scarred her, and she’d been irrationally anxious about suicide, and every other danger teenagers could embroil themselves in, ever since.

  “Dylan?”

  No answer.

  “Dylan?”

  Her steps turned in the direction of his bedroom. She knocked softly on his door. “Dylan?”

  Still no answer.

  She’d made sure his bedroom door had no lock for moments such as these. Letting herself inside, she spotted her brother seated at his desk, one arm folded on top of an open textbook, his head resting on his arm.

  He’d fallen asleep.

  She crept across his messy room, as she’d done countless times since she’d become his caregiver, to make sure his chest was rising and falling.

  It was.

  From this closer vantage point she could see that while he might be sleeping on his textbook, the thing he’d actually been working on was a drawing. Beneath his lax fingers, a detailed drawing of a Spartan warrior scowled up at her.

  Difference number two hundred between herself and Dylan: He was talented at art.

  With tenderness, she considered the contour of his cheek and the way his curly hair flopped toward the desktop. Then she tiptoed from the room, struck a match, and lit the three-wick Hawaiian beach candle resting on her coffee table. She changed out her four favorite candle fragrances with the seasons. This one smelled like ocean, pineapple, coconut, and sunshine.

  The trio of flames danced.

  On the phone a few minutes ago, Sebastian hadn’t told her that he’d attempt to set up a meeting with the administrator of Magnolia Avenue Hospital. He’d informed her that he would set up a meeting.

  Leah had come across plenty of students and adults during the past ten years of her career who’d talked big and made confident claims, then utterly failed at following through. But Sebastian’s focused demeanor the day of the farmers market and his unhesitating manner over the phone just now gave her reason to believe that he’d find a way to do what he said he’d do.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sebastian did indeed follow through.

  He’d texted Leah to ask if the day and time of the appointment he’d scheduled with the hospital administrator would work for her. When she’d said that it would, he’d suggested they meet immediately beforehand at Magnolia Perk, the hospital’s first-floor coffee shop.

  Leah had concurred.

  Her phone had predicted that it would take her one hour and thirty-eight minutes to drive from her house to Magnolia Avenue Hospital. Doused in mistrust in response to that estimate, she’d left herself a huge cushion of time and arrived twenty-seven minutes ahead of their eleven o’clock meeting. The sun had wrestled with grumbling gray clouds during her drive, but as she gazed out through the hospital’s foyer windows, she noted that it was now, strangely, both bright and drizzly.

  She sat at one of the coffee shop’s square two-seater tables, absently drinking the chai tea latte she’d ordered. End of semester finals had concluded the day before last. Yesterday had been a teacher workday. And today was the momentous first day of her summer break. However, vacation ease had yet to arrive because she’d been too busy girding herself mentally for today’s potentially confrontational interaction with the hospital.

  Sebastian Grant strode into view, walking purposefully from the parking lot toward the entrance doors, looking for all the world like a man unfettered by anyone else’s opinion of him.

  She checked her watch. He was twenty minutes early.

  He wore his dark hair cut short and stylishly. His white dress shirt was tucked into an exquisite pair of charcoal suit pants. Black wingtips and a simple black belt completed the look.

  Based on his attire, he’d obviously made time in his workday to meet her here. Hopefully no babies with congenital heart defects were having to wait on him while he assisted her with this non-life-threatening pursuit.

  He entered, his chin swinging in the direction of Magnolia Perk. She lifted a hand in greeting. He closed the distance, his charisma imposing.

  She’d made the right choice when she’d opted to dress up for their appointment in a collared white blouse marked with rows of tiny purple and blue dots, a pencil skirt, and her best pair of heels.

  He took the seat opposite hers, instantly dwarfing the table. “Hi.”

  “Hello.”

  His gaze was intent but not cold. In fact, it warmed her because it communicated resolution. Sturdiness.

  “Would you like something from the coffee shop?” she asked. “My treat.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’m fine.” He continued to study her. “How are you?”

  “I’m well. I’ll be better and better over the coming days, now that the school year’s ended. That takes a lot off my plate.”

  “Ben tells me you’re a math genius.”

  She laughed at the unexpectedness of his statement.

  “I was mediocre at math,” he said.

  “I strongly doubt that you were mediocre at anything. Ben tells me that you’re a medical genius.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “Harvard Medical School,” she said. “A fellowship at Duke University. Another fellowship at Boston Children’s Hospital. Then a job at Beckett Memorial here in Atlanta.”

  “You’ve studied me?” he asked.

  “I didn’t become a math genius by shirking homework.”

  He chuckled. “So you admit that you’re a math genius.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “You graduated from the Program for the Exceptionally Gifted at Clemmons. Received a PhD offer to Princeton. Achieved a master’s degree.”

  “I assume you know that I declined the offer to Princeton?”

  “I do, but I’m not sure I understand why. Didn’t they offer you a stipend?”

  Her lips curved with amusement. “Some people might find that question to be nosy.”

  “Do you find it to be nosy?”

  “As it happens, no. The elaborate dance of social niceties is confusing to me. Not to mention, a waste of time. I appreciate it when people speak t
o me very directly.”

  “So do I.”

  “To answer your question, I was offered a stipend. But even if I could have supported my brother and myself on that amount and figured out a way to squeeze my studies around the priority of raising Dylan, I couldn’t have ripped him away from his home, his therapist, his school, and his friends in order to drag him halfway across the country. He was traumatized enough as it was after my mom left.”

  “Do you still plan to get your PhD?”

  “Yes. I’ve dreamed of becoming a university professor since I was seven years old.”

  “Have you started coursework?”

  “Not yet. Years ago, I decided to postpone additional graduate work until after Dylan goes to college.” She inclined her head toward Sebastian. “You certainly didn’t postpone any of your graduate work. You became a full-fledged surgeon a year ago at the age of thirty-one.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though most doctors don’t become pediatric heart surgeons until thirty-five or thirty-six.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many surgeries have you performed in the past year?”

  “Three hundred and thirteen. I don’t receive as many referrals as the others, but I’m on call more than they are. I take all the patients that come in during my on-call hours.”

  “How many of those three hundred and thirteen survived?”

  “All but five.”

  She couldn’t fathom carrying five deceased children around on her conscience. Yet he’d saved three hundred and eight. “That equals a mortality rate of approximately one and a half percent.” She made a mental note to research the topic further, but she guessed that a one and a half percent mortality rate for a first-year congenital heart surgeon who operated on very sick, very young patients was excellent. “How many of those didn’t make it because of a physiological problem beyond your control?”

  “Three. The other two had postoperative issues, potentially related to how long they were on the pump. Still, I take responsibility for those two because there may have been a technical issue with my work.”

  Somehow, she doubted it. She sipped her chai tea and tasted cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg. “The homework you did on me makes me sound very dull. I feel compelled to mention that I’m more interesting and well-rounded than I sound on paper.”

  “Oh?” Humor flavored the sound. “How so?”

  “I love hiking and planning road trips on a shoestring budget. I occasionally compete in chess tournaments for fun. I’m rebellious because my teachers used to warn me that I needed to learn to do math in my head because I wouldn’t be able to carry a calculator around with me once I became an adult.” She reached into her purse and lifted her graphing calculator just high enough for him to see before dropping it back into the confines and straightening. “Joke’s on them. Now you go.”

  “I watch soccer and movies. I’m a fan of anything related to aviation. I spend a lot of my free time with the Coleman family. I’m excellent at killing houseplants. I like to mow my lawn, and I listen to Sinatra because, obviously, he produced the best music ever.”

  The entire conversation was taking place at a very fast pace, akin to a ball being walloped back and forth across a tennis court. “Interesting assertion,” she said. “I contend that the 1980s produced the best music ever.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Musical preferences are a matter of taste, Sebastian. One genre’s superiority over another cannot be proved.”

  He shifted in his chair, setting a forearm on the table. His surgeon’s hands were large with short, clean nails and blunt fingertips. Even though relaxed, his fingers communicated proficiency.

  After a long moment, he spoke. “You asked me over the phone if I’d keep your information confidential. I told you I would. Now I’m wondering if you’ll keep what I’m about to say confidential.”

  “Of course.”

  “Because this will get me in trouble with Ben if he finds out.”

  She angled her head. “Oh?”

  “He’d like to go out with you.”

  Her eyebrows steepled.

  “I want to put in a good word for him,” he continued. “He’s like a brother to me . . . one of the best people I know.”

  She held herself still even though she was flailing around like a drowning swimmer on the inside. “Ben wants to go out with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ben is romantically interested in me?”

  “Yes. You didn’t know?”

  “No. I . . . don’t always pick up on undercurrents that other people understand intuitively.”

  “Ah.”

  “I happen to agree with your assessment of Ben. He’s an outstanding person. Stellar.”

  “He really is. Will you consider giving him a chance?”

  She looked him straight in the eyes. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Nothing against Ben, but I have no interest in dating anyone. I don’t do romance.”

  “You don’t do romance?” he repeated.

  “No. I’ve never aspired to a dating relationship and certainly not to marriage.”

  “Can we back this train up?” He pondered her the way he might ponder a complex X-ray. “Why don’t you do romance?”

  “In order to explain, I’ll have to back this train way up. All the way to my childhood.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You’re really interested in this?”

  “I promise you that I am. You told me you prefer for people to speak directly. You can trust me to do just that.”

  “Well . . .” She sniffed, then rested her hands in her lap. “When all the other little girls were drawing pictures of families, with mothers and fathers and children, I was drawing pictures of myself surrounded by math equations. I know that most people envision romantic relationships as part of their future, but I never did.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Several reasons. The first was environmental.”

  “Explain.”

  “My parents’ marriage was . . . deplorable. It in no way sweetened me toward the institution.”

  “Understandable.”

  On top of that, during her middle school years, no boy had displayed a shred of romantic interest in her. Back then, not only had she been socially awkward, she’d also worn glasses and possessed a nose that was too large for her face. “I attended an all-girls school, which was glorious because, for the first time, I was surrounded by friends with whom I had much in common. There were no boys present, however, so I certainly wasn’t tempted to try dating during my teenage years.”

  The peaceful environment at Clemmons had poured Miracle-Gro on her confidence. There, her roommate had invited Leah to church and Leah had, for the first time, met God. She’d placed her faith in Him. In response, the unconditional love she’d spent her life craving had poured through her. God’s grace had revolutionized her soul.

  “And after you graduated from Clemmons?” he asked.

  “Almost all the men I met were coworkers, and I was too young for them.” It had come as a great surprise to her when a few of her colleagues had asked her out. By then, she’d traded her glasses for contacts. Her other features had grown so that her nose had come into proportion. She’d entrusted herself to a skilled hair stylist and learned how to shop for clothing that complemented her. While it had been pleasant to discover that she no longer repelled men, that revelation had not converted to real-world application. “Besides, Dylan consumed my time. Whatever was left went to my master’s program.” She shrugged. “I seem to be missing the attraction gene.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All the women I know swoon with attraction over men. I do not.”

  Except . . . just as the words I do not left her mouth, she did experience a bout of physical attraction. A very real, warm tug of longing in response to Sebastian Grant.

  Chills of delight—or maybe horror—slid along her arms.

  Confound i
t!

  What in the world was happening?

  This felt like a pleasurable menstrual cramp even though the relationship between cramp and pleasurable was a non sequitur.

  “I see,” he said.

  A blush glided up her cheeks. She neutralized it by drawing in air and common sense. Romance and marriage were not for her. The sentimentality of it all! The bad choices, the weakness, the flawed thinking that women in love displayed!

  She had God, and years ago she’d resolved that He was quite enough, thank you very much. Ever since, she’d worn her countercultural disinterest in a spouse like a badge of honor. “Number theory thrills me, but romance does not. I’ve found contentment in my long-standing relationship with Han Solo.”

  “You’re a Han Solo fan?”

  “Very much so.” She woke her phone to show him the Han Solo photo she’d set as her background image.

  “Your name is Leah, so how could you not like him?”

  “Naturally. Princess Leia and I don’t spell or pronounce our name the same way, but we both have a weakness for scoundrels.” She angled the phone back toward herself and saw that just five minutes remained before their meeting. “Shall we?” She gestured toward the bank of elevators.

  He nodded.

  She tossed her cup in the trash as they crossed the lobby.

  Once inside the elevator with an old man and young woman in scrubs, Sebastian punched eight and up they went.

  “Han Solo is clearly the best character in the Star Wars galaxy,” Sebastian commented.

  “Clearly.”

  “Luke was too wholesome.”

  “Too wholesome,” she agreed.

  They exited on their floor and entered a suite of offices. The receptionist invited them to sit and informed them that Donna McKelvey, hospital administrator, would be with them shortly.

  They sat.

  Despite the high stakes of the coming meeting, Leah found it difficult to focus her thoughts on anything other than Sebastian’s nearness. Muscle laced his frame. She caught an intriguing whiff of cedar and citrus-scented soap. “Will you communicate my position on romance to Ben?” she asked, her voice pitched low.