by Rae Renzi
I had just pushed away my empty dish when I became aware of warmth radiating from behind my right shoulder. Curious, I turned and looked up directly into the eyes of Dr. Sam Kendall.
He was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit with a deep-blue shirt, which toned down his usual hockey-player timbre. His hair was combed, too, more or less. His hands were in his pants pockets as he met my gaze with a considering look.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted out. A more perspicacious person might have deduced he was drinking Beaujolais, listening to music, and, presumably, chatting up available women.
“Dancing, I hope.”
“I—” The words rejecting his invitation were on the tip of my tongue when he turned to Marybob.
“That is, if this dance isn’t already taken?” He held out his hand to Marybob and bowed slightly.
Marybob geared up to full wattage in a nanosecond and stood to face him. “I’d love to,” she purred, placing one hand in his, and the other on his biceps. She gave it a cozy squeeze. My hands clenched in my lap.
As she walked away with him, she glanced back at me and mouthed one word: “Hot!”
The traitor.
Under normal circumstance I’d never have allowed my baser instincts to rise to the bait. But Sam’s snub—I thought it was a snub—stung.
Really, I had no problem with his interest in Marybob. None at all. Quite honestly, if he didn’t find her attractive, something was wrong with the man. What got my goat (and even though I had never understood the expression, it still somehow exactly captured the situation: if I had a goat, Sam had got it) was the way he’d suckered me. He’d stood right beside me, breathing my air, leaning his very physical and abundantly male self into my space, aiming his sneaky, beautiful, deceitful orbs directly at my trusting ones, and then, then, when he knew I expected him to ask me to dance, he turned to Marybob and asked her instead. Classic bait and switch. Bastard.
I wouldn’t say I’m a competitive person. Not usually. In this instance, though, something sparked inside me. If Sam and Marybob were going to have fun dancing—and let’s face it, Marybob was a fun-goddess—I would not sit here and just watch, I’d have fun, too. I would have the most fun. Monumental fun, by gosh.
Of course, I’d have to find someone to dance with, someone generous (or drunk) enough to overlook my lack of recent experience.
I looked around to find a likely facilitator and spotted several candidates. I’d never attract a partner with my lightness of foot—that was a given—but sex might be a possibility. It had been so long since I’d been in that arena that I wasn’t sure I remembered how. But, trusting my instincts, I stood slowly and slung my hair over my shoulder. My hair was a far cry from Marybob’s glorious auburn tresses and was generally irritating to deal with, since it was slippery as silk and therefore impossible to keep neatly tucked away. However, Marybob had convinced me to leave off the clips, bands, and so forth in favor of letting the whole mess swirl around my shoulders. I shook my head back, knowing the golden color of my hair would appear to shimmer. The effect was sure to draw some attention, although it had nothing to do with me exactly. It was a basic fact that flickering light was a fundamental mechanism for visual attention-capture, and that was what I needed. Certain that someone—I didn’t care who—was watching, I slid my hands down my thighs. I contrived to allow my slinky wrap to slide off one shoulder as I moved in time to the music, as if compelled by the power of the primitive beat.
It worked. Better than I anticipated. Two men practically tripped over themselves getting to me. I was thrilled!
Forced to choose between them, I simply went with the first to arrive, a cute red-haired fellow, but I banked a future dance with a smile to the other. He smiled back, looking determined to get in his dance. Holy cow, this was a lot easier than I’d expected!
The dance floor was crowded, but it didn’t prevent free movement, and I have to say, at that moment, I felt pretty free. The redhead led me to the center of the floor and spun me around, a grin on his face. He looked fun and a touch impish and sported at least as many freckles as I did. That alone made me like him. Also, as I soon found out, he could dance. Boy, could he dance.
And dance we did.
Between the attentions of my two suitors and the exhilarating music, I more or less forgot about the ill-mannered Dr. Kendall. I did catch sight of Marybob and him dancing now and again—I felt an obligation to watch out for her, as any good friend would. I thought she might show a little more restraint in her dancing, and her energetic jiggling and bouncing—another attention-capturing mechanism—could possibly draw the wrong kind of notice. Certainly it seemed to have captured Sam Kendall’s.
During a slow dance, I and my red-haired partner happened to end up next to Marybob and Sam. He had his arm around her waist, pulling her snug up against him from chest to hips. A strange feeling ran through me as I watched them almost intertwined, moving together to the music. My partner swirled me around, and when we stopped, Sam’s eyes were on my face. His expression was not what I expected—no smug self-satisfaction, nor even a hint of gaiety. Oddly, he seemed purposeful, determined. I didn’t like to think what was behind it.
Suddenly the tempo of the music switched into high gear. I threw myself into the dancing with abandonment, letting the sheer physicality of it carry me away, spinning and twirling, dance after dance. Finally, though, I had to take a break. Flushed and exhausted, I gave sincere thanks to my partners and made my way toward the ballroom exit in hopes of finding the ladies’ room. I needed a moment’s peace.
Chapter 28
The ladies’ lounge was a secret refuge at the end of a labyrinth of passageways. After making use of the facilities, and without the music and the high energy of the crowd, I suddenly wilted. It was time to go home.
Readying myself to tear Marybob away from what’s-his-name, I patted some cold water on my face and dried it, took a deep breath, and went out to do battle.
I took a wrong turn on my way back to the ballroom, though, and ended up at a dead end facing a janitorial closet. Frustrated, I whirled around to retrace my steps and ran smack into—
“Sam!”
He wore the same expression I had seen on the dance floor: part purpose, part appraisal. His hair had relinquished the small degree of order it had displayed earlier and, with the front tuft sticking straight up, looked as it had before on all the occasions we had crossed paths—as if he had just climbed out of bed. His face was flushed, presumably from dancing, and his square chin was set. My heart tried to run in the other direction, but succeeded only in thumping around in my chest.
He blocked my way and stood looking down at me for a long moment. His tone was conversational as if commenting on the weather or the stock market when he finally said, “I know we have certain differences—”
“Very certain.”
“—but can we agree that with regard to medical care, you are not my patient?”
I had opened my mouth to disagree with him, assuming that if he had to ask for my agreement, then whatever the issue, we were probably already at odds. As my brain caught up, I was thrown off balance by the total irrelevance of the question. Not his patient? Perhaps he was drunk.
Maybe it was best to humor him. “Yes, we can definitely agree on that. I’m not your patient. I’ve never been your patient, and if I have anything to do with it, I’ll never be your patient.”
He relaxed. “Good.” Then, to my complete astonishment, he pressed me against the wall with his body and bent his head toward mine.
“What—” I didn’t finish asking him what he was doing. There was no need.
His lips were warm and soft and seemed to melt against mine. His hand slid behind my neck and into my hair, sending a delicious tingling sensation rippling down my spine. A tiny voice in the far recesses of my brain put up a feeble protest, but it couldn’t compete with the overriding reaction rolling through me just then.
I meant to push him away, but wh
en I placed my hands on his chest, I experienced complete equipment failure. Instead of pushing, my unreliable appendages somehow grasped him and pulled. He was so close that I smelled the clean, ironed cotton of his shirt mixed with his healthy sweat. The faintest hint of spice came off his skin, making me want to bury my face in his neck. His heartbeat thundered under my hands and I swear I could feel hot blood racing through his body. I was dimly aware I was behaving strangely.
I still don’t know how it happened, but a muddled moment or two later I found my arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. Apparently taking this as encouragement—which it most definitely was not—he tightened his hold on me and deepened his kiss. And then… I’m afraid I simply lost my head. The feel of solid flesh wrapped around me, surrounding me with touch, scent, sound, was an intoxicant a hundred glasses of Beaujolais couldn’t match. I was lost.
Fortunately, only for a moment. However, by the time I recovered, my hand had found its way under his shirt and was sliding up and down his warm, velvety skin. And that wasn’t the worst of it. One of his hands had migrated down my back, and was now comfortably cradling one of the rounder parts of my lower anatomy. The other had snaked into my hair and tilted my neck at the perfect angle for the attention of his sensuous lips. Everything—every single thing—about him was hot, humid, and, I reluctantly admitted, absolutely wonderful.
I blamed it on the wine. There had to be something in Beaujolais Nouveau that ignited reckless behavior. Or was a catalyst for insanity. It was one or the other, and I wouldn’t have taken odds which.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one.
A moment later, Sam rolled away from me to lean his back against the wall, his eyes closed, his head tilted toward the ceiling.
“I think I’m losing my mind.” The remark didn’t seem to be directed to me, necessarily, but it nonetheless hit me forcefully. It suddenly became clear to me the kiss had been a case of mistaken identity.
“Because you kissed me, not Marybob? Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” Then, gathering my wrap and my few remaining shreds of dignity, I made to sail down the hallway away from his reprehensible self.
My regal exit was stopped by a large arm slung in front of me, pinning me to the wall.
He turned to face me, his eyebrows lowered into a fierce scowl. “Don’t be an ass, Joy. There’s not the ghost of a possibility any man with half his senses would confuse you for Marybob.”
I started to protest, but he had a point. Marybob and I could scarcely be more different, in looks, in voice, and, I imagine, in feel. Taste, I wouldn’t venture to guess.
“If I mistook anything,” Sam continued, “it was your willingness. Or, rather, the reason for it. You have drunk a lot of wine, and so have I. I’m afraid I may have taken advantage of you. It’s only that… you seemed so liberated, for a change. I hoped… well. You probably wouldn’t.”
So far, I wasn’t coming out well in this encounter. I couldn’t deny I’d had quite a lot of wine, nor that it had had a liberating effect on me. That was all too apparent. I simply didn’t go around fervently kissing men of my bare acquaintance. “I wouldn’t what?”
“There you are.” Marybob’s chirpy voice sliced through my inquiry. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
It wasn’t clear which of us had prompted her remark, but at that point it didn’t matter.
I shook my head to clear it. “We need to leave,” I said to Marybob.
Sam frowned at me. “Wait. Do you want to go out?”
“Out?” I’m not usually so dim, but the wine…
“With me. On a date.”
“Oh! No. No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for my… strange behavior. Please don’t take this wrong, but I hope I won’t see you again.”
“Was it… ? Look, can we start again?”
“No, Sam, we can’t. I have a boyfriend.”
Chapter 29
“What was that about?” Marybob asked as we pulled out of the parking garage.
“Nothing. It was nothing.”
“Jeez. I hope you don’t do that kind of nothing to every guy you meet. You’ll never get a boyfriend.”
“Marybob, I have a boyfriend. That’s the whole point. I had no business even talking to Sam, much less… other things. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Did he hurt you? Was he a jerk to you?”
“No. Yes. No. I don’t know. No, he wasn’t a… That doesn’t matter. What matters is Craig. I don’t know what to tell him.”
Marybob didn’t say anything. She stared out the windshield and bit her lip.
“What?”
She darted a glance my way and turned back to the road. “Nothing.”
I didn’t miss the worried expression on her face. I was worried, too.
“Craig?” One trouble with the Departed was that it was difficult to know their whereabouts. Craig wasn’t in the house when I got home. If he’d had a cell phone, I would have called. As it was, I was more or less dependent on his tuning in, or whatever he did.
“Craig, we need to talk.” I took a turn around the living room to calm myself. “I have something to confess.”
That got him. He appeared almost before the sentence ended.
“What could you possibly have to confess, Joy? I hope you had fun? You’re overdue, and no one deserves it more.”
I sank onto the sofa and put my face in my hands. “No, I don’t. I’m a miserable person and there are many things I don’t deserve, but most of all, you.” I dropped my hands in my lap and looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. “I betrayed you.”
Craig stared at me, a blank look on his face. He crossed to the easy chair and sat. “Tell me about it.”
I shrugged, embarrassed. “There’s nothing much to tell. I went out tonight and let myself get too relaxed, and I betrayed you. With another man.”
“Who was this man?”
Oh, God. “He’s…” I started to tell Craig that Sam was the surgeon who wouldn’t let him die. But Craig had never met him because when he’d been Sam’s patient, he’d been unconscious. Or dead. “It was the man who bumped into my car the other day. He was at the festival. We ran into each other, and he kissed me.”
“I guess that’s one way to make reparations. Won’t get the dent fixed, though.”
I stared at him, shocked at his flippancy. “Are you seriously making light of this? I betrayed you. I. Kissed. Another. Man.” The tears I’d tried so hard to hold back spilled over. I wiped them away with the back of my hand.
Craig knelt in front of me. “Joy, I don’t mean to diminish your feelings, and I’d be lying if I denied that I’m a little jealous of the doctor who got to hold you in his arms, who could touch you and smell your hair.”
“I’m so, so sorry, Craig. I don’t know what happened.”
He reached his hand to my face and touched it. His fingers were cool and damp, and slightly sticky. Surprised, I pulled back. Never since he’d died had I ever felt him touch me. I shivered.
He jerked his hand away and stared at it for a second. Then he stood up and began to pace. “What happened to you was a normal, natural reaction to a flesh-and-blood man. How can I get angry about that? I can’t give you that comfort or that pleasure. In fact, there’s not much I can give you. Especially a future. Do you understand?”
In spite of his words, he sounded angry, and I couldn’t blame him. But his anger didn’t seem to be about Sam, and I couldn’t tell what it was about. It made me nervous. My heart was rat-a-tatting in my chest, and I didn’t know why.
“No, Craig, I don’t. Please, can you just sit here by me and talk?” Worried that he’d just vanish again, I patted the sofa and added, “Please, just don’t leave right now. I need to see you, to be with you.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He shot me an anguished look and said, “Joy, you don’t understand. You just don’t… you need someone else. I need you to need someone else.”
Chapter 30
“Someone to see you in there,” Ruby said, leaning with one elbow on my car as I gathered my belongings and tried to bootstrap my mood. “Not the usual, I think.”
I hadn’t slept well after the festival and all the confusion that followed it. Between Sam and Craig, I was all turned around. Craig had disappeared abruptly with his cryptic pronouncement, and I hadn’t seen him since.
Naturally, the weather today was abysmal: semi-aquatic, one hundred percent humidity, and clouds low enough that the tops of the buildings downtown were obscured by a dreary gray blanket. The air was so wet that rain was superfluous.
“A client?”
“Yup.”
“DDDS?”
“Yup.”
“Alive or Departed?” I didn’t want any possibility whatsoever for sheer chance to overturn my firm intention to avoid Sam. Fate, I assumed, was out of my hands. Nonetheless, I’d begun to suspect that fate alone couldn’t explain my too-frequent encounters with the man.
Ruby flicked an eyebrow. “Definitely Departed.”
I relaxed fractionally. Sam, at least to my knowledge, was still among the living. Although that could easily change. Putting him forcibly out of my mind, I attempted to channel Marybob. “Would this Departed possibly have a Bereaved candidate for DDDS? One with money?”
“Well, now, that might be a subject for discussion.” Ruby looked thoughtful. “Might need to widen our horizons a bit.”
“Why? Is it a same-gender situation? I don’t see any problem at all—”
“I’m thinkin’ it’s a little more complicated than that.”
I could not imagine. “What, exactly… ?”
Ruby rolled her eyes. “Come on inside. You’ll see what I mean.”
Five minutes later I gazed down on the sweetest face imaginable, a little cherub’s face, with big, blue eyes and dark, curly hair. He looked up at me imploringly when I spoke. “So, Danny, the other Departed told you about our… service?”