The ocean blurred, her skin flushed with heat, and her pulse jittered, forcing her to let go of the threatening tears. To stop fighting and release them before she choked and drowned on them. It had been a long time since she’d cried, and they pricked and stung the insides of her eyelids. She buried her face in the bend of her arm, smothering the sudden keening sounds ripping at her throat, thankful the screeching seagulls overpowered her mourning.
*
Wesley took a break from his demanding workout routine and peered out the upstairs window, not believing what he was seeing. Heath, his groundskeeper, directed Mary as she backed a tiny portable wood-covered house, complete with porch—if you could call that a porch—onto the graveled ground beside his unattached garage. So that’s how she’d taken care of living arrangements. She drove the pickup truck like a pro, threw it into park and jumped out to check her handiwork. Clearly satisfied with the parking job, she dusted her hands and went about releasing the house from the towing hitch.
This wasn’t her first time at that rodeo.
His guess was that the RV-sized house couldn’t be more than two hundred square feet, tops. Sure, Mary was petite, no more than five-three and a hundred and ten pounds wringing wet, but it had to be snug in there. Why would she want to live like that for two months?
She smiled, and from all the way upstairs he could see the self-satisfaction in her expression. Determination had always been her saving grace, and he’d admired it. Until just now when she’d trained her grit on him and weaseled her way back into his life. He didn’t need anyone—didn’t his family get it? He shook his head, frustrated yet amused. That same tenacity had always been the key to her survival. Could he fault her for not letting him send her away?
He moved further into his gym and grabbed some free weights.
Mary had gotten a lousy start with her parents stumbling their way through life, blaming everyone and everything else on their failings, rather than taking a good look at themselves. Fortunately, she hadn’t picked up their lax habits. In fact, she’d done exactly the opposite—she’d taken a long look at her parents and had become convinced she could do better for herself. Then she’d set out to prove it. And prove it she had. She held a doctorate degree. Could work anywhere she wanted. And at this point in time she’d chosen to work here. Lucky him.
When Alexandra had first brought her home, Mary had been scrawny and had worn clothes from thrift shops. They’d been assigned to work on a science project together, and instead of judging Mary on her appearance Alex had been raised to be open-minded. She’d treated Mary like all of her other friends, though those friends had all been rich. Without passing judgment, Alexandra had quickly zeroed in on how bright Mary was—beyond how nice and sweet she was—and their team project had taken first place. She’d also realized that Mary couldn’t always depend on meals at home so she’d quickly become a regular guest for meals at the Van Allen house. Soon Mary had become best friends with his big-hearted sister.
Back then, he’d also been taken in by Mary’s upbeat spirit, and secretly by her waist-long strawberry blonde hair, which she wore only shoulder length these days. Her shining inquisitive green eyes had stood out like a newly discovered gem in a household of brown-eyed people, and he’d been drawn to her from their very first meeting. Plus, he’d seen something else in that wide and intelligent stare of hers—admiration. Admiration for him. He’d enjoyed knowing his sister’s new best friend had a huge crush on him, accepted it with pride, even fed that crush from time to time.
But she’d been innocent and vulnerable and, with parents like hers, hungry for love and attention. With a father like his, who had unwavering expectations for him, well, Wes had been wise enough to play gently with Mary’s heart by keeping her at arm’s length, knowing his future would take a far different direction from hers. Still, selfish eighteen-year-old that he’d been, he’d strung her along, given her enough attention to keep her hopeful.
Damn, he’d been mean even then. Or careless? Egotistical for sure. Hadn’t the Prince of Westwood been his family nickname? Especially the one time he’d slipped up and let his—what should he call it—curiosity or desire get the better of him.
Long before everyone had had a cell phone—especially kids like Mary—and social media had taken hold of the entire world, she’d appeared on their doorstep, breathless and excited. Alexandra hadn’t been home—come to think of it, no one else had been either—but he’d invited her in anyway. When he’d seen her disappointment at not having Alex to share her great news with, he’d offered to listen and to deliver the information personally to his kid sister.
Mary had made the principal’s list, which would ensure she’d be able to continue on at the Magnet school for the next year. She’d only been admitted the prior year on that contingency, and because, like most private schools, the school held a certain number of slots for marginal teens like her. Her joy had been contagious and swept up by her beaming smile—the same one she’d tried to flash at him just minutes earlier in his entryway—he’d let down his usual barriers where Mary had been concerned, crossed the line and kissed her.
What had started out as a congratulatory kiss had soon changed into one packed with typical teenage male need and longing that he’d kept hidden since the first day he’d met her. And she’d been a very active participant in that kiss, a kiss so heady he remembered it clearly to this day. If his mother arriving home from her charity meeting hadn’t abruptly broken things up, being young and driven by hormones, not to mention dumb enough to let desire take over back then, who knew what might have happened?
He traded in the first weights and lifted two heavier weights and began vigorously trading repetitions, like a locomotion locked in place.
He’d always been lucky that way, saved from his wandering, kept on the straight and narrow if not by himself then by outside forces, especially by his father, because he was meant to be a doctor. And not just any doctor, a neurosurgeon. He’d planned his entire life around it, and a young, pretty and fresh face like Mary’s couldn’t get in the way. Yes, his parents were open-minded about many things, but getting mixed up with a girl literally from the wrong side of the tracks would never have been tolerated by dear old Dad. Alexandra having Mary as a friend had proved to be charitable enough for the Van Allen family.
Until her prom two years later. When no one had invited Mary the first week after the school prom kick-off announcement, Alexandra had begged Wesley to invite her. He’d fought it at first, knowing there had to be several guys who’d love to take a girl like Mary, unless they were snooty and let her being poor get in the way of good taste. By the end of week two Alexandra had gotten her mother involved, and what had seemed beneath him as a twenty-year-old university student had been foisted on him. Two-three years older than all the others attending, he’d been volunteered to take Mary to the prom.
If he’d let himself look deep down, he wouldn’t have been able to deny he still had vague feelings for her. He’d become a sophisticated pre-med student and a seventeen-year-old woman was not only jail bait but socially undesirable. The Prince of Westwood had taken her to the prom anyway, just so his family could wear the “aren’t we good people” badge.
His worldly-wise self hadn’t expected to be knocked off his feet when he’d seen Mary that night in the dress his mother had bought. Not as pricey or special as Alexandra’s dress, of course, but perfectly suited to her. His conscience had been dealt its first blow when he’d picked her up at the ratty mobile home park she’d lived in, her parents not even bothering to make an appearance. Maybe they’d been embarrassed? Regardless, he’d taken Mary back to his house where Alexandra and her friends had waited to take before-prom pictures, wondering how such a lovely flower had grown in such bleak surroundings.
Then he’d spent the entire evening keeping her at arm’s length, being a boorish cosmopolitan-minded university man, The Prince of Westwood lecturing her on making something of her life. Explaining to her
how insignificant something like a high school prom registered in the course of a lifetime. So why was he still thinking about it now?
While on his soapbox that night, he’d warned her about guys—like himself—who’d love to take advantage of her.
So wise. So stupid. So moved by her poverty. So protective of her. Out of obligation, he’d asked her to dance and when holding her he’d made the mistake of looking into those eyes, a shade darker than her pastel green dress. Innocent and beautiful and calling out to his soul. To love her.
He’d known he couldn’t. He hadn’t been nearly enough of a man to risk that. When he’d taken her home, out of gratitude she’d thrown her arms around his neck, and he’d nearly kissed her the way he’d wanted to all evening. But he’d known it would change everything if he did, and he couldn’t stray from his calling. Nothing could keep him from medical school, and surely getting involved with a girl like Mary would change his life. For the better? Who knew?
How pompous he’d been, lecturing her on making something of her life. To do it for herself because no one else could.
He stopped the repetitions and stared out the gym window down to where her crazy little house stood.
Wes had seen the disappointment in Mary’s gaze after their chaste kiss the night of the prom, yet her sweetness had remained. She’d dutifully thanked him and promised not to let him down, playing her “kid sister” role perfectly. Before he’d left, he’d told her how beautiful she looked and even in the dark of night she’d beamed. So princely. Such power. All the more reason to save her from him. Yet he’d walked away wondering who between them had the most power over the other and sure he’d left a piece of his heart behind. Forever.
The least he could do was let her share her expertise with him now. Who knew, he might learn something, and if that helped his recovery and goal to get back to work again, it would be worth all of these memories bombarding him about his unwanted guest.
He’d had enough of the free weights and trained his sight across the room, out of that blasted window…to her house.
Returning to university that next afternoon, it had been easy to brush the moment—their special night—under the table and move on. Not really, but he’d worked at it at least. Truth was he’d carried those memories around with him for a decade until they’d been replaced with an amazing kiss they’d shared at his sister’s wedding several years later.
He rolled under the pull-up bar and grabbed hold, lifting himself out of the wheelchair, pressing his chin to the bar, over and over, until sweat rolled down his temples and his arms trembled.
Still on the fast track to success back then, he’d been about to become engaged to Giselle, a young woman of his social standing, with all the proper credentials and diplomas to be a rich doctor’s wife and a doctor herself. Plus she’d been vetted by dear old Dad. Yes, the decision had been cold and calculated, but it fit in with his future. To this day, long after his engagement had fallen apart, his medical practice had taken off and his bank account had doubled—but what did success matter anymore?—he’d recalled that champagne-inspired kiss he’d shared with Mary at Alexandra’s wedding with a longing smile.
He let go of the bar and landed with a plop in his waiting wheelchair—his special, no-choice buddy for the rest of his life—remembering the night of his sister’s wedding.
Mary had changed at twenty-four. She’d become a woman who knew herself and how to tempt a man. She’d taken control of her life just like she’d promised the night of the prom, and she’d radiated confidence and inner peace because of it. Always reaching for that next step on his ladder to the pinnacle, Wes had wanted that. A taste of her secret recipe for contentment. She’d also happened to look amazing in the strapless maid-of-honor dress. It had been ice blue, he vividly recalled, enough to make him smile.
A forgotten sensation tickled down his spine until it reached the location of his spinal cord injury and stopped. He glanced out the window again, watching her sweep her tiny porch as he experienced phantom tingles in his toes. What was that about? Maybe he’d pulled something during his workout?
He’d always known Mary deserved a family of her making, a place to call home. A shot with a decent guy. He’d also had the wisdom to know that they were never meant to be together, so he’d never followed through on his “what if” thoughts. BP—before paraplegia. Useless, silly thoughts, meant only for thinking, savoring even, but never acting on. Until it was too late… AP—after paraplegia.
He wiped his face with the towel, searching the room for another form of man-against-machine torture to take his mind off these wandering thoughts. What was the point? He chose the cable machine, first lowering the sides of his specially made workout wheelchair, then grabbing the bar to begin a series of triceps cable extensions.
Was this how she lived now? Dragging her mini-house with her everywhere she went like a mega-sized backpack? What kind of vagabond life was that for a woman like Mary? She’d been raised in a trailer park by inattentive parents. He’d always pegged her as a girl who wanted to set down roots, who wanted a family more than anything else in the world, the kind she deserved, not the one she’d been born into. Though he could never picture a guy worthy of her, he’d still imagined her settling down, raising children. Now, apparently, she traveled the country alone. In that thing. A house suited more for a mouse.
The irony didn’t take long to sink in about him wondering about what kind of life she led. Take a look at yourself. More money than one person could ever use, living alone in a fortress made of the latest building materials, a ten-million-dollar view of the Pacific Ocean out his front door, yet completely alone.
The last thing he needed to do was examine his own situation. Nope, he was determined to ignore that.
He shook his head. He wasn’t ready to think about the AP future. Not after failing miserably when he’d tried to go back to work prematurely three months ago. How the humiliation had burned like a branding iron when his department head had suggested he’d come back too soon, telling him to take more time off to get a better handle on balancing his demanding job with being in a wheelchair.
His father’s words to live by had infused his way of thinking. Failure is not an option.
The problem was, he already had. Failed. Big time.
He glanced out the window again, catching sight of the back of Mary as she pushed into her doll house.
One finger skimmed the area on his cheek where she’d bussed him when she’d first entered his house. He hadn’t had the chance to dodge it. Oddly enough, her touch had produced a sweet warm feeling, as she always had for him, and had unleashed his wrath for catching him off guard, for daring to make him feel something. Because these days he, like his legs, refused to feel a thing, other than pain from working out too hard and too long. Which he believed was strength. As crazy as it seemed, physical pain reminded him he was still alive, not locked away by his own choice in this castle by the sea.
He guided his top-of-the-line workout wheelchair down the hall, past the specially built elevator to his bedroom, where he would have slammed the damn door if he could’ve only figured out how to get the right amount of leverage to do it.
This was his truth now. He was a guy stuck in a chair.
*
Mary went about the business of settling her home after another long journey. For the last two years and over a half-dozen moves, she’d lived in the tiny house she’d helped design and for which she’d paid cash. Another lesson she’d learned inadvertently from her parents.
She’d chosen to bring her house along with her wherever she got assigned, rather than stay in cold, short-term rentals or soulless extended-stay hotels. This was home. She’d carefully chosen the floor plan to meet her every need, yet using the smallest amount of space necessary. That had turned out to be two hundred and fifty square feet. She’d gone the woodsy cabin route, yet the repurposed materials they’d used to build the house were surprisingly light, making it easy to travel,
as long as she was willing to drive a pickup truck. Which had cost nearly as much as the house!
Her living room space came complete with a large enough mounted flat-screen TV. The kitchen had been a bit trickier, yet she’d made it state-of-the-art enough to make do, since she enjoyed cooking. She’d settled for a two-burner gas stove, minimal counter space but with a built-in table that folded down and opened up when it was time to eat or if she needed a place to knead bread dough or cut out cookies. The half-sized refrigerator kept her eating fresher and healthier, since she didn’t have much storage. Yes, the kitchen sink had to double up for face-washing and tooth-brushing, but for payoff she’d managed a nearly full-sized shower, with a stackable mini-washer/drier nearby and a petite toilet, all at the back of the ground-floor living space.
She chuckled, thinking of her mini-house as two stories, but her favorite spot in the entire tiny house was her loft bedroom. That counted as a story, didn’t it? Plus, the permanent wood ladder she needed to climb to get to the loft doubled as a small A-framed bookcase downstairs. No space went to waste, and she liked living like that. Unlike the ratty tin and Formica filled trailer she’d been raised in, this was truly a home. Cozy. Warm. Filled with life. Her life.
She might not be able to stand up straight in her bedroom but, whichever city she set the house up in, each morning she could peer out of the small “second story” window at the head of her bed to greet the day. The view changed often, and so far she liked it that way. This time, she had the luxury of parking on Wesley’s grand Malibu estate, and she was guaranteed to see the ocean first thing every sunrise. If she hadn’t been so depressed about seeing him, she’d be excited about living here for the next two months. What she needed was a serious attitude adjustment.
She sat on the long pillowed and comfy couch, which doubled as a storage bench, with a cup of tea, and thought about Wesley. His situation broke her heart and she’d proved it with her meltdown on his doorstep earlier. He’d always been her hero, the guy with the world at his fingertips. The Prince of Westwood! Invincible. He’d made her want to be better than who she was, to build a dream then follow it to the end. Because of him, she’d pursued a doctorate after her post-graduate P.T. degree. She took a sip of hot black tea, thinking of his intelligent eyes, hers welling up again as her heart pinched.
Miracle for the Neurosurgeon Page 2