Out of the Shadows

by Loree Lough

“This is terrific, by the way.” He used his fork as a pointer.

  No one had ever looked at her quite that way—with such admiration, such caring. Not even Gus. Lord, she prayed, show me a sign of some sort…if this is the man You’ve chosen for me, tell me now, before I get in any deeper.

  But who was she kidding? The only way she’d get in any deeper was if Wade said he loved her, too.

  Too?

  So there it was, out in the open. Knowing how stupid it would be to dive feetfirst into another relationship, she’d been trying to deny it for days, now, pretending the pleasant conversations were part of every budding friendship and nothing more.

  He poked out his tongue just then, to catch a crumb of cake that had stuck to his upper lip…and reminding her of the sweet kisses they’d shared. Kisses that had warmed her heart and soul, making her wonder if they’d inspired “forever” thoughts in Wade’s mind, too.

  “Gus agreed to come to my office tomorrow.”

  Blinking, she looked up. “He did?”

  Wade grinned. “You sound surprised.” Chopping off another forkful of cake, he said, “I can be mighty persuasive when I put my mind to it.”

  “Really.” Then, persuade me to be your one and only was the silent message she sent him.

  She swallowed, feeling silly and irrational and a whole lot foolish.

  Wade met her eyes, and for an instant, as she probed the glittering, golden eyes and gentle smile, she wondered if maybe he’d read her mind.

  Would he start trying to persuade her?

  She sipped her tea. “So what time is his appointment?”

  “Two o’clock. Gus said Molly would drop him off. Then you can pick him up after he’s finished.”

  “Sounds good. What tests will you run?” she asked.

  He took a drink of his own tea. “I want to do the whole nine yards—EKG, EEG, CAT scan, MRI, blood work….”

  She bit her lower lip. “What will you be looking for?”

  “Nothing, everything,” he said, shrugging. “This is routine, to rule out anything serious that might be causing the fevers and—”

  She wrapped her hands around her mug and squeezed it tight. “But, you must suspect something. Why else would you run a battery of tests?”

  He pressed his hands atop hers. “You’ve been around doctors and hospitals enough to know that most of the time, our so-called detective work doesn’t turn up a thing.”

  “And sometimes, it turns up something horrible.”

  “Then, it’s good to catch it early, isn’t it?”

  Pulse racing, she stared at their hands. “I suppose.”

  “Except for his occasional bouts with bronchitis and pneumonia, he tells me he’s been healthy as a horse.”

  That much was true, but still…

  “Then, you have nothing to worry about.” He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “Where’s your faith? I thought all you Christians believe it’s a sin to worry.”

  The way he’d said “all you Christians” told her he wasn’t a believer. On the other hand, he’d known the Christian attitude toward worry. Could it mean that maybe, once upon a time, he had been a follower? Because if he had, it wouldn’t be such a long walk back…with a little help from his friends….

  Show me the way, Lord, she prayed, show me the way.

  Still holding her hands, he added, “And if I haven’t worn Gus out too badly, maybe the three of us can go to Little Italy for dinner.”

  “Be careful what you ask for,” she warned, smiling. “Gus loves Italian food. He’ll say yes even if he’s down to one ounce of energy left.”

  “Good, because I’m looking forward to getting to know him better.”

  He was looking forward to getting to know her father better? What could that mean, except—

  “Well, guess I’d better be makin’ tracks,” Wade said, getting to his feet. “My first surgery starts at eight.”

  “Let me pack up some dessert for you first.” She rummaged in a cabinet for a plastic container. Not the throw-away kind, but one that would have to be returned.

  “But it’s just me at home—”

  “It’ll keep a week in the fridge.” And as she slid a thick slab of each dessert into the bowl, Patrice added, “Just microwave a slice at a time when you’re in the mood…unless you like cold cake or pie.”

  “Guess I’ve learned to live with ‘cold.”’

  She heard more in his grating tone than a simple response to her question; there was a certain sadness, and loneliness, too. Patrice snapped the lid in place. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t have a microwave.”

  He’d recovered nicely…or so he thought. Patrice wondered who he thought he was fooling with that stand-up-tall demeanor and practiced smile.

  Patrice flashed her best imitation of a smile. “No microwave? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Even if I had one, I doubt my landlady’s electrical system could power it. Besides, there’s barely room in my kitchen for me.”

  “Must be one small apartment….”

  “It’s a studio. Bet the whole thing could fit into your living room.”

  “You’re a big-shot doc,” she teased. “Surely you can afford a house.”

  His smile vanished more quickly than a candle’s flame can be doused, making her regret her little joke.

  “Guess I just never saw the point. I mean, what’s a single guy need with a whole big house?”

  “Don’t you ever entertain?”

  “Never saw much point in that, either.”

  Patrice got a picture of a cramped, dimly lit place, furnished with relatives’ dull castoffs, and had to bite her lower lip to keep the tears at bay. Wade deserved better. He was the kind of man who made women want to do more than send him home with leftover sweets; surely they were lined up for blocks, waiting to cook a meal, do his laundry, make sure he started every day with a healthy breakfast.

  Patrice got a picture of the snaking string of females, each looking longingly at handsome, intelligent and thoughtful Dr. Wade Cameron. She quickly blinked the image away, because she wanted to be the only woman in that line!

  “See you tomorrow, then.” He picked up the blue-lidded plastic bowl and grinned. “And thanks for breakfast.”

  Walking beside him into the foyer, she waved his gratitude away. “I’ll say a prayer for you tonight.”

  He chuckled. “Whatever for?”

  “So you’ll get a good night’s sleep,” she said, opening the front door. “You’ll need to be well rested. For surgery tomorrow.”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a boyish grin. “That’s downright sweet, Patrice. Thanks.”

  But she didn’t want his thanks; she wanted his heart.

  “You have a good night’s sleep, too.” He put the bowl on the table beside the door and took a step closer, slid his arms around her.

  He didn’t say he’d pray for her, she noted.

  His brows furrowed slightly as he inspected her face. “You gonna be okay?”

  She nodded.

  “’Cause chances are real good that Gus will be fine, y’know.”

  Another nod.

  “Dinner was great. Did I tell you that already?”

  He hadn’t, but she nodded again.

  For a moment, he stood there, simply staring at her, wearing a flirty half smile on his face that confused and exhilarated her at the same time.

  Patrice had always prided herself at being able to read people’s expressions; it was but one of the reasons she interacted so successfully with hospitalized kids. But if someone asked her to define Wade’s emotions right now, she’d be at a total loss.

  Strong and rock-solid, he had all the qualities of the right man…of a husband. But he wasn’t interested in her. Not in a permanent kind of way.

  Or was he?

  He had flirted, blatantly, right from the get-go. It had been Wade who’d sought out her company, not the other way around. And he’d hinted that since they wer
e friends, she should feel free to talk about her childhood, the recent past, the present.

  But he hadn’t told her a single thing about himself.

  Sometimes, he wore the weathered look of a man who’d slung more than his share of burdens across his shoulders. What sort of suffering had created those burdens? Patrice could only hope that one day he’d tell her, and that when he did, she’d have the grit to behave like a true friend.

  Something told her she’d need more than strength, though, if he unfolded his past for her to see, because nothing short of “horrible” could have put that haunted look in his beautiful eyes.

  His face moved ever so slowly closer, making her wonder what this latest mysterious expression meant. That he was falling in love with her, too? Or did he simply intend to kiss her good-night?

  He didn’t leave her wondering for long.

  His lips pressed against hers, gently at first, then more firmly. It felt so good, so right to be in his arms. She read it as a sign that God approved of this relationship; would it feel this wonderful if He didn’t approve?

  Yes, Wade was tall and well muscled, more than capable of taking care of himself. But how was she to explain the way he melted against her, trembling slightly, murmuring softly as his warm breath puffed against her cheek?

  She sensed his vulnerability, and it made her feel strong. Strong enough to risk loving him so completely, so thoroughly that the pain of the past would soon become a distant memory. It didn’t seem quite so scary this time, taking that leap of faith….

  Tenderly, she wove her fingers through his shining waves and gathered him near, inviting him into her heart, into her soul, into her life.

  Chapter Seven

  Gus stared out the window behind Wade’s desk, while beside him, Patrice fidgeted with her purse strap. “What’s taking him so long?” she wondered aloud. “How long could it possibly take to read a few—”

  “Easy, kiddo,” Gus said, laying a hand on her arm. “He put a rush on the test results—something he’ll pay for till this time next year, probably.”

  She met his eyes. “What do you mean, he’ll pay for?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “I heard him on the phone, barking orders at some li’l gal down in the lab. He didn’t go too easy on the fella in radiology, either.” He shook his head. “You’ve worked in this place long enough to understand the pecking order isn’t something to mess with.”

  True enough. For all its medical miracles, Ellicott General had its share of bureaucratic red tape; she’d learned long ago that if she wanted something done, correctly and quickly, a honeyed attitude beat a sour one any day of the week. “Oh, great,” she complained. “I can just see us a month from now, cobwebs hanging from our noses, still sitting here waiting to get your test results.”

  “Sorry, kiddo, I know how you hate to wait.” Gus patted her hand. “And who can blame you. I guess you’ve done more than your fair share of waiting in your lifetime, haven’t you.”

  Patrice hadn’t meant it to sound as though she held Gus responsible for the delay, and started to say so.

  Using a bent forefinger, Gus closed her mouth. “If you had a dollar for every hour you sat alone in cold waiting rooms while your mom and I waited for your brother, you’d be a rich young woman.”

  “I never minded. I was too worried about Timmy to pay much attention to anything else.”

  “I know,” Gus said, smiling. “Which is just one of the thousands of reasons I love you to pieces.”

  “I love you, too.” Which was the only reason she’d spent a good part of the night on her knees, begging God to make sure there’d be nothing serious wrong with her dad. This morning, though achy and drowsy, she’d faced the day with a smile. And why wouldn’t she? God had promised that with faith the size of a mustard seed, she could move mountains, hadn’t He?

  “Okay, out with it,” Gus said.

  She looked up quickly. “Out with what?”

  “What’s eatin’ you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t give me that. You’ve been acting…weird ever since you sat down there.” He grabbed her hand, gave it an affectionate squeeze. “I’m gonna be fine, just fine.” He leaned forward, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You know that, right?”

  Patrice nodded. “Sure, I do.” She smiled. “You’ve been at the top of my prayer list for…forever. Why wouldn’t you be all right!”

  He raised one eyebrow, tucked in one corner of his mouth. “Now, why do I get the feeling my leg’s being pulled?”

  She was uncomfortable when he made any reference to “feeling” in his lower body. Shifting position in the chair, she fiddled with her purse strap some more.

  “Did I ever tell you the story about the carrot, the egg and the coffee bean?”

  Patrice grinned. “Only about a thousand times.”

  He sat back, pretended to be offended. “Okay, then, smarty-pants. Since you know it so well, you tell it to me.”

  Smiling gently, Patrice sighed and told the tale she knew so well. “A teary-eyed young woman went to her father and said, ‘Life is horrible! Everything is always going wrong. It seems the harder I try, the worse things get. What’s the point of even trying!”’

  Gus nodded approvingly. So far, so good, she thought.

  “So her father, a chef, took her by the hand and led her into the kitchen,” Patrice continued, “where he put three pots of water on the stove and started them boiling. After a while, he put raw carrots in one pot, raw eggs into another and coffee beans in the—”

  “Don’t forget,” Gus injected, “how he turned on the gas under each pot….”

  Patrice put a finger over her lips to silence him, and, laughing, proceeded with the fable.

  “Soon, the father took the pots from the stove, cooled them under running water, and asked his daughter to feel the carrots.

  “‘They’re all squishy,’ she said.

  Gus took the part of the father. “‘And the eggs?”’

  Humoring him, Patrice played the daughter. “‘Hard!”’

  “‘What about the coffee beans?”’

  “The daughter peeked into that pot and said, ‘They’ve turned the water a rich, dark brown, and it smells delicious.”’

  “‘So which are you?”’

  “‘I don’t know, Father.”’

  “‘If the boiling water represents life’s hardships,”’ Gus said in a voice two octaves deeper than his own, “‘something in one of the pots represents you. Are you the carrot, who goes into adversity hard…and comes out weak and soft? Or are you like the egg, starting out with a fluid center that turns brittle and rigid when tested by trouble?”’

  Sandwiching her hand between his own, Gus said, “I’ll tell you which you are, Treecie….”

  Patrice knew what he’d say, because he’d said it every time she helped him through a physical trial.

  “You’re the coffee bean, who takes disaster and makes something useful of it.”

  In her mind, there had been no nobility in what she’d done for him. If not for her own immaturity and self-centeredness, he’d be the hale and hearty man he had been before the accident. A sob ached in her throat at the memory of that night….

  “Softie,” Gus said, thinking his words had caused her tears.

  Patrice shook her forefinger at him. “Dad, you know what that story does to me.” Not the truth, exactly, but not a lie, either.

  He gave her a playful shove as she poked around in her purse for a tissue. She laughed. “I’m depending on you to explain to Wade why I’m blubbering like a baby.”

  Pacing just outside the door, Wade tried to screw up the courage to face them. After all these years, shouldn’t it be easier to deliver bad news to patients and their families? he wondered. If not easier, then less awkward, at least. Overhearing that fable and being witness to the closeness of this father and daughter sure hadn’t helped matters.

  He took a deep breath and, tucking Gus’s file under
his arm, walked into the room. “Sorry it took so long,” he said, settling into the high-backed black chair. He laid the folder on his desk, patted it with the palm of his hand.

  Gus shrugged. “Hey, you can’t expect miracles from mere mortals.”

  Almost from the moment he’d finished Gus’s exam, Wade had been doing verbal battle with four hospital departments. But neither calm pleas nor irate shouts had inspired their cooperation, and he knew little more about Gus’s condition now than before he’d arrived. “Maybe not,” he blurted, “but we should be able to expect—” Wade cut himself off mid-sentence. It was important for patients to believe their medical professionals were always operating at the top of their game; to show anger and frustration only proved the opposite.

  “So how soon till we hear something?” Gus asked.

  Stifling a sigh of frustration, Wade ran a hand through his hair. “Two days, three at most, I expect.” He tried a smile.

  “What do we do in the meantime,” Patrice interjected, “about Dad’s fever, his loss of appetite, his insomnia…?”

  “Lots of liquids and NSAIDs,” Wade said. He extended his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Afraid that’s the best I can do until I have a little more concrete evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?” she asked. “Surely you have some idea what’s causing Dad’s problems.”

  Yeah. He did. But to admit it now would only worry them. He tried a wider smile. “It’s really too early to speculate.”

  She held his gaze, her eyes boring hotly into his, as if she expected to find answers to all her questions imprinted on his pupils. Wade looked away—feigned busyness by tidying a stack of papers on his blotter, adjusting the cord, paging through his calendar—because he wasn’t at all sure he could hide his concern from her.

  From his very first patient ever to the one sitting before him, he’d had to work harder than his contemporaries to keep a safe, professional distance. Being driven by emotions instead of cold, hard facts, Wade feared, would cost him the “edge” that allowed him to make choices, state hard facts, do the right thing by those under his care.

  Like it or not, he’d crossed that invisible line on this one, big time. And if he didn’t do something about it, fast, who knew how things would turn out?