Taking Chances

by Taylor, Janelle

  David wasn’t the only man she’d known like that. In the old days, a southern girl was taught to be a lady and to look her best at all times; she was expected to marry, have children, be a homemaker, to put her family’s needs and desires above her own and to have the highest morals. She was fortunate she had gotten to attend college and to train for a job she loved; all women, she now felt, should be prepared to support themselves. She considered herself a liberated female, but it had taken David’s death to enlighten her.

  Her two closest friends kept saying she should go out on dates, with the intention of finding another man with whom to settle down. Even they, much as she loved them, believed a woman needed a man in her life to be fulfilled. But she had learned the vast difference between being alone and being lonely, in being dependent and being a partner, in being a person of her own and a man’s shadow. After spending fifteen months in freedom, a second marriage was not appealing yet. Nor had romance been enticing so far. To be honest, she had lost interest in sex long ago when David began treating it as part of his job and her as an employee. The time came when he always seemed to be gone, either in body or spirit. She had given up trying to regain his attention in and out of bed. “Tricks” and suggestions in advice books and on television programs failed to work on him; her attempts and defeats began to make her feel silly, awkward, undesirable, and even wanton on occasion. She had settled into limbo and concentrated on her home, children, grandchildren, and invalid mother.

  Then her mother died, her oldest daughter and family moved overseas, David was killed in a car wreck, her son and family were transferred to Denver, and Katie— admittedly the apple of her eye— quit the local college and moved to Los Angeles to begin a career. She didn’t want to move in with or too near any of her children as they had lives of their own and also needed privacy. Once she’d overcome the fear and shock of David’s death, she’d known what she wanted: to return to medical research, to have her own friends, and to enjoy her family and the rest of her life. Then today, she had met a man who evoked feelings she didn’t know she had or could experience, and she was afraid to explore them.

  If Elaine and Betty could see you now, alone with a man like him … She could imagine what they would advise: go after him if only for a good time. They would stress how hard it was to find a good, free man these days. But the sexy doctor might not be available, or interested. If he were, she could become just as swallowed up by and lost in him as she had been with David, something she didn’t want to endure again. Get well and get out, and behave yourself until you’re gone.

  Kirstin returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table.

  Christopher glanced at her, but she was looking the other way. She had been gone a long time and he wondered if she was nervous in his home and regretting her decision. “Ham sandwiches, carrots, fruit, and milk all right with you?” he asked, having already taken those items from the refrigerator. “It covers your meal plan according to Dr. Cooper’s fax.”

  “Sounds marvelous. You sure I can’t help? It feels so strange to be waited on like this, especially by a man.”

  That statement told Christopher it was a new experience for her, and it pleased him. He hadn’t done much of it in the past, but he’d heard and read that women liked being pampered. In an odd way, it felt good to him, too, with Kirstin. “Just relax and I’ll serve you this time. Later you can wait on me,” he said with undisguised humor.

  She allowed her gaze to wander over him from the rear while he worked at the counter. He was wearing well-worn cowboy boots. His faded jeans were snug and his long-sleeved blue shirt was fitted, both garments tight enough to evince an excellent physique that spread a curious warmth over her again. There was only a smidgen of silver at his temples, and she decided it would be a long time before his black hair turned gray. Her own tresses were a glorious tawny hue, thanks to her beautician and a bottle of magic. She liked this modern style Amy had suggested, almost forced her to try, she recalled with a smile. It did, as promised, make her look younger and more attractive. So did the cosmetic makeover and wardrobe changes her friends in Augusta had persuaded her to splurge on last year.

  Splurge … David would have had a fit if she had “wasted” money on her desires if he hadn’t suggested the changes himself. How nice it was not to account to him, or to anyone, about how and where she spent her money. While he was alive, she’d received an “allowance.” After his death, it had taken her time—plus a few pains and fears—to learn how to handle money, as he’d never allowed her to do so during their marriage. At first, she had felt dumb, helpless, intimidated, and bitter; those feelings had lessened or passed with knowledge and practice— and some alarming mistakes she’d managed to correct with Steve’s advice. Katie had been the biggest help and comfort to her while she learned about budgets and bank statements and insurance forms— starting fresh. She and Katie both liked the changes in her appearance and personality. Those changes had given her the confidence she needed when she returned to work. The subject of dating had come up, and her youngest child wanted her to go out and have fun but hadn’t pressed the scary issue, as things and times had changed drastically since Kirstin was young. If you met Dr. Christopher Harrison, Katie, my girl, you might urge me to—

  Kirstin became aware that she was sitting there “as silent as a bump on a log,” as her grandfather used to say. “Did you ever think your duties would include this?” she inquired, laughing to calm herself. Being waited on by a man—this man—was pleasing and stimulating. David would never have played nursemaid or lifted a finger, even in an emergency. He would have hired someone to tend her, as she had tended her invalid mother. That was the only time” Kirstin could recall putting her foot down on any matter. David had wanted to place the elderly woman in a nursing home but Kirstin had flatly refused. Still, he hadn’t allowed her mother to move in, only live in an adjoining “mother-in-law suite” he intended to turn into a game room after the woman died.

  “I’ve had to spoon-feed a patient or two, so I’m qualified and experienced in TLC. You want mayo or mustard on your sandwich?”

  “Very light mayo, please,” she replied, settling back in the chair. You’re mighty nice on all the senses, Doc. I imagine you’re a good date. Dating. That had been a scary education after twenty-four years of marriage and having dated only David during college. Since his death, she had gone out with men she had met at or through work or been introduced to by friends. She had found most of the episodes unpleasant. Too many men came with the complications of difficult ex-wives and resentful children, or with emotional ties to ex-mates or ex-girlfriends, or men with children— often troubled teenagers— who only wanted a wife and mother replacement. Some became too serious or too demanding too quickly, or were only out to make an “easy score” with a “lonely widow.” Only a rare few hadn’t fallen into those categories, and they hadn’t interested her. Also there was the danger of all kinds of sexually transmitted diseases in modern relationships.

  Sex. Why was that on her mind? She considered it all right for other unattached adults her age to do as they pleased but had told herself she was too old for wild and impulsive romps in bed. In fact, she couldn’t imagine even getting undressed in front of a date, never mind having sex with one. It gave her the jitters to even think of putting herself in that situation. She certainly hadn’t gotten to know any man well enough to consent to an intimate relationship, nor could she have a one-night stand, though the man nearby was enough to entice a woman to give it serious consideration. She wasn’t ashamed of her body; she had a good one, but there was something scary about getting naked before a male.

  It had been awkward to awaken to find her shirt unbuttoned and spread and a stranger’s fingers grazing her bosom as he checked her heartbeat. She wasn’t inexperienced in sex; nor was she ignorant about the different ways of making love. Katie, her friends, magazine articles, and television shows had revealed plenty since the so-called “female sexual revolution” had begun
. At times, she’d been red-faced and openmouthed, astonished by what she heard or read. Maybe she was just old-fashioned to the point of believing one usually got married first or at least had to possess deep feelings for someone before sleeping with him. No, she wasn’t ready for a casual liaison. She didn’t want to have that intrusion in her new life or want to raise someone else’s family. Besides, she was still fertile and was off the pill since David’s death; pregnancy after forty-five would not suit her at all. Bearing another child, perhaps while remaining single, was an alarming thought. Accidents happened even with the best of precautions. Look at what had happened with Katie. Kirstin moved her fingers over the BandAid on her inner elbow and sighed in dreamy but troubled thought.

  Christopher stole a glance at her but she didn’t notice, as she was in a world of her own, and in an odd way he felt shut out, disappointed. He looked at his hands as they prepared lunch for two and admitted why he hadn’t wanted her to assist with the task: she would find out about his problem and might be consumed with pity or think less of him before she could get to know him. He despised having people feel sorry for him. After a year of surgeries and therapies on the left and three years of practice with the other, he had learned to use his right hand but he was not as skilled with it as he had been with his left, and nowhere deft enough to remain in his beloved surgical career. He couldn’t fully close the left hand and, because of the diminished dexterity and partial loss of feeling, he had to be cautious when handling things especially those with a thickness .of less than an inch. If Kirstin had noticed his fumblings, she hadn’t asked any questions, or she was too polite to do so even if she had added two and two to get four. He half-turned and looked at her to find her still rubbing the bandage. “Does it hurt? I’m not the best with shots and IV’s. Nurses usually did those chores for me.”

  She smiled and said, “It’s fine. The Band-Aid just itches and binds a little when I bend my arm. You were very gentle, Christopher, so don’t worry. I was just thinking about my condition and what happened today. Sometimes diabetes makes even simple or everyday things difficult or impossible or frustrating.”

  Those were feelings he understood and en dured daily. He liked the soft and romantic way she spoke his name. But he put those thoughts aside and focused on her needs as a patient. “Explain,” he coaxed.

  Kirstin had never bared her deepest feelings about her “condition.” She didn’t want to worry Katie, her physician, or her friends. Here was someone who would understand, provide help— and someone she’d never see again to have to worry over his pity. “Sometimes I get annoyed at having to always be conscious of food and the clock and over exerting myself. I have to remind myself I can’t grab a snack even if I’m hungry unless it’s on that yucky free-list or that I have to stop what I’m doing if it’s refueling time, or check every item that enters my mouth for sugar and fat. I can’t exercise even five minutes longer or finish a sport if my blood sugar crashes.”

  She glanced down at her hands. “My fingers get sore from so many lances a day and if I’m careless I get blood on my clothes and things. I can’t go to certain restaurants because they don’t have the food I need, even if I use the exchange system. If I ask waiters, ‘Are you sure that has no sugar; I’m diabetic,’ or I have a hypoglycemic attack, they look at me as if I’m contagious or a freak. I just don’t want to be treated differently from anyone else.” Kirstin suddenly fretted that she sounded like a whiner, filled with self-pity. “I’ve only known about this condition for six weeks. I’ll eventually adjust to its demands; I have to. My grandfather and aunt did. Seven million other diabetics do.”

  “They have no choice if they want to stay healthy and survive. You’re lucky it can be treated and controlled. Some problems can’t; they can totally ruin your life. You’ll do fine, Kirstin Lowrey. You’re intelligent and determined. It’ll get easier.”

  Will it? Can anybody, except another person in my condition or a similar one, truly understand what it’s like to lose control of one’s life? “Do you have a phone?” she inquired to change the topic.

  He laughed. “Naturally. I don’t live that far from civilization. A fax, computer, satellite dish, and all the modern conveniences.” Did she, he wondered, need to call someone special? He tried to master his curiosity.

  “I meant, may I use your phone? I’ll reverse the charges. I should let my daughter in Los Angeles know what happened. I don’t want her to worry about me after she finds your message on her answering machine.”

  “You can call after we eat. The food’s ready and you need to get back on schedule or risk losing all our progress. You right- or lefthanded?”

  “Mostly right, but I use both.”

  “Most people do.” He placed utensils and napkin to her right.

  “I meant, I do as much with the left one. Animal surgery and such. It calls for two steady, deft hands.” That meant she couldn’t afford to get shaky and confused in the lab from low sugar bouts, or she could get cut with an infectious scalpel or stick herself with a syringe containing a dangerous chemical or spill a radioactive tracer. I need a cure, but there isn’t one, not yet. Maybe one day, Kirstin, with research.

  If anyone knew her last statement was true, Christopher did. “You do much surgery?” Not trusting his weakened left hand, he set down her plate, then also fetched her glass with the right one. To distract her from the curious task, he teased, “Think you can manage or should I feed you?”

  She laughed, too. “I’m sure I can manage by myself.” But, my, your offer is appealing!

  He sat opposite her to eat his meal. “Well?”

  Assuming he referred to the food, she replied, “It’s delicious. Thanks, Doctor Harrison. You’re a good cook,” she joked.

  “The name’s Christopher, Mrs. Lowrey.” She laughed, and the sound mellowed him. “You always eat that slowly and take such tiny bites?”

  “You should know it’s best for the digestion, Doctor. And the name’s Kirstin.” He laughed with her now and his eyes sparkled.

  “I always wait until I’m ravenous, then I can’t eat fast enough. Guess it comes from years of eating in a rush and now eating alone and having no reason to linger. Helen’s a great cook, but she doesn’t take her meals with me.”

  “You should practice slowing down even when you’re alone. It’s a great time to relax and think. You’re retired; that’s what it’s about, no more hurrying.” She sipped her milk and eyed him over the rim of the glass. The way their gazes locked and searched the other’s for a moment caused her to squirm and lower her lashes, and to pray her cheeks wouldn’t flush.

  “If you prefer something else to drink, I’ll see what I have. I’m afraid I don’t buy diet drinks or snacks. I’ll get you some tomorrow.”

  “I almost always drink milk at all my meals. It’s required, so thank goodness it’s a favorite of mine. I rarely do an exchange with it. Of course, I love buttermilk, too,” she informed him for some inexplicable reason.

  He grinned. “You like buttermilk? Isn’t that odd for a city girl?”

  Delaying her next bite, she said, “I was born and partly reared in the country, the boondocks to be accurate. You know, so far back in the sticks that running water and electricity didn’t exist for years.”

  “You’re teasing me,” he accused as his gaze scanned her sophisticated appearance once more.

  “Not at all. I remember doing homework by oil lanterns, carrying water from a distant well, hauling in firewood, and emptying chamber pots. Don’t tell me you’ve never experienced such character-building chores? That’s what my grandfather called them.”

  “You’re pulling my leg, Kirstin. You aren’t that old,” he replied with a broader grin.

  “I’m not kidding, Christopher, I swear. I’m from the country, miles outside of a small Georgia town. My grandfather was a farmer. We lived with my grandparents until my father became an insurance salesman in Augusta and we moved there. I remember Gramps plowing his garden with a stubborn
mule named Bill and chickens chasing me, especially an ornery rooster he had that petrified me. We used to keep milk in a cold spring not far from the house. I can close my eyes and still picture that wooden outhouse with sunflowers growing around it and peanuts spread out atop it to dry. I’ve even picked cotton and plucked potato bugs. Of course, you’ve probably never been poor, so you wouldn’t know about such rustic conditions.”

  There was an inquisitive tone to her voice. Was she checking out his financial status as his ex-wife had done years ago before setting out to use him before dumping him so cruelly? He pushed aside those bitter memories. “You’re wrong, Kirstin; I was born and reared poor. I worked my way through college and med school. I work as hard on this ranch as any hired man. I can remember the days of oil lanterns, wood fires, and outdoor Johns. But we had a dependable windmill to draw water. Between having a few patients and ranching, I do fine. Of course, some of my patients don’t have the money to pay me; that’s how I got some of my calves and colts.”

  “Just like in the old days when patients paid with poultry and crops. How fascinating, like having a continuing piece of history.”

  “I get some chickens, too, but Helen takes care of them for me.” And you’re what’s fascinating, woman, and a pleasant surprise.

  “Evidently you love this area or you wouldn’t have come back home.”

  “This wasn’t my home. It belonged to my uncle and aunt. The medical practice was his, too. They both died a few years back and I inherited it. Frank, my foreman, Helen’s husband, ran it for me until I moved here. He and Helen worked for Uncle Chester, too. I was born and reared near Dallas. My Texas twang just softened a little while I was practicing back East.”

  “Do you raise mostly cattle or horses?”

  “Both. Uncle Chester raised wheat—that’s the number-one local crop—and some cattle when he wasn’t doctoring, but I’m not a farmer. I only raise enough grain to feed my stock in the winter. As I told you, when I retired here, I didn’t intend to become a country doctor. The locals pressed me into it. I suppose you prefer the big city now. San Diego.”