What was she afraid of? It seemed out of character. “Don’t be afraid of going out on your own. I gather your reputation is solid, so shape up.”
“I’m going for it. I hope to hang out my shingle in mid-November.”
“I wish I could say I’d be your first customer, but I wouldn’t think of compromising you.”
“I wish you could, too, but we both know that wouldn’t be wise. Any more news about your return to Afghanistan?”
“Nothing new, and this isn’t an organization in which you’d ask questions about it. We’ll have to wait. Thanks for thinking about me.”
“I always think about you. You spend more time in my head than all the other people I know combined.”
“Is that so? Woman, you’re going to have a lot to live up to when I finally get you where I want you.”
“I’m definitely not asking you where that is.”
He felt the racing of his blood, knew where it was headed and told himself to cool off. “Think of something interesting for us to do tonight, why don’t you, and give me a call before I leave the office at five. Okay?”
“Right. I can do that.”
He hung up, and for the remainder of the day, one thought battled with others for a hold on his mind: If the two of us marry, I can help her open her private practice, and if I don’t come back from Afghanistan, she’ll be well cared for. If. With her independent bent, she would probably refuse his help even if he was her husband. He ran his fingers through his hair again and again in frustration. Love wasn’t what it was cracked up to be!
* * *
Audrey washed her hands and applied lotion to them, as she always did after treating a patient. Why was she reluctant to open her office? He wanted to know. She sighed in resignation. Just one more thing between Nelson and herself. What would he think if she told him how she dreaded his learning about the basketball player whose life she had probably destroyed?
She had known that if that player returned to the court for even one play, he risked permanent injury. But the young man had pleaded with her, swearing that he had no pain. She hadn’t believed him, but she relented and allowed him to return to play. He shot the winning basket and made his college proud, but he was unable to walk off the court and, to her knowledge, hadn’t walked since. If only she had held her ground and refused him permission. It was a mistake that she remembered every day.
Her colleagues and the patients who held her in high regard knew nothing of this, but she knew it and so did Patrick Jenkins, who suffered because of her irresoluteness. She didn’t accept her youth and inexperience as excuses; she had known better. Now she could open her office and begin her practice, but if Jenkins should publicly accuse her, she could lose all she owned, including her reputation. Still, she had to risk it.
She checked The Washington Post for the program at Wolf Trap that evening, liked it, and decided that an evening of jazz and maybe a stroll on the Monument grounds, then some dessert and coffee, would keep Nelson and her in the company of other people, where they would be less likely to start a fire.
* * *
Audrey schemed to keep her romance with Nelson where she wanted it and where she thought he, too, would prefer it. The morning following their quiet evening together, Nelson struggled with a more profound problem, one involving both his refusal to be buried beneath the tarpaulin of Holden’s one-upmanship, and his sense of decency in extenuating circumstances. He didn’t want his career to end like so much excess fuel jettisoned from an overweight plane. Service to his country as a Marine Corps officer represented his life’s work, and he took pride in it and in what he had accomplished. To have it end summarily because Holden enjoyed seeing his superiors fall would be unbearable. His only course, as he saw it, was to tell the Commandant what he’d done and why, and hope for tolerance.
Reasoning that he preferred to resign rather than be relieved of duty for ignoring a service code, he made up his mind to ask for a conference with the Commandant that morning, as soon as he walked into his office.
I can’t let another day go by with this uncertainty, he told himself. And if I’ve got to take bad medicine, I might as well get started on it.
* * *
With shaking fingers, Audrey slit the envelope, then sat down and closed her eyes, dreading what she would read. The previous evening, she’d dropped the day’s mail in the tray on her desk as she usually did when arriving home, but had forgotten to read it. Going through the pile of letters, magazines and catalogues that morning, her heart had nearly stopped when she saw the letter bearing Patrick Jenkins’s name and return address.
She took the letter downstairs and put it on the kitchen table while she made coffee, figuring that the caffeine would give her the boost that she was certain to need. She hadn’t heard from the man in the five years since his accident, and for five years she had dreaded this moment. She couldn’t afford a lawsuit or the negative publicity it would generate. Sitting at her kitchen table taking long sips of coffee, she told herself to read the letter, but the cup shook as if caught in a wind tunnel and she needed both hands to place it in the saucer without spilling the contents.
Audrey stared at the letter until it seemed to move upward to her of its own volition when, in fact, it lay where she’d placed it. Finally, she eased the stark-white linen paper out of its envelope and unfolded it with hands that trembled.
“What! What is this?” she said aloud, grabbing her chest with her hands to slow down her heartbeat. “Dear Dr. Powers,” she read, “I am walking—though with difficulty—and have been for several months, but I need intensive therapy for complete recovery. You have been recommended to me as the best therapist for what I need. Please say you will take me on as a patient. My insurance will cover it.”
For the nth time, she read the words of the basketball player who had suffered a debilitating injury because of her poor judgment. She read silently, and then she read it aloud until, with her throat dry, she could hardly pronounce the words. She jumped up from the table, whirling around and around and skipping back and forth across the room until she exhausted herself. Overwhelmed with joy, through a shower of tears, she dialed Nelson’s number to share the news with him.
Nelson finished dressing and had started downstairs for breakfast when the telephone rang. “What on earth is the matter?” he asked Audrey after greeting her and determining that it was she who called, for she seemed on the verge of hysteria.
“I C-C...” Her sobs tore into him. “I never dreamed... I—” Suddenly she hung up, obviously brimming over with emotion and unable, he guessed, to tell him what she wanted him to know.
“I’m sorry, but I have to skip breakfast,” he called to Lena as he headed back upstairs for his jacket, cap and briefcase.
She confronted him at the door and pushed a cup of coffee and a small glass of orange juice toward his face. “Unless World War Four just broke out, you drink this.”
No use trying to get around her, he told himself. Besides, she meant well. He drank as quickly as he could. “Thanks. You’re the best. Tell Ricky for me that I’ll try to telephone him this morning. Gotta go.”
The traffic crawled along George Washington Parkway until, frustrated, he got off and took the Francis Scott Key Bridge, drove over to Wisconsin Avenue and fought snarled traffic all the way to Friendship Heights. So great was his relief when the flow of automobiles thinned at Western Avenue that he pressed the accelerator and, within seconds, heard the siren of an eager Maryland patrolman. He pulled over and stopped.
The officer walked over and pulled out his tablet of tickets. “In a pretty big hurry there, weren’t you?”
“You could say that, sir,” Nelson answered.
“Take it easy on the metal, Officer,” the patrolman said. “You military guys are under a great deal of stress these days, but that’s no reason to drive like
a bat out of hell and kill yourself and innocent people. Try to stay alive.” The patrolman put away his tablet, saluted and started back toward his car.
“How fast was I going?”
The patrolman raised an eyebrow. “Sixty-two, and this is a thirty-mile-an-hour zone. So watch it.” Nelson nodded and thanked the man. One more piece of evidence that he was over the line with Audrey. He parked in front of her house, jumped out and started toward her door, hurriedly doubling back to his car to retrieve his briefcase.
* * *
Audrey heard the doorbell, but it didn’t register that she should answer it as words of thanks spilled from her lips and a liquid shower of joy continued to flow from her eyes. The years of dread and of self-censure and condemnation, yes, and of guilt, and the limitations she had consequently placed on her life and her career floated through her memory. Then she heard the rapping, strong and aggressive, and quickly brought herself to the present. She rushed to the front door, wiping her eyes with the back of her left hand while opening the door with her right one.
The door opened as he pressed the bell. “Audrey, what’s the matter?” He walked in and closed the door. One look at her—face streaked with tears, hair tousled and still in her robe when she should have been leaving for work—one look at her, and all that he felt for her surged to the fore.
“Nelson!”
He lifted her into his arms, strode inside and kicked the door closed. “You’re going to tell me what’s going on with you. Why you’re so bent out of shape you couldn’t let me know why you called me. I’m here for you, and I always will be. Don’t you know that? Don’t you?” She could only nod her head in agreement. “We’re going to talk. I’m not leaving here until we do.”
Chapter 12
It was D-Day. He was no longer asking, but demanding, that she reach into the recesses of her private memories and let him know who she was. If she refused, she didn’t doubt that he would break all ties with her, and this time there would be no reconciliation.
“I’ll be back shortly,” she told him. She needed a few minutes to collect herself. Knowing that he would not tolerate stalling, she didn’t consider doing so.
After a quick shower, she dressed, went to the kitchen, made coffee, warmed some cinnamon buns and fixed a tray. She brought the tray to the living room where he sat on the sofa, leaning back with eyes closed and hands locked behind his head.
“Want some coffee and a bun?”
“Love it. All I’ve had today are the coffee and orange juice that Lena practically poured down my throat as I was leaving. What were you crying about?”
“It’s a long story, but—”
“I have time.”
In spite of her resolve, it wasn’t easy. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly and told him of her role in Patrick Jenkins’s crippling accident. “Patrick had wanted to get back in that game so badly he had tears in his eyes. I knew that if he returned to the court, State U would win the championship, so I capitulated and let him back into the game. Without my approval as team physician, he would not have been allowed to play. He shot the final basket for three points and won the game. But he collapsed immediately and had to be carried off the court.
“I wasn’t fired from State U for that lapse in judgment, but I didn’t get an offer for contract renewal, and without a strong recommendation it was useless to apply to another university. I was fortunate to get this job at the clinic.”
“And you’ve persecuted yourself about it ever since. You have to get over it.”
She got the letter and read it to him. “When I saw this I thought he wanted revenge or, at best, a financial settlement. You don’t know how relieved I am, not just for myself, but for him especially. He’s giving me the chance to help him. Oh, Nelson, I’m...I’m so thankful.”
She wiped the tears that stained down her face. “This time, I won’t fail him. I’m going to give him my best.”
“Of course you will. So you were crying out of relief and happiness?”
“That, and more. It was as if something in me burst open and began spilling out. I couldn’t control it. This was the main reason why I dreaded opening my private practice. I was afraid I wouldn’t get patients, that Patrick might picket my office or publicly expose me. You don’t know what his letter means to me.”
He slipped his left arm around her waist and urged her to rest her head against his shoulder. “You could tell me this because you’ve been absolved, so to speak. But there’s more, and what remains is mostly what’s robbing us of true intimacy.”
He crossed his left knee over his right one and began a slow stroking of her arm. Unconsciously, she knew, but it got to her nonetheless. She trained her mind to receive his words.
“I understand how difficult it is to talk about past relationships that left a hole somewhere deep inside of you. I was engaged to marry a woman, and three weeks before the ceremony I walked into the apartment she and I shared and found her in bed with my best friend, the man who would have been best man at our wedding.”
She sat up straight, turned, and looked him in the face. “That must have been awful for you. Was she crazy?”
“No, she wasn’t, and she admitted he wasn’t the only one. I swore I’d never let another woman get close to me. As I searched myself for shortcomings on my part that could have encouraged her to fool around, I realized I didn’t know her, that I knew only what I saw. Nothing of her dreams, prayers, pain, or true philosophy of life. Nothing... Oh, what the hell—”
She raised an eyebrow. “It still hurts?”
“Nah. It’s not worth discussing. I’ve been over it for years. Funny thing was that when I took Bradford to task about it, he admitted being jealous of me. It wasn’t easy losing both of them at the same time. So much for that.” He waved his hand, dismissing the matter and the topic.
As if he had peeled a film from her eyes and given her mind free rein, she understood what he was asking of her, what he meant when he insisted that he didn’t know her. With his admission, she understood his reticence in regard to her and that this knowledge would help her avoid situations that would shake his confidence in her. Could she be less giving, less candid than he?
“You still haven’t told me what’s standing between us,” he said, “the thing that won’t let you love without reservation, that makes you hold something back. Something crucial.”
“I...uh...I can’t say you’re off-base, because you’re right on target. I’ve never told anyone about this, and it still hurts to think I was so vulnerable.”
He removed his arm from her waist and her head from his shoulder and turned to look her in the eye. “You don’t trust me enough to tell me? Is that it?”
In a flash, she knew that nothing, not even her public persona, was worth losing Nelson over. She leaned back, closed her eyes and spoke barely above a whisper. “He was the first and the only one until I met you.” Slowly and painfully, she tore the story out of herself, sparing nothing. “I wrenched the lamp on my night table from its socket, threw it at him and barely missed his back. From then until last week, my one thought in connection with that man was a desire for vengeance. Vengeance as cruel as the betrayal he perpetrated against me. The hatred I felt for him was so strong that at times I was beside myself for need of an outlet.”
What happened last week?”
“I got the chance to get even. His wife brought his son to me for treatment. If he doesn’t get it, he won’t walk again.”
“I hope you’re going to treat the boy.”
She told him she would, and about her conversation with Gerald Latham Senior. “I pitied him. Groveling like an animal. I no longer hate him, and I have forced myself to see my own role in that fiasco. Like you, I didn’t ask questions, and when he broke our dates or just failed to show, I accepted his excuses without question. I thoug
ht he was a poor struggling medical student when, in fact, he was a licensed physician, married and expecting his third child.”
“The one you’re treating?”
She nodded. “Could you ask for greater irony?”
“Hmm. Talking about the chickens coming home to roost! This boggles the mind. Do you think you can let it go?”
“I already have. When I told him I meant to tell his wife, I realized I wouldn’t do that to her, that I was fortunate he’d left only emotional scars and didn’t ruin my life. I won’t do it, but what a kick I got out of scaring him half to death!”
He wrapped her in his arms. “I can imagine what it cost you to tell me this. The man was, and probably still is, a bastard of a human being. Forget he exists.”
“He means nothing to me now that I no longer hate him. Are you going to your office today?”
His lips brushed across her forehead. “Eventually. Yes. If you hadn’t called, I might have been on my way out of the Marines by now.”
She jerked forward. “What do you mean?”
He told her of his infraction of the rules while on duty in Afghanistan. “I was showing compassion where it was deserved. That marine had been on duty for twenty-four hours with only two half-hour reliefs. He fell asleep on duty, and I didn’t report it. Now, another officer is going to inform my superiors that I didn’t report that incident.
“If I’m going down, I’ll go down my way. I’ve decided to tell the Commandant about it and take the consequences. I can always teach music.”
She didn’t know whether having to leave the Marines would break him, but she did know that he loved what he did and who he was, that he honored his uniform and the country for which he wore it.
“If it doesn’t go your way, it will hurt you as you’ve never hurt before,” she said, “but I believe you’re right in reporting it yourself. If you don’t win, you’ll have the comfort of knowing the enemy didn’t slay you.”
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