FROM HOUSECALLS TO HUSBAND

by Christine Flynn

  The arrival of Mike's dinner-to-go jerked Katie from her thoughts. Lee and Dana were engaged in a hot debate with Alice over the Blazers' new coach. Melba and the bespectacled resident, both eyeing Mike's takeout, were trying to figure out which appetizers to order. Behind her, all around her, customers were filling tables and bellying up to the long, mahogany bar with its gleaming brass rail. The drone of conversation was turning to a din.

  "Are you sticking around for dinner?" Mike asked her.

  "No. No," she repeated, realizing just how far removed from the program she was. Seeing the out she was looking for, she murmured, "I have other plans. I should be going, too."

  "If you're ready now, I'll walk you out."

  She gave him a nod, turning a quick smile to Alice. Interrupting the animated conversation only long enough to sneak in quick goodbyes to everyone, she promised Dana and Lee that she'd call and gathered her purse and coat. The debate was back in full swing within seconds. The only lull came a moment after she heard the resident's quiet inquiry about what was going on with Katie and Dr. Brennan as Mike guided her between the rapidly filling tables.

  Katie heard Lee casually dismiss the speculation with a flat, "Not a thing. They're just friends."

  The warmth of the restaurant gave way to damp night air; the animated clatter to the drone of tires on wet pavement and the honk of a horn. It wasn't raining at the moment, but it hadn't been long since it had stopped. Droplets dripped from the building's awning and lights gleamed in streaks on the wet, black street.

  "So…" Mike began, pulling his overcoat closed as they headed for the parking lot. "What are your plans? Meeting? Joining someone else?"

  "Video. I thought I'd get one on the way home and veg in front of the TV for a while."

  He tipped his head, studying her face in the yellow light of the street lamps. "You weren't having a good time in there."

  "Not really."

  "Any particular reason?"

  She lifted her shoulder in a shrug. "It's just been a long day."

  Katie kept her glance on the ground, listening to the soft slap of leather on the wet sidewalk. As long as Mike's legs were, he could have easily outpaced her. But he checked his long, athletic stride, deliberately matching his footfall to hers.

  "Want to try again?" he asked.

  "What?"

  "To tell me what's bothering you. It's obvious something is."

  She made a face. "I hate being obvious."

  Her attempt at lightness didn't quite work. He touched her arm, stopping her when she would have stopped anyway because they'd just reached her car. "You can't let it get to you, Katie."

  His dark eyebrows were drawn in a disapproving line, his expression part admonishment, part understanding. "It" was death. The enemy. The demon they fought at all costs—sometimes long after they should have given up the battle. But that was another debate, another thorn that festered on occasion. That he knew her well enough to understand the reason for her mood didn't surprise her. What did was how grateful she felt that no explanation was necessary.

  "You've told me that before. And I'm working on it," she assured him. Apparently, she was just slow. But then, she'd always been a late bloomer. She'd been the last of her friends to need a bra, the last to get a first date, the last to have a serious relationship. Apparently, she was going to be the last to develop the armor necessary to insulate herself from certain experiences at the hospital, too.

  "I don't know how you block it so well," she murmured.

  "Sure you do. I do it the same way we all do." He nudged the hair back from her face, and chucked her under the chin. Despite the encouragement in his touch, his voice held very little. "You just shut that part of yourself down."

  She glanced from the regret in his eyes to the sack in his hand. The trick was to keep from shutting down too much. "And go home to eat takeout alone?"

  The smile tugging at his mouth conceded nothing.

  "Tell you what." Settling his arm companionably over her shoulders, he steered her to the driver's side of her little red Altima. "You share your video," he said, holding up the bag. "And I'll share my dinner."

  Her spirits kicked up a notch. "What are we having?"

  "Chicken picatta and grilled vegetables. What are we watching?"

  "Whatever I can find at the video store by my place."

  "Make it a thriller. That'll get your mind off the day." Dropping his arm, he pulled his keys from his pocket and headed for his own car. "Guaranteed."

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  « ^ »

  Had Mike gone home as he'd planned, he would have changed into sweats, dumped the takeout on a plate, and headed for his study to consume the meal while watching the news, then going over Eva Horton's chart.

  Since they were at Katie's place, which he had to concede was far more comfortable than his, she was the one who headed off to change clothes. After a minute of obligatory kiss and cuddle with her cat when they arrived at her duplex, she left him to shed his coat and jacket and ditch his tie while he searched her cabinets for the bottle of wine she'd said was there somewhere.

  He couldn't say it bothered him to have his plans altered. Even before he'd run into Katie, even before he'd guessed why she wasn't enjoying the evening with her friends, he'd decided to call her tonight.

  He'd already known she'd called the code when Eva had gone into respiratory arrest that morning. He'd known from studying the patient's chart—that precise, unemotional detailing of readings, drugs administered, actions taken—that the staff's brisk efficiency had kept the patient alive long enough to get her to intensive care and call the family to the bedside. He also knew that nothing more could have been done for Eva. She had simply been too sick to survive.

  That was what his logic told him. That was what medical school, seven years of training in thoracic surgery, a year and a half in private practice, the patient's chart and her test results would tell a prudent man to believe. And he was a prudent man. He just hated like hell to lose a patient.

  He didn't take the loss personally, as if it were an affront to his skill. There were powers infinitely greater than his own. But he wouldn't simply accept her death, either. He would study Eva's charts again, along with the results of her postmortem, and learn what he could from her. Then, he would silently thank her for whatever knowledge she shared by her passing and he would move on, using what he'd learned or confirmed for the benefit of another patient down the line.

  He found the bottle he was looking for—a gift from Alice, Katie's unit secretary, according to the Christmas tag on it—just as Katie padded into the kitchen in navy leggings and an old University of Oregon Health Sciences Center sweatshirt. After handing him a corkscrew, she bent down to scoop cat food into a dish, then turned her attention to collecting plates from a cupboard and silverware from a drawer.

  Moving around her to get glasses, he skimmed over her delicate profile, and watched her give him a soft smile as she slipped behind him to put the plates on the coffee table in the living room. She looked far more at ease than she had at Granetti's, her smile less strained. But he suspected from the way she muttered to herself when she doubled back to get place mats, that she was still as preoccupied as she'd been at the restaurant. As preoccupied as he was himself.

  They'd each been through such days before. Though, thank God, they didn't happen often. And they'd both been around long enough to know that there was nothing for either of them to say. They'd acknowledged the loss. It was enough for him now just to know that there was understanding in silence; to know they could empathize without the words. So, while she set the coffee table, he sidestepped the cat winding itself between his legs, tossed the foam containers in the microwave to heat their cooling contents and took a measure of comfort in knowing that while they both saw Eva Horton differently, each was thinking of her. To him, she was a seventy-four-year-old, female, open-heart with cholesterol readings that went through the roof. Katie, he was fai
rly certain, would be more likely to remember the woman by the way she'd gripped her hand when she'd been frightened, and to recall the little jokes, whatever they were, the two seemed to have shared. Because of that, she would hurt for the family, and for the temporary friend she'd let the patient become.

  She knew better than to get too close, he thought, picking up the fur ball meowing at his feet. She just couldn't always help it. Any more than he could help wanting to make sure she was all right tonight. He never questioned his concern for Katie. Because she'd been part of his life forever, he could let himself feel things with her that he needed to steel himself against with everyone else. A man—a physician—only had so much emotional energy. If he didn't channel it, he'd burn out faster than a sparkler on the Fourth of July.

  Spike pawed his way up his chest, seeking a hug. Obliging the shameless little beggar, Mike was rewarded with a sandpaper lick on the side of his neck. The cat smelled like Katie, he thought, like her perfume or soap or whatever it was that hinted of sunshine and softness and always reminded him of her. The spoiled little animal must have picked up the scent from her clothes and her skin when she held it.

  He didn't know why the thought made him smile.

  "Better?" she asked, her glance moving from the open collar of his shirt and rolled-up sleeves to the way he cuddled her pet.

  "It always helps to ditch the tie."

  "I was referring to what you're doing."

  She didn't look smug. Not exactly. As she reached up and scratched behind the cat's ear, her expression was more like quietly pleased.

  "Are you trying to get me to admit there's something to be said for holding something soft and warm?"

  Her eyes met his, gentle and knowing. "The only thing that keeps you from admitting it is stubbornness."

  She was right, of course. He firmly believed there were physiological benefits to owning a pet. He even recommended them to some of his elderly patients; especially the ones who lived alone. He just liked giving her a hard time about her cat. He wasn't sure why, exactly. Maybe it was because she couldn't tell if he was serious or not, and he liked the look she got when she was trying to figure him out. Maybe it was because she was fun to tease and it wasn't often that he had fun anymore. She was right, though. In a way. He did feel the need to hold something soft and warm. Her pet just wasn't it.

  "I need food." With one hand, he scooped the cat to the floor. "I didn't get any lunch."

  She didn't question the change of subject. She simply held his glance long enough for him to know she knew exactly why he'd had no time for the meal, then turned on her heel to head for the microwave.

  "Food," she announced, wrestling out the steaming containers with a hot pad. "I'll dish up. You load the VCR. Do you want a salad?"

  He told her he wanted anything she put on the table. Since she was sharing his dinner, she contributed a loaf of French bread and a salad she created in thirty seconds by emptying a bag of mixed greens into a bowl, adding what was left of a bag of croutons and tossing the lot with bottled dressing.

  Within two minutes, she and Mike were passing the bread, the wine and watching the opening credits of the movie. Within twenty minutes, the meal was history and each had claimed a spot at opposite ends of the sofa.

  Any other night, the psychological thriller the woman at the video store had recommended would have easily occupied Katie's mind. The plot was full of twists and turns. The pace was breakneck. Yet, an hour into the video, Katie had completely lost track of the story line. Even as she dutifully attempted to concentrate on the images flickering over the screen, her thoughts restively wandered.

  While the attorney on-screen passionately argued his client's case, Katie thought about Eva, about the pacemaker implant in 318, and about how she was never going to get the hang of the new computer program that had been installed that morning. Telling herself to stop thinking about work, she shifted her thoughts to Dana and about the new position her friend had applied for, wishing she had the guts to make some sort of a change herself, but not sure what she'd do if she did find the courage.

  Not liking the direction her thoughts had taken there, either, she shifted her glance from the thread she was picking on the cuff of her sock to where Mike lounged on the opposite end of the sofa. What she really wanted was to shut out distractions the way he seemed to be able to do. He was totally, completely, one hundred and ten percent absorbed in the movie. He always had been able to focus when he wanted to. When he had that intent, intense look on his face, nothing short of an explosion could get his attention.

  She curled up a little tighter in her corner, wondering as she did if he was conscious at all of what he was doing. Somewhere along the line, he'd toed off his shoes and slumped down to rest his head against the back cushions. His long legs were crossed and stretched out ahead of him. Beside him, stretched the length of his thigh and jammed as tight as he could get, was Spike.

  The cat lay on his back, his white belly exposed, eyes closed and clearly relishing the gentle, distracted way Mike's long, elegant fingers slowly stroked his thick fur.

  She wasn't sure what it was about hands that fascinated her. But they did. Her grandma Sheppard's were old and withered, but her fingers were as straight as her spine and her nails always perfectly polished in pale mauve. Her Grandpa Hancock's were gnarled and spotted, his middle finger enlarged with a callus where he held his brush to paint. Her mom's were dainty and soft. Her dad's were blunt. Alice's were always beringed and her nails brightly colored.

  Maybe that was what it was, she thought, Spike's little chest disappearing as Mike's palm covered it. Maybe she found hands interesting because they said so much about a person. Mike's spoke volumes about him. Sinewy and strong, his were incredibly masculine, yet so skilled, so capable of the most delicate, minute motions. His hands held the power to heal, to cure.

  As she watched him idly slip his fingers through the velvety fur, she couldn't help considering what other powers they might hold. A woman couldn't look at hands like that and not wonder how they would feel on her body. At least she hadn't been able to look at his lately without the thought occurring. As patient as he could be, she didn't doubt he'd be an incredible lover. But he could be demanding, too, and that thought was even more provocative.

  With a typical feline change of heart, Spike decided he'd had enough just about the time Katie figured she had, too, and he silently leapt to the floor. Mike, his focus glued on the set and blessedly oblivious to her little flight of fancy, didn't move a muscle. His hand lay exactly where it had fallen when the cat slid from under it.

  Curious to know what held him so rapt, anxious for something—anything—else to occupy her mind, she glanced at the television.

  The images on the screen didn't quite provide the distraction she was looking for. The action had moved from the courtroom to a bedroom. Fifteen feet away, across the coffee table that held their empty plates and half the bottle of wine, the attorney on the screen was relieving his seductive female client of her blouse. He was also engaged in a rather long, decidedly thorough exploration of her tonsils.

  Katie's first thought was that the actress had been surgically enhanced. Her second was that she doubted Mike was considering the surgical technique such enhancement required. But thinking about what was going on in Mike's mind when the woman had been stripped to her garter belt didn't seem like such a good idea. Especially since he was beginning to shift rather uncomfortably on his end of the sofa.

  When the man pushed the woman onto a bed and she clawed his back with her nails, Katie swore she heard Mike groan.

  "I think we should have picked something with a few good chase scenes," he muttered, his attention still riveted on the screen.

  "It started out with one," she offered helpfully.

  "Yeah, well, that was more the sort of action I was in the mood for. All this does is remind me of what I'm missing." The muscle in his jaw jerked as he reached for his glass of wine on the end table. His deep
voice dropped like a rock in a well. "If it weren't for the diseases out there, I'd can the celibacy routine."

  More surprised by the admission than the topic, she murmured, "I know what you mean. It's been so long since I made love I'm sure I've forgotten how."

  "Keep watching." Sitting back, he raised his glass toward the couple on the screen. "I think you're going to be reminded."

  Sure enough. The camera panned down. The man rose up. A female hand clutched the sheet.

  Katie slowly blew out a breath. "Sex is highly overrated."

  "Spoken like one of the deprived."

  "It is," she defended, her attention, like Mike's, fixed on the screen.

  "So's the need for oxygen."

  "Humans can survive without sex."

  The hand clenched again. "Not as a species," he countered.

  "I mean, we can survive longer." An artful close-up of a naked hip—or maybe it was a shoulder—filled the screen. "You can live a whole life without sex, but only minutes without oxygen."

  "Exist," he corrected, over the sounds of heavy breathing and violins. "Some people would say you can exist a whole life without sex."

  Did he feel that he was simply existing? she wondered, not liking the thought at all. "Tell me. Is this discussion we're having practical, or philosophical?"

  "Diversionary."

  "I see. Well, as long as we're diverting ourselves, would you mind answering something for me about the male mind?"

  "Is this going to get me into trouble?"

  "It shouldn't." Pulling her glance from a shot of an arched back, she plucked at the loose thread on her sock again. "I just wondered if men are always after the finish, or if they ever just want to be held, too."

  He hesitated, consideration entering his voice. "It depends on the man. And the woman."

  "That's very diplomatic."

  "Thank you." He shifted again. "More wine?"

  "I'm fine. Thanks." Contemplating the thread, she gave it a tug. "Mike?"

  "Yeah?"