Lacey froze, feeling awkward and a little silly, wondering if she should announce her own presence, then thinking how gauche that would sound. She heard a stall door open, then another, and then two sets of footsteps again, this time entering the stalls.
"She really is lovely," Helen said. Two latches clicked shut. "And quite charming, as well."
"Yes." That was Fiona. "Those gorgeous big blue eyes and that angelic face—you did hear the story, didn't you?"
Dread. Lacey felt it. Like a lead weight in her stomach. She knew what was coming.
And it was.
"Of course," Helen said. "Jenna Bravo's sister. An affair that resulted in pregnancy. A marriage was probably the best choice, under the circumstances. And they certainly do appear devoted to each other."
Lacey leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the stall door thinking, It's too late to speak up now.
She lifted her head, straightened her shoulders.
Buck up, she silently instructed herself. The things they're saying are only the truth.
"Yes," said Fiona. "I think it's all working out rather well. It's obvious Logan is thoroughly taken with her. I think a lot of it is—oh, how to say it—physical? But there's nothing necessarily wrong with that, now is there? Over time, I'm sure the relationship will deepen and mature."
One toilet flushed, and then the other.
Lacey thought. That's all. They're going to shut up now.
They weren't.
Helen said, "I understand you've been taking her under your wing."
"I have," Fiona replied. "I really do enjoy her. And I think, as time goes by, she'll settle down. She did have a few problems as a high school girl. Wild antics and crazy pranks. And she ran away a lot, from what I've been able to find out. But all that's in the past. Nothing to worry about now, from what I can see. I'm trying to guide her along a little, to get her involved with the auxiliary at Miner's General and a few other important pet projects of mine. She insists she doesn't have the time, that she's going to make something of herself as an artist."
"So I heard." The stall latches clicked again, the women's shoes echoed on the marble tiles.
Lacey remained absolutely still. She thought, I will be quiet. I will be tactful. I will do what my sister would have done under these circumstances. I will wait here with my mouth shut until they leave.
Water ran in the basins. Fiona declared, "Marrying Logan is the best thing that ever could have happened to her. She's been living hand-to-mouth in Los Angeles the past several years, hoping her art would someday support her." The water stopped. Lacey heard the whisk-thump of paper towels being pulled from dispensers. "It's sad, I think, a bright, sweet girl like that, with such big dreams and no hope of their ever coming true."
That did it. It was just one condescending remark too many.
Lacey whirled and hit the flush button, though she'd never gotten around to using the toilet. Maybe it was small-minded of her, but she found the corresponding hush from the sink area gratifying in the extreme.
Then she turned back to the door, clicked open the latch and exited the stall, shoulders back and chin aimed high.
Fiona and Helen turned from the mirrors with matching expressions of mortified horror.
Fiona found her voice first. It sounded slightly choked. "Uh, Lacey. Oh, my…"
Lacey granted Fiona a blinding smile as she stepped up to the sink and flipped on the gold-tone faucet. She squirted soap onto her palm and stuck her hands beneath the water, sending a second smile, as dazzling as the first, in the doctor's direction.
She said sweetly, "You two really ought to find a more private setting for your intimate conversations."
Fiona started to speak, and then coughed instead. Helen merely continued to look dismayed.
Lacey turned off the water and yanked a towel from the dispenser. "I'll tell you what. Sometime in the next year or so, I'm having a major show of some of my most recent paintings, in Los Angeles—have you heard about my show?"
Both women, in unison, swung their heads from side-to-side.
Lacey wadded her towel and tossed it in the trash. "Well, you have now. And of course, you will both be invited. Can I count on you to come?"
"Ahem, well…" said Helen.
"I … really … I…" stammered Fiona.
"A simple yes or no from each of you will do."
Fiona blinked. And then she actually said, "Of course I'll come, Lacey."
And Helen said, "Well. Thank you for inviting me. I'll do my best to attend."
"Terrific." Lacey fluffed her hair and straightened her midnight-blue sequined sheath—no leaks yet, thank God. "I can't tell you how much I'll enjoy having both of you there." She turned, edged around the dazed-looking Fiona and headed for the exit door, pausing before she went out to remark pleasantly, "This has been a great party. But the chicken Kiev was just a tad dry, didn't you think?"
Fiona and Helen looked at each other. They both nodded.
"Yes," said Fiona.
"A little dry," Helen concurred.
* * *
Chapter 15
« ^ »
During the drive home, Lacey told Logan all about the incident in the ladies' room.
He did not look pleased when she related the things Fiona and Helen had said, but then a half-smile curved his lips as she described how she'd marched out of the stall and spoken right up to them.
And then he said what she already knew. "You probably would have been wiser to have spoken up right away—or to have left it alone and kept quiet until they left."
"I agree, but you know how I am." She leaned across the console and touched a finger to his lips. "And I saw that smile. You don't completely disapprove of the way I reacted."
He caught her hand, kissed the fingers, then let go to execute a turn.
"And besides," she said. "I like Fiona. And Helen's basically okay, too. They can be a little stuffy, but they're still good at heart—a lot like you, actually, in that respect."
"Oh, I'm stuffy, am I?"
"If the lab coat fits … but it's okay. I love you anyway. And if I hadn't stood up to those women right then, I would have had to do it later, or ended up resenting them. This way, we all know where we stand."
"No doubt about that." He cast her a look. "And what about this L.A. opening you invented out of thin air?"
She hesitated, not sure she wanted to get into the subject of the call she hoped to receive from Belinda Goldstone.
He prompted, "Well?"
"I think I'll play that by ear."
He sent her another glance, an amused one this time. "I guess you will."
She waited a little nervously for him to say something else about the supposed art show. But he didn't. So she let it go. She'd stick with her original plan and tell him after she knew more—if it turned out there actually was more. It was always possible that both Barnaby and Xavier had misread the art dealer's reaction.
Maybe, in the end, there would be no call from Belinda Goldstone. That thought made her feel more than a little deflated.
But then she reminded herself of the painting she'd been working on, the one of the twins. It was coming together pretty well. She was working again. She did have talent and she wasn't going to give up, whether Belinda Goldstone offered to be her dealer or not.
* * *
Rosie was hungry when they got home. And Lacey was more than ready to feed her. Logan paid the sitter and drove her home.
When he returned, they took Rosie to bed with them. They snuggled in, all three of them, and turned on the television in the sitting area to a channel that was playing an old Hitchcock thriller. Rosie fell asleep first, cuddled between them.
Lacey dropped off soon after that. She woke a little later to find her husband snoring softly and her baby still sound asleep as well, sucking her tiny fist. On the television, Tippi Hedren screamed under brutal attack by a flock of furious crows. Lacey found the remote and pointed it at the televisi
on.
The screen went black. She kissed her baby and brushed her husband's dark hair off his forehead.
"And Fiona thinks it's mostly physical," she murmured fondly. Then she pulled the covers close and joined her family in sleep.
* * *
Fiona called the next day to apologize. "I was completely out of line to speak that way of you. I've just been agonizing that you're going to hate me."
Lacey said, "I don't hate you, Fiona. I like you. And I agree with a lot of what you said last night."
"You … you do?"
"Absolutely. Marrying Logan is the best thing that ever happened to me. And since I'm the best thing that ever happened to him, I'd say we're an excellent match."
Fiona took a moment to digest that bit of logic. Then she chuckled. "Lacey, my dear, you are a breath of fresh air. Tell me, can I still count on you for Saturday? The Aid to the Indigent rummage sale?"
Lacey assured Fiona that yes, she'd be there to handle a booth.
"And about those reminder calls…"
"I made the first set already. And I'll call everyone again in the next couple of days."
"You are an angel."
"Well, I wouldn't go that far."
* * *
At one o'clock Monday afternoon, Belinda Goldstone called.
At first, she spoke in hushed, awe-struck tones, praising the nine figure studies she'd seen in Barnaby Cole's studio, calling them fresh and exciting and "hauntingly sensual."
Then she got down to business. "As I'm sure you've guessed by now, I would like to represent your work. Now, I know this is a lot to take in all at once, but as it turns out, I have an unexpected hole in my gallery's schedule."
One of her artists, she explained, had moved to New York.
"The SoHo scene has gone to his head," Belinda grumbled. "The wretched little ingrate has jumped ship to go with a dealer there. He was scheduled to show in March. I'd like to put you in his slot. We'd hang the paintings I saw at Barnaby Cole's studio, of course. And do you have anything else that's ready to show … or could be ready by then?"
Lacey felt slightly dizzy. Six months. Six months until her first major show, a one-woman show. With Belinda Goldstone's gallery.
"The silence is deafening," said Belinda. "Am I pushing too fast? We could wait until next October. Would that be better? That will give you a full year to—"
"No. No, March should be fine."
"You sound unsure."
"I'm not. It's just … what you said. A lot to take in. But I have a few other paintings stored at Barnaby's. You could take a look at them. And I've been working on some things more recently, too." She was thinking of the painting of Mira and Maud, of some ideas she had that would center on Rosie—and the sketches she'd done of Logan, asleep in the cabin in Wyoming. She'd been planning to do more with those very soon.
"We must meet in person as soon as you can manage it," said Belinda. "You'll see. The next six months will fly by. We have to get started. We have to firm up the business end. And I want to visit your friend Barnaby again—but together this time—to discuss the work you have at his studio. When can you come?"
Lacey heard herself announcing that she could come right away.
* * *
Logan didn't get home until after nine that night.
Lacey fed him and listened to the details of a doctor's day: the seven-year-old who had almost died of an asthma attack, the sweet elderly widower who refused to take his meds, the thirty-five-year-old woman who had fallen off her roof trying to coax her cat down out of a maple tree.
"Compound fracture of the left tibia." He shook his head. "What a mess. Shouldn't an adult woman know better?"
Lacey wiggled her eyebrows at him. "You're asking me?"
They laughed together. The previous September, right at the end of their five-day affair, Lacey had put her foot through the ceiling of one of the upstairs bedrooms in the house that had been her mother's. She'd been searching the attic for Jenna's cat, which had vanished not long before. She'd ended up with a broken foot—and the cat had shown up over a week later, in another part of town.
"What is it with women and cats?" Logan asked. Since the question sounded thoroughly rhetorical, Lacey only shrugged.
Once Logan had eaten, Lacey poured him a brandy and led him upstairs. They sat on the sofa in the sitting area of their bedroom.
He swirled his brandy, sipped and set his glass on the coffee table. "Should we check on Rosie?"
"I'd say we have approximately…" She glanced at her watch, and then at the baby monitor across the room, on the nightstand by the bed, "…a half hour, and we'll be hearing from her."
"Better enjoy every second of quiet, then."
"My sentiments exactly."
He laid his arm along the sofa back. She snuggled up close and leaned her head on his shoulder.
His lips brushed the crown of her head. "It's good to be home."
"Um…" She rubbed her cheek against the starched cloth of his dress shirt, thinking how she liked this time the best, in the evenings, when he came home to her and they sat together—talking, laughing, sharing what had happened in their respective days.
"So tell me," he said, "what's been going on around here?"
It was the moment she'd been waiting for, time to tell him her news.
Her pulse had picked up. She was a little nervous, a little worried about how he would take this, given the way he'd reacted the last time she'd mentioned the dealer who just might be interested in showing her work.
Logan laughed, a low, pleasant sound, warm and deep in her ear. "What? Total boredom? Nothing to report?"
She ordered her silly heartbeat to slow down. "As a matter of fact, I do have some news."
"What?"
She raised her head from its comfortable niche on his shoulder. It seemed wiser, somehow, to look at him when she told him.
He frowned. "What? Is something wrong?"
"No. No, not at all."
"Then…?"
Her mouth had gone as dry as a long stretch of desert road. She gulped, licked her lips.
"Lacey? What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Really. I only…"
"You only what?"
She said it. "Belinda Goldstone called today."
He just looked at her.
She gulped again. "Belinda … offered me a show—my own show—at her gallery, six months from now."
"Your own show," he repeated, each word slow and cautious.
She nodded. What was he thinking? She couldn't tell. She barreled ahead. "She needs to meet with me right away. So I said I'd fly down to L.A. tomorrow, and stay at least until Saturday. We'll get to know each other a little, make some decisions about what to include in the show—well, I mean, beyond those nine paintings I told you about, the ones of you?" She made herself pause, aware she was talking way too fast.
A black hole of silence followed. Cold fingers of dread tracked their way down her spine. He wasn't taking this well. He wasn't taking it well at all.
She didn't know what else to do, so she babbled out more information. "And Friday night, as it turns out, there's a show opening at Belinda's gallery. So I said I'd be there for that. It will be a great way to get the word out that she'll be handling my work."
She stopped again, for a breath—and because it seemed that she ought to give him a chance to talk.
He didn't talk. He just went on staring at her. She couldn't bear that. She prattled on. "I'd love for you to go, too, if you could manage it. I booked a flight for me and Rosie today, while I was making all the other arrangements, but I'm sure I could find one for all of us, if you'd come. I'm leaving tomorrow, staving with my friend Adele. But if you come, we can just go ahead and get a—"
He raised a hand. She fell silent in mid-sentence.
"Let me get this straight," he said. "You're dragging Rosie to L.A. with you. And you're leaving tomorrow." His voice was utterly flat.
She stared at him, sh
ocked by the look of pure disdain in his eyes.
"Well?" he demanded.
She made herself answer in a low, careful tone, all her former manic brightness fled. "Yes, Logan. I'm leaving tomorrow. And as for Rosie, well, what else would I do? She's nursing, so I have to be around to feed her."
"You're dragging her all over L.A. with you, to meet an art dealer? And to some art party?"
"No. I'm not dragging her anywhere. I have it all worked out. Adele loves babies. She's promised to baby-sit."
"All right. So you're flying to Los Angeles tomorrow to meet Belinda Goldstone. You're taking our daughter with you, and some artist friend of yours has promised to watch her."
"Logan, if you'd only—"
"Just tell me. Have I got it right?"
She pulled back to her side of the sofa, shock giving way to anger—anger that tightened her stomach and brought a hot flush to her cheeks. "Yes," she said, her tone as flat as his. "You've got it right."
"I suppose you knew about this the other night," he accused, "when you came up with that crack about your L.A. opening to put Helen and Fiona in their places. You knew then, didn't you, and you never said a word to me?"
The anger inside her burned hotter. She kept her voice low with great effort. "No, Logan. I didn't know. I hoped. But I didn't know any of this until Belinda called this afternoon."
That stopped him. For a few seconds, anyway. But he wasn't about to let the fact that he'd judged her unfairly slow him down for long. He shook his head—in disgust, or disbelief, or some distressing combination of the two. "You could have talked to me before you made your plans."
Stay cool, she told herself. It's not going to help if you start yelling at him.
"I know," she said, each word precise, strictly controlled. "I probably should have talked to you first. But I got excited. I agreed to meet her right away. And then I didn't want to call you and try to discuss it while you were taking care of patients. It just seemed wiser to go ahead and make my plans, and then explain everything when you got home."
He made a low sound in his throat, a sound that dismissed her, a sound that disregarded everything she'd said. "This is totally irresponsible of you. Rosie is barely two months old. And you are nursing. You can't leave her for long."
THE M.D. SHE HAD TO MARRY Page 15