From House Calls To Husband

by Christine Flynn

  With the strains of a classic concerto filling the air, compliments of the ensemble near the dance floor, Katie couldn’t help thinking that the overall mood would have fit right in with the little fantasy Lee had been working on in the dressing room. Unfortunately, Katie couldn’t appreciate the ambiance as much as she would under other circumstances. Apprehensive and anxious, she just wished it were midnight and the ball were over. Mike was trying as hard as she to keep things pleasant, but there was an unfamiliar tension in him tonight that had her nerves jumping like the tracings of an EKG.

  She stood near a set of the ballroom’s huge, open doors, watching the crowd while Mike dealt with their coats. By being his nondate, she’d tacitly agreed to support him by putting up a good appearance. That was exactly what she’d do, too. As important as it was for him to maintain the right connections, and keep his chief of staff happy, she couldn’t let him down. Aside from that, her parents were in there somewhere, along with many of their friends and acquaintances. So were Mike’s colleagues. And some of the doctors she worked with. It wouldn’t do any good at all to let the strain between her and Mike show.

  There was one other little matter preying on her mind.

  She hadn’t taken the test. She’d simply been too rushed. So now she had to spend the evening pretending everything was fine between her and Mike while trying not to obsess over whether or not she was carrying his child.

  “Show time.”

  Mike drawled the words from beside her. Feeling his hand on her elbow, she looked up, her glance skimming the row of black studs on his white pleated shirt and the satin stripe edging the lapel of his black jacket. The last time she’d seen him in a tuxedo had been at his wedding. She’d thought he looked incredibly handsome then. Tonight, when she needed him to look comfortable and ordinary, when she needed him to look like her friend, he looked devastating.

  “Start looking for Dr. MacAllister,” he said, leading her into the crowd. “We’re at his table.” He nodded to a couple who smiled and nodded back. “It’s number twenty-something.”

  Grateful for the diversion, her glance swept over the numbers in the silver holders on the nearby tables. They were in the forties. “Do you know who else we’ll be with?”

  “Aniston and Chapman and their wives.

  “What?” he asked, when she wrinkled her nose.

  “We have to sit with Dr. Aniston?”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Other than the fact that he’s a short, bald, ill-tempered egotist?”

  With his hand on her elbow, Mike steered her in the direction of a white-coated waiter bearing a tray of champagne. “You forgot opinionated. But that’s just between you and me. Anyway, you know how to deal with difficult people. You do it all the time. And Aniston’s all right,” he said, clearly seeing no cause for concern. “He’s just got a Napoleon complex. Do you want champagne? Or would you rather have something from the bar?”

  Considering that another minor stress had just been added to the evening, she didn’t just want a drink, she wanted general anesthesia. Unfortunately, there was a little possibility she needed to consider. And considering it had her looking everywhere but at him. “I’ll just have water. Or a soft drink.”

  Mike’s eyebrow shot up. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” If she was pregnant, she wasn’t going to take any chance of harming her...their...baby. “Ginger ale would be fine,” she expanded, not sure she hadn’t paled as the idea became more real.

  Their baby. Hers and Mike’s. A little dark-haired, blue-eyed Brennan, she thought, her hand flattening on her stomach.

  “Are you all right?” Mike’s glance followed her unconscious motion, then sharpened on her face. “You’re not fighting something off again, are you?”

  “No! No. I’m—”

  “Katie! There you are. And Michael! It’s so good to see you.”

  Katie’s mom enveloped first Katie, then Mike in a Chanel-scented hug. Unaware of her daughter’s relief at the interruption, she stood back, smiling fondly at them both. With her smooth, ash blond hair tucked in a shining chignon and her petite frame encased in a long, red beaded sheath and jacket, Karen Sheppard looked perfect, as always. Which made Katie, as always, feel as if she’d just stepped from a wind tunnel.

  Self-consciously tucking back a strand of the hair that had survived her every effort to tame it, she straightened her shoulders and smiled back.

  “You look charming,” Karen pronounced, scanning the earrings and black velvet gown. “The dress is even prettier than you described. You should have borrowed my pearls, though. They would have looked perfect. But never mind that,” she hurried on, looking chagrined at having been unable to resist the suggestion. “Your way is lovely. Where are you sitting?”

  “Table twenty-something.” Suddenly self-conscious about her bare throat, wondering if maybe she should have borrowed the pearls, she covered the offending spot with her hand. “Hi, Dad.”

  Like Mike, Dr. Randall Sheppard looked as comfortable in a tuxedo as he did a lab coat. He did not, however, look like a man about to turn sixty. If not for his thick, silver hair, he could have easily passed for a man ten years his junior. His personality and reputation gave a person the impression that he was a large man, though he was actually as lean as a runner, and easily an inch or two shorter than Mike’s six feet.

  Hearing his daughter’s greeting, he glanced toward her, his hand falling from where he’d clapped Mike on the shoulder. His patrician features folding in puzzlement, he stepped forward to place a quick kiss on her cheek.

  “This is a surprise, Kathleen,” he said, his use of her formal name creating a certain distance even as he smiled. “I expected to see Mike, but what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, Randy,” Karen murmured, sounding more conciliatory than exasperated. “I told you she was coming with him.” She shook her head, the rubies in her ears catching the light from the chandeliers. “I must have mentioned it while he was preoccupied with something,” she explained to Katie with a dismissing little laugh. “I can’t hold him responsible for what I tell him unless I’m sure I have his attention. You know how your father always has a million things on his mind.”

  The picture of amused tolerance, she skimmed her smile to Mike, avoiding her daughter’s subdued expression as she tactfully changed the subject. Katie was so accustomed to the way her dad seemed to forget she existed, and her mom’s excuses for him, that her own responses were just as automatic. Having been so subtly dismissed, however unintentionally, she simply crossed her arms and told herself she didn’t care.

  “I do wish your parents could have come tonight, Michael,” her mother was saying, “but they wouldn’t miss Paul’s tournament. Imagine. He could be state swimming champion.”

  The murmur of other conversations drifted between them. Over the high-pitched enthusiasm of two ladies who apparently hadn’t seen each other in a while, Mike responded to Mrs. Sheppard with an oldest brother’s pride in his youngest sibling, and replied with ease to Dr. Sheppard’s inquiry about how his practice was going. There was no mistaking the genuine interest in the older man’s question, or the sincerity in his response when he said he was glad Mike was doing so well. Dr. Sheppard had been interested in him for as long as he could remember, and Mike had always found him willing to listen and explain. But even as they spoke, he could see Katie withdrawing from the brief conversation.

  He’d seen her smile slip while she’d talked with her mom. Now, as she stood with one hand covering her throat, her other arm banding her waist, she’d grown quieter, her expression losing what little animation she’d managed. She’d seemed preoccupied since he’d picked her up, but this was different. This had to do with her parents. She was always more subdued around her mom, but with her dad, she nearly turned mute. She couldn’t be around her father for sixty seconds without seeming to shrink into the background.

  “And we really shouldn’t hold you two up any longer,” Mrs. Sh
eppard concluded a minute later. “I see Angie Baker coming now.”

  A woman Katie recognized from her parents’ church was moving in on them like a heat-seeking missile. Having caught the woman’s eye herself, Mrs. Sheppard leaned forward and dropped a quick kiss on Katie’s cheek.

  “Have fun tonight, sweetie. And you, Mike,” she added, smiling up at the man she’d known since he was in diapers. “Mark the fifth of next month on your calendar. It’s Randy’s birthday. His sixtieth. We’ll need you to help celebrate.”

  Mike assured her that he’d be there if he could, but he was more aware of Katie than whatever else it was her mother said, as a woman in a dress the shade of bile, but what he supposed would be called “lime,” tugged her away. The stunning woman at his side seemed to visibly relax as her parents were whisked off, her slender, enticingly bare shoulders falling as if some of the air had just leaked out of her.

  “You don’t need a necklace.”

  Surprise registered in her eyes, just before appreciation settled in. Her hand fell from her throat. “Thank you.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want that wine?”

  Though her smile faltered, she murmured, “I’m sure. Listen, Mike. About dad’s birthday,” she began, only to find the rest of what she wanted to say stuck in her throat.

  His hand had settled on her bare back, right between her shoulder blades.

  “What about it?” he asked, letting his hand slip down to the soft velvet as he guided her to the bar.

  “I have no idea what to get him.” His fingers were now splayed at the small of her back, his thumb moving in a slow caress. Thinking he might just like the feel of the fabric, she tried to dismiss the motion. “If you can think of anything, will you let me know?”

  “I’ll see what I can come up with. There’s Dr. MacAllister.” Looking as innocent as an altar boy, he increased the pressure of his hand, slipping it just a bit lower. It was almost as if he were testing her, challenging her to question the contact. “It looks like the Anistons are with him.”

  Chapter Seven

  “You’re Randy Sheppard’s daughter?” Dr. Aniston posed the question over a forkful of Chicken Oscar, his attention momentarily diverted from the conversation taking place to his right. “I’ve known Randy for years. He was our children’s pediatrician. You and I have met before, haven’t we?”

  Dr. Aniston’s beady little eyes narrowed. Had she been in scrubs and standing by the nurses’ station at the hospital, Katie was sure he’d have had no trouble placing her at all.

  “At Memorial,” she politely replied. Seated between him and Mike at the table of eight, she rearranged her asparagus, pretending to look as if she, too, was enjoying what was probably a delicious dinner. “I’m on the cardiac floor.”

  “I knew you looked familiar.” Chewing thoughtfully on chicken, crab and béarnaise, he stabbed the air with his empty fork. “I remember. You work day shift. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Of course, I’m right,” he insisted, going for the crab again. “I know exactly who you are now. You’re one of the efficient ones.

  “Murleen,” he mumbled, oblivious to Katie’s surprise at the compliment as he nudged the woman seated to his left. “Did you know Randy Sheppard’s daughter works at Memorial? She takes care of some of my patients.”

  Mrs. Aniston, a matronly woman in billowing black taffeta, turned her attention from Dr. MacAllister. “I know, dear. Dr. Brennan mentioned it when she was introduced. Maggie, Gwen and I had a delightful conversation with her while you men were discussing arterial plaque.

  “Speaking of which...” Her voice trailed off meaningfully as she frowned at his plate. “Stay away from the crab and the sauce and eat your vegetables. You’re a cardiologist, Clark. How do you expect your patients to watch their cholesterol when you won’t watch yours?”

  Mrs. Aniston cast a beneficent smile at Katie and returned her attention to the discussion her husband had just joined. Gwen Chapman, the forty-something wife of Dr. Samuel Chapman, and Dr. Chapman himself, a pleasant, wiry fellow with a receding hairline and silver-rimmed glasses, were laughing at something Dr. MacAllister had said to Mike. Finally turning his own attention back to his chief of staff, Dr. Aniston dutifully traded another bite of crab for a baby carrot.

  If there was anything redeeming about the evening, it was seeing the usually overbearing Dr. Aniston with his wife. The woman easily matched his five-foot-eight-inch height, but she had to outweigh him by thirty pounds, a difference that might have seemed less disproportionate had she not been wearing huge, puffed sleeves. He deferred to the woman as if she were either adored or feared, something Katie would have found as amusing as she did interesting, had she been in a mood to feel amused at all.

  The topic under discussion was the large number of doctors and nurses at Memorial who were natives of Honeygrove. It had been Maggie MacAllister’s observation about Katie being a native—and who her parents were—that had elicited Dr. Aniston’s question to Katie moments ago.

  The man didn’t seem willing to let the subject of her father go, either.

  “Does Dr. Sheppard send any patients to Memorial?”

  “Most of his go to Children’s,” Dr. MacAllister replied, speaking of another hospital not far away. “He uses us for his adolescent orthopedics, but we don’t see him that often.”

  “Tell me,” Dr. Aniston continued, turning to Katie. “With Randy Sheppard for a father, how is it that you didn’t become a doctor yourself? Did you try medical school?”

  “Clark, really,” Mrs. Aniston scolded under her breath.

  “No, I didn’t,” Katie replied with an ease that totally belied her discomfort with the subject. She’d never even considered medical school. With her father’s prominent reputation, she would have lived her life constantly in his shadow. In some ways, she did anyhow. “Nursing appealed to me more.”

  Another carrot was skewered. “I’ll bet he tried to talk you into medical school, though.”

  “Not really.” Her father had actually talked more to Mike about Mike’s aspirations than he ever had hers. Wondering as she often had if her father would have shown more interest in her if she’d been a son instead of a daughter, she murmured, “The choice was mine.” With a little nudging from my friends, she had to silently add. It had actually been Dana and Lee who’d talked her into nursing school. They’d insisted she was a “natural.”

  “And an excellent choice it was.” The rescue came from Mike. “Her other option was to be an astronaut, but she doesn’t like to fly. She gets airsick.”

  “I can see where that would pose a problem.” Mrs. MacAllister offered the observation with a smile. “So, did you always plan on coming back to Honeygrove after nursing school?” she asked, returning the conversation to its former topic.

  “Always. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

  “That’s what our son says. He’s moving back here next month, you know. It’ll be so good to have him close again. And having him on staff will be such a pleasure for his father.”

  It won’t be a pleasure for Dana, Katie thought, keeping her smile frozen in place. Trevor MacAllister might be a terrific surgeon and his parents might be delighted to have him home, but he had exercised his considerable charm on Dana in high school, then totally trashed her reputation. Ever since Dana had heard he was coming back, she’d been making noises about a transfer.

  “It is a wonderful place to settle down, isn’t it?” Maggie went on, oblivious to the pain her son had caused. “Perfect for raising a family. I’m sure that’s why the young people return. Don’t you think, Dr. Brennan?”

  “It’s probably one of them.” With the grace of a man not easily cornered, he gave her a disarming smile. “But I don’t think that’s its only appeal. We have the river for sailing and windsurfing in the summer. We’re only a couple of hours to skiing in one direction and an hour and a half to the beach in the other. We have great medical facilities, a high schoo
l football team that’s always in the finals.” The crease at the side of his mouth deepened with his obvious affection for the place. “There are a lot of reasons why a person would want to come back here to live.”

  “But isn’t having a family something you think about?”

  “Actually, no.” Despite the obviousness of the woman’s question, Mike remained remarkably at ease. “I barely have time to take advantage of the river or the mountains or the beach.”

  “But that’s only right now.” With a dismissing wave, her speculative glance shifted to Katie, who’d just slowly set down her fork. “Once you get yourself established, you’ll have far more time....”

  Dr. MacAllister laid his hand over his wife’s.

  “I’m not sure what it is,” he said to Mike, “but women seem convinced that people just aren’t happy unless they’re married and going to Little League. You’re the only bachelor at this table. That makes you fair game.” He gave his wife an affectionate smile. “Leave him alone, Maggie. He’s a busy man.

  “Speaking of which,” he continued, deftly changing the subject as he reached for his wine. “We have a toast in order here.

  “To Dr. Brennan,” he declared, after everyone had picked up their glasses, “and his presentation at the cardiovascular conference in Seattle next week. His work is brilliant, but it would have taken the world far longer to discover it if it hadn’t been for me.”

  Dutiful chuckles accompanied the clinks of crystal, along with murmurs of congratulations and well wishes. Katie raised her water glass, her smile a ghost of what it had been when she’d first heard Mike’s news. It was inevitable that someone would bring up his presentation, but all it had done was remind her that Mike no longer wanted her help. Between that and his very decisive response to Mrs. MacAllister’s question about family, she was amazed she managed a smile at all.

  She was thinking that the evening had turned into little more than an exercise in stress management when the orchestra geared up for dancing. They made it halfway through dessert and coffee before Dr. Chapman asked his wife to join him on the floor. Dr. Aniston, not to be outshone, held his hand out to his wife and escorted her off to the rustle of heavy taffeta.