A Summer Affair

by Susan Wiggs

  His lack of response didn’t stop Miss Fish-Wooten from talking. Nothing, not even a bullet wound, stopped her from talking. “I used to dream of living in a beautiful house on a hill, with a perfect garden and nannies pushing prams and servants doing the least little thing.” She waited. He was intrigued, but he didn’t want to encourage her. “Then I realized the truth. It takes more than servants and art treasures to make one happy. A person’s happiness is not found in fine things. Do you want to know where it’s found? Of course you do, though you might pretend you don’t.” She paused to draw breath. “I don’t know, either,” she admitted.

  “Then why are you still talking?”

  “Because I’m still trying to determine the answer. Unlike you, I haven’t given up. And unlike you, I believe I’m on the verge of finding the solution. I think it’s in the journey.”

  “This discussion lost its point long ago. I’m leaving. Delta and I have other patients to see.” Blue took the wrapped hair combs from his pocket and tossed them ungraciously on the bed. “Here.”

  “A gift?” Slowly, as though to prolong her anticipation, she unwrapped the parcel. “Oh, Dr. Calhoun—”

  “I thought you might be able to put them to some use.”

  Her face was suffused by happiness. Her eyes were luminous and filled with an emotion he wanted to share. Instead, he stepped away from the bed. Christ, it was just a pair of combs. But her smile as she carefully tucked them into her hair told him what he’d known the moment he’d bought them. It was much more than that.

  Thirteen

  Lucas sat stiffly in a straight-backed chair in his father’s study. Several days had passed since the forbidden card game, and he had dared to think perhaps he would escape punishment. A vain and foolish hope, of course. He’d merely enjoyed a reprieve. Between his private practice and his service to the Rescue League, Father was constantly busy. Lucas used to long for more time with his father, but lately, he counted the absences as a boon. He never missed an opportunity to make the most of his freedom.

  The door to the study opened, then shut with a quiet click. Lucas stood and turned, his posture perfect. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said.

  “Good afternoon. I’ll get right to the point, Lucas—”

  “Sir, I meant no harm. I was merely entertaining a guest.”

  Father sat down at the desk, steepled his fingers and regarded Lucas over the top of them. All his life, Father had seemed like a god to him, huge and blond, overwhelmingly powerful, those clear blue eyes filled with a world of feeling—anger, frustration, sadness—but never contentment. How often had they sat in this posture, Lucas thought, as though locked in silent combat?

  “May I be seated, sir?”

  “Please do. Now, as to the gambling, I don’t believe I need to remind you of my views on the subject. Suffice it to say that I’ve forbidden—”

  “Why?” Lucas couldn’t help himself. His father had a habit of forbidding everything that made life interesting and adventurous. He wanted Lucas to be as controlled and serious as he was.

  “Because it erodes a man’s character. Gambling is driven by greed, and it preys on the vulnerable.”

  “It’s a game. A diversion.”

  “Fine. Then you won’t mind manning the gaming tables at the charity gala for the Rescue League.”

  Lucas was horrified. The prospect of attending a fundraiser was dreary enough. Dealing cards to perfumed old rich ladies would be a special torture. His friends would never let him hear the end of it. But he took one look at his father’s face and knew it was pointless to argue. Lucas had been hoist by his own petard. “Yes, sir.” Defeated, he gripped the arms of the chair. “May I be excused?”

  His father almost smiled. Almost. But there was something icy and forbidding in that almost-smile. “Son, gambling is not the point of this meeting.”

  Lucas blinked, confused. “Sir?”

  “I have to know…what I mean is, what the devil possessed you to bring that woman here?” Father almost never showed his temper. It was contrary to his nature to exhibit any sort of passion at all. The dark flashes of emotion in his eyes startled Lucas. Yet somehow, Lucas sensed the anger was not directed at him.

  “You raised me to show compassion to the wounded and sick. Should I have left her to die in a gardening shed?”

  “Of course not. But good God, Lucas. To bring her into this house, put her in your mother’s room, her bed—”

  “It always comes back to my mother, doesn’t it?” Lucas snapped, finally understanding.

  “It does when you put a stranger in her bed,” his father shot back.

  “My mother doesn’t have a bed.” Lucas knew his reckless honesty might get him in trouble, but he was past caring. “She doesn’t need anything in that room. Yet you keep everything just as it was when she was alive.”

  Father was quiet and still, and a curious distance glazed his blue eyes. “Because I cherish the memory of her,” he said softly.

  “Then remember her in your heart.” Even though his brain knew it was a bad idea, his mouth wouldn’t quit talking. “I’m sorry she died. But she isn’t real to me, Father. How could she be, when I scarcely remember her?” He saw his father wince as though someone had stabbed him between the shoulder blades. Lowering his voice, Lucas added, “I can’t make myself remember her, no matter how much you might want me to. Sir, I meant no disrespect, bringing Miss Isabel to that room.”

  He’d acted out of instinct, at first. Then, when June had questioned him, he’d realized he had a deeper purpose. He had little hope of making his father understand, but oh, how he wanted to. All his life, he’d felt obligated to assure his father that the life they’d made together after his mother died was fine. Yet now that he was older, he was sick of trying—and failing—to bring the light back into his father’s eyes.

  A clean, fierce defiance took hold of Lucas. “I know little about our life with my mother, but I do remember one thing. When she was alive, you were happy. If she were still alive, you’d still be happy. I’m sorry she’s the one who died that day instead of me.”

  For a moment, his father appeared to be drowning in plain air. He seemed unable to take a breath. He went white around the lips, a sign of controlled fury. Then, finally, he summoned up his voice. “By God, don’t you ever say that. Don’t even think it.”

  Lucas stood and paced to the window, looking out through the parted draperies at the distant bay, alive with local ferries and ships bound for ports all over the world. He didn’t acknowledge his father’s agonized command. “I’m nearly grown, Father. I’ll be leaving home in the fall. And so I hoped…” He turned back to face his father. Now the idea sounded silly, but he tried to put it into words anyway. “I thought helping Miss Isabel would…” He gave up, letting his voice trail off. His chest ached. He ached all over. Nothing he said ever came out right.

  His father’s eyes blazed so bright that Lucas nearly flinched. “You can’t simply replace your mother, not in this house, and not in my heart.”

  “I wasn’t trying to replace her,” Lucas snapped. “I was trying to help someone. And I did help her, and now she’s here with us. If you want to punish me again, fine. Punish me. But don’t hurt her by throwing her out.” He couldn’t stand it any more. He glared at his father. “I’ll do as you ask at the charity event. Good day, sir.”

  His son was either a gifted liar or wiser than Blue gave him credit for. The quarrel preoccupied Blue all through the day. Lucas had pointed out something Blue rarely considered—the boy had known his mother only in the simple, concrete manner of a five-year-old child. He couldn’t miss her the way Blue did.

  It was a shock to realize his son was worried about what would become of Blue in the fall, when Lucas went away to complete his education. However, installing a foreigner in Sancha’s room was not the answer. Surely Lucas knew that.

  As to the uninvited guest, Blue felt equally preoccupied with her. He caught himself hurrying through his aftern
oon duties just to get home early. Once there, he rushed halfway up the stairs, then paused at the landing. Good God. He hadn’t raced home from work since—

  A commotion inside Sancha’s room startled him, and he hurried the rest of the way up the stairs.

  Bernadette Riordan opened the door. She was known to be the prettiest housekeeper on the hill, with deep auburn hair and creamy skin, and eyes that danced with humor despite the abuse she’d endured at the hands of the late, unlamented Mr. Riordan. “You’re just in time for the birthday party, Doctor.”

  “What birthday party?” He struggled to appear calm and professional, yet he was breathing hard from rushing.

  “Come in and you’ll see.”

  He stepped into a room he scarcely recognized. Brightly-colored crepe ribbons festooned the ceiling from corner to corner, and the drapes were open to the sunshine. The entire household was assembled around the bed—Mrs. Li and June, Bernadette and Delta, even Efrena, who ordinarily kept to herself.

  “Welcome to my birthday party,” said Miss Fish-Wooten, smiling at him from the bed. “I hope you’ve come to wish me many happy returns of the day.”

  “I’ve come to irrigate your wound,” he said.

  She pantomimed a swoon, fluttering an invisible fan in front of her face. “Is he always this romantic?”

  The others laughed with her. The sound of women laughing was unfamiliar to his ears, and like an ancient and beloved memory, it touched a hidden place inside him.

  He regarded his patient, gamin and bright-eyed, the center of attention. Delta and the others had taken good care of her. She simply shone, from her scrubbed face to her manicured hands to the clean white coverlet that lay across her. Someone had fixed her hair, and the two shiny combs he’d given her held the short locks in place. She wore a proper lady’s bedjacket, its lace collar forming a gossamer scroll across her delicate white throat.

  He knew where the garment had come from. Sancha’s dressing room.

  He waited to feel a blaze of fury. Who the hell did she think she was, sitting like a queen in his wife’s bed, wearing her clothes and surrounding herself with servants?

  But the fury never came, and he wasn’t sure why.

  “We’d best be changing that bandage now,” Delta said, breaking the tense silence that spun out between Blue and his patient.

  The women took their leave of her, each pausing to say goodbye as they cleared away the tea service. Efrena, who had once been Sancha’s best friend and who had traveled home with him from Wyoming, gently patted Miss Fish-Wooten’s hand. “I am honored to meet you,” she said.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Miss Fish-Wooten. She hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “I’ve never had a birthday celebration before.”

  “Never?” June looked shocked.

  “This is my first.” Miss Fish-Wooten beamed. “I feel like a brand-new woman.”

  What sort of person, Blue wondered, never had a birthday? She’d offered few clues about her background, though he recalled her admission that she’d lost her parents at a young age. Then what? he wondered. What had her life been like after that? What had brought her, wounded, into his world?

  This urge to know her confounded him. She was a patient, nothing more, regardless of what his son and the women in his household wanted to make of her.

  She was still smiling after everyone save Delta had left. That smile affected him in such strange and unexpected ways that he stepped away from the bed. He needed to escape the sticky pull of her attraction, needed to clear his mind so that cold reason could prevail.

  With a serene expression on her face, she submitted with her customary stoicism to Delta’s removal of the bandage. He wished the wound looked better than it did. But that was a bullet wound for you. They always became infected. If she’d been hit in an arm or leg, amputation would have been indicated.

  He and Delta held one of their silent conversations about the problem. Other than constant vigilance and a good dose of luck, there was no specific remedy. They cleansed the site with carbolic acid. Miss Fish-Wooten kept talking, though the treatment must have been excruciating. “Everyone has been so wonderful here,” she said. “I feel quite lucky indeed.”

  “Oh, that’s the truth, honey. This whole house is a lucky place,” Delta assured her as she and Blue replaced the bandaging. Although Delta was adept at adhering to conventions of modesty, she did manage to indicate several faint, horizontal marks on the patient’s back.

  “You’ve been hurt before,” Blue said to her.

  She laughed. “Goodness, is there anyone who hasn’t?”

  “There are marks on your back that resemble scars from a whipping.”

  “You must be an excellent physician,” she said. “You’re very observant.”

  “What happened to you, Miss Fish-Wooten?”

  “I’ve had my share of adventures.”

  Delta sent him one of her silent messages: Don’t pry. Then she finished with the bandaging and left the room, leaving Blue alone with Miss Fish-Wooten.

  Despite Delta’s warning, he couldn’t stop thinking about those obscene whitish furrows across his patient’s delicate skin. “Perhaps you were severely disciplined as a child.”

  She was silent for a few seconds. “Perhaps I was.”

  Holding her by the shoulders, he helped her to sit against the pillows. Her silky hair brushed against his cheek. Filling his arms with this woman was a danger to his heart. He knew this, yet still he held her for long moments after he should have let her go and left the room. She smelled of soap and the dried sachets women liked to put amid their bed linens. Her skin glowed with a low-grade fever, but the sparkle in her eyes came from another source. There was a fullness to her lips that drew him, reminding him that he was not nearly so controlled and jaded as the face he presented to the world. He almost kissed her, almost tasted those lips, almost trusted the promise in her smile. Then a cold reminder surfaced.

  “You don’t like surrendering information about yourself,” he commented, stepping back, finally in control of the mad impulse that had nearly seized him.

  “That makes two of us, Doctor.”

  She had him there.

  “The fact is,” she said, “I don’t find myself very interesting. There’s a whole world to explore—that’s what fascinates me. I am happiest when I travel. When I stop, I get in trouble.”

  “Now that I can believe.”

  “I love the idea of constantly seeking something. And so long as I am seeking, I am content.”

  Though he would never admit it, he not only understood but agreed with her. He, too, was a seeker, though not in the sense of Isabel Fish-Wooten, wandering the world, looking for adventure, or happiness, as she implied. He sought answers to problems, cures for his patients, healing for the wounded. The constant quest kept him too busy to bother with contentment.

  “Do you want to know what I’m looking for?” she inquired. “I’d wager you do, although you are loath to admit it. I’m looking for my next destination. I had hoped to go to the Hawaiian Islands, to see what the South Pacific is like. Have you ever been there?”

  “No,” he said. “Some of my seafaring patients have traveled there.” They’d brought back wondrous reports of the tropical islands, with lava mountains draped in lush greenery and wild orchids, home to natives as mysterious as the stars in the sky. But he couldn’t imagine going all the way to the South Pacific to see it for himself.

  “Have you ever been anywhere? Do you never feel the urge to travel and see the world?” she asked.

  “I’ve seen plenty.” Turning away from her, he glared at the window. There was no need to travel in order to see what the world had to offer. He’d seen battlefields strewn with the bodies of young men, babies being born, sick people getting well. He didn’t have to go far to know the things the world offered. “Other than a yearly trip to my family’s home on the coast, I haven’t left the city in a decade. My life is here, and here it stays.�
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  “A decade. That’s ten years.”

  He turned back to face her. “Ah, you’re clever, as well.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic to a bedridden woman. I might have a relapse.”

  The idea of her extending her stay here bothered him more than he wanted to admit. “I forbid you to have a relapse.”

  She laughed. Laughed. Since he’d returned from Wyoming, there had not been such laughter in his house.

  “How could you possibly stay in one place for ten years?” she asked, her mirth subsiding gradually, like a fading melody.

  “I have a son to raise, a medical practice to maintain. I am medical director of an extremely busy charity league. I’ve no time to do anything else.”

  “You could find the time.”

  “I don’t choose to. There are those who live their entire lives never venturing beyond the radius of a single town or farm, and they are perfectly content. It’s more common than you think.”

  “What, contentment?” She sniffed. “Not around here.” She took a small, leather-bound book from the drawer of the bedside table. “Lucas brought me this. He thought it would ease my boredom.”

  The thought of Lucas constantly visiting Miss Fish-Wooten unsettled Blue. However, forbidding the boy to see their guest would only make Lucas more determined to visit her.

  Blue picked up the book. From the Earth to the Moon, by Jules Verne. Abigail Calhoun, his cousin-by-marriage, had sent it as a gift to Lucas. The story was a fanciful adventure, with no value that Blue could see.

  “I’ve heard it said that there is a whole world inside a book,” Miss Fish-Wooten declared. “But reading doesn’t satisfy my curiosity at all. It only piques it.”

  She was so easy to disagree with, he thought. “On the contrary, an excellent book makes the actual experience superfluous,” he stated. “It’s possible to go to Timbuktu and back, never leaving the comfort of one’s chair by the fire.”