by T. Ainsworth
That night Morgan knew he’d run into Janie and hoped to avoid her as long as he could. But when he saw her talking to a brunette in a sculpted evening dress, he realized it was Caroline Pruitt and immediately changed his mind. He went over to say hello.
“Janie Bonwitt…Hi!”
“Ooo! Wes Morgan! Look at you in your tuxedo! I hoped I’d see you!” she beamed. “Give me a kiss!”
He pecked a cheek. As he tasted her makeup, perfume engulfed him. Her usual fawning began instantly.
“How are you? You look wonderful! Staying so trim! I don’t know how he does it…” Bonwitt said to Pruitt without introducing her. “He works all the time, and still finds time to run.” Janie tugged Morgan’s jacket sleeve. “You did the Chicago marathon last month, if I remember. Ooo…tied up the streets…”
“Janie, I didn’t run the—”
“Ooo! You know Cay! I know you’ve met!”
Caroline Pruitt gave Bonwitt a disapproving wince. When Morgan saw her blue eyes, an electric sensation sped through him.
“Sorry—Caroline,” Janie corrected herself while placing Pruitt’s hand in his. “Must be formal at parties! I’m so glad…”
“Good to see you again, Dr. Morgan.” A waft of spicy jasmine arrived.
“Please. Call me Wes.”
He could only hope.
“Caroline’s from Virginia!” said Janie.
“Originally.” As Caroline began to speak the delicate chain of diamonds around her neck caught the light and flashed like fireflies. “But I’ve been—”
“Ooo! Caroline lived in New York and then…moved here! Last January!” Bonwitt’s flowing gab grew more excited. “Survived her first winter! So now she’s truly a native!”
“How did you meet?” Speaking directly at Caroline, Morgan forced the question into Janie’s river of words.
“Oh, what a great story!” Bonwitt began. “First, at a project on the North Side! Her firm did the outside, and mine…the inside! Then, can you believe it…we met again because of your hospital! Girlfriends ever since! Teaching me Southern charm!”
Pruitt’s smile never changed. Morgan watched as she finished her final drops of champagne and studied the bottom of the flute with a hopeful look that suggested a desire for a refill. All the while Janie kept talking, touching their arms over and over to make certain they were listening, and looking at each other.
“Cay, dearie…maybe if I learn to say y’all I’ll snag another husband who—”
“Janie, honey…” Caroline gently waved her empty glass so she could see it. “I’ve got a hospital design question for Wes. Would you be sweet and get us both more champagne?”
Bonwitt grinned. “Oh, I’d love to! Be right back…don’t go anywhere.” Stepping away, she was instantly sidetracked into another conversation.
“I’m exhausted,” Caroline sighed. Whenever she spoke, her voice was lyrical. “Janie’s a dear but chatters a blue streak after only one glass. She gets worse with more.”
“Believe me, I know,” he said. “I’ve been out to dinner with her and her friends more than once.”
Caroline looked around then smiled. “I doubt she’s coming back.”
“Like another glass?” he asked hopefully.
“Love one.”
He waved a waiter over who was carrying a fresh tray of champagne. Morgan removed two flutes.
“Thank you,” Caroline said, taking a generous swallow.
As her head tipped back slightly, Morgan caught a glance of her hair swept high above her neck. Their eyes aligned for only a moment before Caroline subtly launched a stern No Trespassing warning to an approaching man off to Morgan’s side. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the man turn away.
“So…how did Janie find you?” she asked unaffected.
He casually altered his stance so as not to call attention to the interaction he had just witnessed. Morgan had a strong suspicion there was more than just a sociable connection between Caroline and the man.
“For years,” he replied, “she’s chaired the board that puts this thing on.” Caroline’s eyes didn’t waver from his face. “So she gets a list of all the new staff doctors…then hits them up for money.” He laughed. “Usually they could use better furniture too. One visit is all she needs.”
“She’s very good at that,” Caroline nodded with a warm smile. Even her most subtle movements distracted him. “And you fell prey?”
“Yes…The same way.” He was really struggling to continue the story. “When I finished my fellowship, I bought a townhouse in Lincoln Park. The day I moved in, Janie double-parked her Mercedes behind my U-Haul, presented herself at the door…said we’d already met. Before I said I don’t think so, she started doing inventory. Of course, none of it’s suitable for the address…and…”
Amused, Caroline turned slightly to one side. Morgan again restrained his desire to look down at her figure.
“Sorry…what was I saying?” he asked.
“You were a victim,” she helped.
“Forty-five thousand bucks later…”
“That sounds about right.” Caroline nodded. “She did my place too.”
He grinned, his mind in a frenzy searching for a way to get her to linger, hoping the man she had made eye contact with wasn’t circling behind him. Morgan thought it unlikely Janie was her date for the night.
“You know,” he said as the fresh champagne swam in his head, “until your tour, the only thing I knew about architecture was how to build an outhouse. When I was a kid I helped a friend make one for his grandfather’s farm.”
“How lovely…” Pruitt elevated the glass to her lips.
“I cut a crescent moon in the door.” When he saw her lips glisten with a twitch, he realized his banal remark had probably guillotined the rest of their conversation.
She sipped again. “Was it for one or two users?”
“Are you kidding?”
“With your familiarity of the subject, I’m curious.” Her expression became devious. “My firm’s working on a privy design with air-conditioning, a sink, and TV. So with your experience…I’m just wondering…should we add in that option?”
“Really?” Morgan’s forehead grew warm. “Two seats?”
“No.” The champagne glass hid a smirk. “You were so serious though…”
He felt his cheeks blossom red. “Just getting my general ignorance out of the way,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Good idea,” was her deadpan reply.
He drew a long breath to recompose before opening his mouth again.
“So…at the risk of treading deeper into your waters,” he said, pointing to the model of the hospital nearby, “want to tell me more…about this?”
White-gloved ushers tapped dinner chimes.
Rattled, he said, “Later…maybe?”
“Maybe…” she replied.
“Do you mind if I walk you in?” he asked, almost frantic.
“I’d like that.” She took his arm. “Table three please, sir.”
“No kidding! Me too!” He had to ask: “Is anyone joining you?”
“I believe…” Caroline’s clasp grew firm. “A Dr. Wesley Morgan.”
“Fantastic!” he said, amazed and pleased by the splendid coincidence. He’d do whatever he could to keep from screwing up the rest of the evening, and agonize over outhouses later. Walking arm-in-arm, Morgan paused at the silent auction tables.
“I think it’s around here…” he said, his eyes searching until he found what he was looking for. “Give me a second.” He slipped from her grasp, writing his name and phone number on the card for one of the items.
Saying nothing, Caroline watched.
“Bears tickets,” he said with a shrug, knowing his intent was obvious. “Excuse to get me out of the hospital. You like football?”
“Why would you presume that?” she asked.
“Being from the South and all, I thought…”
She produced an enthrall
ing smile. “Football is sacred. Yes, I like it.”
“Remind me to keep bidding,” he said with a grin.
The couple continued toward the stock exchange ballroom, deflecting ubiquitous stares.
“Doctor!”
Morgan turned.
“A picture of you both!”
A flash.
“Cheese! Again!”
The photographer clicked the shutter long after the usual two photos.
“You’re a fabulous-looking pair! Your wife is beautiful.”
Morgan laughed awkwardly.
“Thank you,” they said together.
“Onward.” Caroline squeezed his arm. “Time to schmooze the high rollers. We’ve got a hospital to build.”
Seated for only moments, Morgan heard his name and was back up, being recognized from the dais. When the architects were introduced, Caroline rose with her colleagues. Every eye in the room came to her.
Finally, they sat down.
Waiters poured wine while others dressed the salads. A plate of rolls circled the table.
“To dinner with eight strangers,” he toasted, pleased they were together.
“Not us,” she countered.
Her words tantalized him.
His fork went up and down only once. The salad would have to wait. Ross Merrimac and his wife, Shandra, were on their way to say hello.
As Morgan rose to greet the couple, Shandra’s necklace caught his attention. The elegant but simple liquid gold strands always adorned her long neck, even when Morgan dined at their home. Once, he asked Ross the significance. “A present for my queen…” Merrimac hugged his wife. “For the gift of a son…”
“So, Wes,” said Ross, “I see you and Ms. Pruitt have become better acquainted.”
Morgan swore his boss winked at her.
For days following the hospital tour, Merrimac had heard little from his star surgeon about the building’s design but everything about the woman he had met. There was little Ross could do but nod and listen. Jane Bonwitt had already called, assigning him the sole mission of getting Morgan to the Art Institute without a date. She would arrange the rest.
“Dr. Merrimac,” Caroline began, “how’s the transplant program coming together?”
“Well,” he replied, “I think we’re ready to go. Your building will just give it a permanent home.”
Caroline gave a gracious smile. “What an accomplishment for your department!”
“Kind words, Ms. Pruitt,” said Shandra. “However, Ross tells me all the real work’s been done by Wes.”
Morgan was blindsided by the compliment.
“Ross is eternally glad he came aboard.” She leaned toward Caroline and said, “Says Wes is the best there is.”
“So I’ve been told.” Caroline gently touched his arm.
Morgan was taken aback by her apparent interest in his work—and him.
Ross winked again at them. “Got to press more flesh. Enjoy the night. Party on!”
The Merrimacs headed away.
“Caroline…” He still wasn’t blinking. “Thank you.”
“Word gets around.”
“At this point that may not be good.”
Morgan’s professional reputation was stellar, his personal one perhaps not so much. He wasn’t confident what Caroline might have heard, but if she knew Janie, no secret was safe. With Caroline’s fortuitous companionship, his past was abruptly haunting him. All he could hope for was that she enjoyed his company enough to see him again—that her present behavior wasn’t just Southern politeness.
After suffering several more interruptions at their table and speeches from the podium, the guests in the room settled down to enjoy the meal.
Once the rhythm of the conversations blended, Morgan asked Caroline, “Do you miss New York?”
“I lived there about four years.” A slight shake of her head suggested she was editing the answer. “No, I don’t…though I have to keep going back.”
“Work?” Morgan hoped he was right.
“My firm’s developing a full-service clinic in the city. Call it community outreach.” She smiled directly at him. “For Downs kids. I’m in charge of the project.”
“That’s incredible!”
He sat back in disbelief, elated that they shared that common interest. Many of his little patients were Downs; one unfortunate consequence of the syndrome was that they were often born with heart defects.
“The original children’s hospital here was named in honor of Willis Potts,” Morgan began, “because he was one of the first surgeons who figured out an operation to keep those kids alive.” A knowledgeable smile followed a quick grimace. “It was a major thing back then, but like everything else in surgery, it’s all changed—the techniques, anesthesia, the bypass pump.”
He paused, assessing Caroline’s face for cues of boredom. Relieved when the slight forward motion of her head toward him suggested she was waiting for more, he said, “Today, we operate on all sorts of problems—and they’re routine…I suppose. After years of training, it becomes intuitive. In the OR I guess I get in a zone, and my fingers know what to do. Does that sound odd?”
“Not at all,” Caroline said, slowly gliding her palm down the length of her arm to her wrist.
As he watched, Morgan felt his own arm tingling. There were so many things other than surgery he wanted to talk about with her.
“How did you get interested in Downs?” he asked. His heart was pounding.
“A really dear friend has a little boy…just a sweetie…wants to grow up and get a job chasing butterflies.” Her napkin wiped a tear. “So I jumped at the opportunity…What a blessing!”
“I understand completely,” he said, realizing he’d been listening intently—that appreciating her for just her looks was long departed.
“Wes…Can I ask you something?”
“I hope so.”
Caroline put down her fork.
“I guess it’s just natural to love babies…” Her eyes became shiny again. “How do you deal with it when they’re that innocent?”
“That’s…a tough question.” His lips curled up as he released a muted whistle. “They’re angels…dealt a bad hand. Guess I want to help them.”
“Does it scare you?”
“You mean operating on them?” he asked. “Surgeons never think about that.” He smiled. “We’re trained to make decisions…Rules our persona. I’ll tell you, though…The kids are braver than I am.”
He never confided this way to anyone—but Caroline was drawing it out. He wanted to tell her.
“Most of the time, whatever you throw at them, they get better.”
Caroline’s eyes remained focused on his face.
“It’s tough when they don’t do well…and very humbling.” He confessed more. “I’d go to the ends of the earth for them. Stay up all night…Whatever it takes. They make me understand what caring truly means.” He laughed self-consciously. “Did you really want to hear all this introspection?”
Caroline’s hand had been resting on his the entire time. She nodded gently. “Thanks for telling me.”
“You’re welcome.” Morgan smiled. “That wasn’t easy. How’d you get that out of me?” he said, staring at her beautiful face. “Surgeons are supposed to swagger. Please don’t let anyone know.”
A manicured finger came to rest on her puckered lips. “Confidentiality assured,” Caroline said.
He glanced across the table at the elegant white-haired woman named Anne they had met earlier. She smiled and nodded knowingly as if she could hear their words.
“So let me ask you this…” Morgan said, returning his attention to Caroline. “Architecture…Why?”
“Perhaps the same reason you’re a surgeon,” she replied. Seeing his quizzical look, Caroline added, “Science and art together. Isn’t that like surgery?”
The hairs on his neck tingled.
“Research, planning, and implementation…” she said.
�
�Neither field,” Morgan finished her thought, “accepts conformity. Only how to improve on what’s already been done.”
“That’s right,” said Caroline, now sliding her hand affectionately down his arm.
The woman across from them smiled again.
Nibbling their way through dessert, they heard the band start up again. Caroline stroked his wrist.
“Wes…maybe…” She hesitated. “Would you…like to dance?”
“You are trying to make me self-conscious. My last dance lessons were in college,” he confided, but hearing the quick downbeat he would dance with her even if his feet didn’t comply. She wanted to—and so did he. “Hope I don’t embarrass you.”
“Not to worry,” she countered with a playful smile. “No one will watch.”
“Right.” His eyebrows rose while his lips curled. “All you have to do is stand up.” He gave her his hand.
On the dance floor, as he took her into his arms face to face, Morgan saw heads turn. The couple was impossible to miss. Caroline was taller than the other women he had known, and Morgan stood several inches above her. Looking into her eyes, he saw unhidden playfulness. She was enjoying this.
The music began again…and became faster. As their momentum grew, the candles and lights in the room became a blurred halo. He felt alone with her—and weightless.
The music finally slowed.
Locking his hands behind her waist, Morgan brought her close and smelled her warm skin through the perfume.