Well, she wasn’t going to complain about her father. He’d been so nice lately, not arguing with her, not nagging her about her bedtime or going over her homework and pointing out every little punctuation error. It was like he’d decided to become cool, all of a sudden.
He hadn’t even made a big fuss about sunscreen before they’d left the house. He’d simply handed her the bottle and walked away, not bothering to check whether she’d covered every square inch of her face with the stuff. Without him bugging her, she’d probably done a more careful job than usual, slathering the lotion not just on her face and arms but down her neck, into the V of her jersey.
It was an ugly jersey, dark-red polyester with black trim on the neckline and sleeves, but the shorts were great, black and shiny like satin. The shin guards and socks made her legs look fat, but all the other girls’ legs looked fat in the shin guards, too, so it didn’t matter. And the socks went all the way up to her knees, so no one would notice how hairy her legs were.
She was going to have to start shaving. Meredith shaved her legs, and she probably didn’t even need to, since she was blond. But eleven wasn’t too young to start, and she was only three months away from turning eleven. She would have to talk to Dr. Dad about it.
Like that would be easy. “Hey, Daddy, would you buy me a razor? I’ve got to do something about my gorilla legs.” Yeah, right.
Maybe she could ask Susannah to talk to him about it.
They were going to have dinner together tonight, just the two of them. Lindsey wasn’t sure what to make of that—except that she thought it was probably not a good thing. Her father and Susannah were a lousy match. Susannah was rich and famous and beautiful, and her father was just a guy, about as ordinary as an Arlington, Connecticut, father could be. And then there was the matter of Susannah’s general love life. Amanda was supposedly getting hold of her sister’s magazine that explained about Susannah’s relationship with Stephen Yates. Lindsey’s father couldn’t hope to compete with a famous actor like Stephen Yates.
Susannah was probably just stringing him along, using him to pass the time until she and Stephen Yates had a flashy million-dollar Hollywood wedding, with tabloid photographers taking pictures through the trees and helicopters spying on them from above. She did seem to like being with Lindsey’s father, but not in a Saturday-night-dinner-out sort of way. Their friendship was more like what he’d had with Cathy’s mom—a next-door-neighbor, I’ll-hang-your-mirror kind of friendship. Lindsey hoped her father didn’t expect more than that from Susannah, because if he did, he was going to get his heart broken. He was so naive about things. He hadn’t dated much since breaking up with that icky lady he’d been with a couple of years ago. Lindsey hadn’t liked her. She’d seemed like a phony.
There was nothing phony about Susannah. She was perfect—but not perfect for Lindsey’s father. If he was looking for true love, he wasn’t going to find it with a Hollywood star. He didn’t even watch TV.
“Which team are you playing today?” he asked as he braked for a red light.
“The Hurricanes.”
“The dreaded Hurricanes,” he said with exaggerated horror.
She decided to play along. “They don’t scare me,” she boasted. “We’re gonna blow them right off the field.”
Her father laughed. He was in such a good mood it was really nice. “You said it, Hot Stuff.”
“How’s that kid?” she asked. “The one with leukemia.”
Her father seemed surprised that she’d asked. Turning the corner, he grinned. “He’s home. Dr. Weiss—that’s his oncologist—decided he could spend a little time at home before his next round of chemo. He’s responding well.”
“Is he bald?”
“His hair is just beginning to fall out, but it’ll grow back.”
Her mother’s never had. Lindsey vaguely remembered her mother when she wasn’t wearing her wig. She’d looked like a baby, with downy strands fuzzing her scalp.
Lindsey shut that image out of her mind. She only wanted to think about today, the sun so bright in the cloudless sky, the azaleas in bloom, the dogwoods thick with blossoms. The Hurricanes were from the southern part of town, mostly kids from Clampitt Hill School. Next year Lindsey would be going to the middle school with Clampitt Hill kids and sixth-graders from the four other primary schools in town. They’d all be classmates then. But right now the Clampitt Hill kids were her soccer enemies, and she had every intention of beating the pants off those wusses on the field.
“So, where are you taking Susannah tonight?” she asked casually, trying to make it sound like just a part of the conversation.
Her father didn’t answer right away. “I was thinking of Dominic’s.”
“That Italian restaurant?” Lindsey rolled her eyes. He was such a dork. “Why don’t you take her to Reynaud?” Reynaud was the fanciest, most expensive restaurant in town. Susannah was probably used to dining at establishments like that.
Her father shot her a glance, then returned his gaze to the road. “You think so? I doubt I’ll be able to get a reservation there. I think you’ve got to book a table weeks in advance.”
“You should have thought of that earlier.” She sighed and shook her head.
“Actually, I thought she’d like something a little less pretentious. Do you know what ‘pretentious’ means?”
“Fancy?”
“More than fancy. Fancy for the sake of showing off and intimidating people.”
“A restaurant can’t intimidate someone like her,” Lindsey argued. “She’s a fancy lady.”
“No, she isn’t. You’ve seen her, Lindsey. She’s always wearing exercise clothes or jeans, and she doesn’t bother with makeup or lots of jewelry. There’s nothing fancy about her.”
“You’ve never taken her out to dinner. You know what those restaurants are like in Hollywood? You have to go to the right one or people think your career is down the tubes. And you have to sit at the right table. If you don’t, people assume you’re washed up.”
He sent her another glance. “How do you know so much about Hollywood restaurants?”
“I read.”
They’d reached the community park where the soccer fields were located. Lindsey spotted several girls in burgundy jerseys identical to hers. “There’s my team,” she said. “Drop me off, okay? They’re starting to warm up.”
Her father stopped the car near the grass and she shoved open the door. Her cleats hit the ground, and then she turned back. “So—about tonight? I mean, you can take her to Dominic’s. It’s probably okay. Just don’t expect too much.”
“Too much what?” he asked, looking puzzled.
She gazed skyward for a minute. He was such a dork. “The thing is…” She tried to think of a tactful way to put it. “Susannah’s a little out of your league, you know?”
He looked like he was wrestling against a grin. “Do you think so?”
“I know so, Dr. Dad. I mean, she’s very, very cool. But kind of from a different planet.”
“Planet Hollywood,” he joked.
She wished he would take her seriously. She was trying to protect his ego, trying to spare him a major hurt. “I know you’ll have a good time,” she said, figuring that would get him to listen to her. “Susannah’s a terrific lady. But she’s…” She’s involved with Stephen Yates, one of the hottest, sexiest stars on TV. “I just don’t think this is going to lead to anything big, you know?”
“We’re having dinner together,” her father insisted. “It’s not supposed to lead to anything at all. It’s just dinner.”
“Okay.” His words reassured her. As long as he knew going in that he wasn’t embarking on a great romance, he wouldn’t be disappointed. She started to back away from the car, then leaned back in. “Oh, and Dad? If you’re gonna cheer, don’t say my name. Just cheer for the Pumas.” She hated when he shouted, “Go, Lindsey,” singling her out like that. “Okay?”
He nodded solemnly. “Okay.”
�
��See ya!” She straightened up, slammed the door and raced across the lawn to her teammates, deciding she wasn’t going to think about her father’s dinner date anymore—at least not until after the game.
SUSANNAH STUDIED herself in the mirror on the back of her closet door—the mirror Toby had hung. She owned jeans and casual clothes, and she owned designer ensembles. But a simple, attractive, modest dress for dinner at a restaurant with Toby?
The skirt she had on had cost eighteen hundred dollars in a Beverly Hills boutique, but despite its price it looked pretty simple, a swirl of gauzy linen that flowed gently around her hips and legs. If Toby didn’t know it was a designer original, he wouldn’t guess. It would have to do.
She wasn’t concerned about her appearance; it was Toby’s reaction she was worried about. She didn’t want him to think she was a show-off—and she certainly didn’t want people at the restaurant to gawk at her and Toby while they ate. She just wanted to be a quiet, private Arlington homeowner having a meal with a friend.
A friend, she emphasized to herself. She and Toby were friends. She wouldn’t let him kiss her. She couldn’t. If he kissed her, she’d want more. She’d want to give more. She’d want to become his lover, and once she was his lover she’d want to rearrange her life around him. She knew the way she was. She had to protect herself from her own foolishness.
The short-sleeved sweater she paired with the skirt was also deceptively plain, a textured weave of unbleached cotton. She fastened pearl studs to her ears and added a gold necklace with a cluster of pearls gathered into a pendant.
She resembled a member of the Junior League, she thought grimly. But that was better than looking like Dr. Lee Davis of Mercy Hospital.
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. She sighed, layered her lips with a slick of rose-tinted gloss and stepped into low-heeled sandals with leather straps crisscrossing her insteps. Another peal of the bell, and she snatched her purse from the dresser and left the bedroom, trying to forget the way Toby had looked standing beside her in the mirror the night he’d hung it—the night she’d been smacked hard in the soul with the recognition that he was an incredibly attractive man.
He stood on the front porch, fresh and casual in beige slacks, a pale-blue shirt and a navy blazer. His dark hair was still damp from a shower, and his eyes glowed with a warmth that put her at ease even as it reminded her of how much she liked him, how much more she could like him if she let herself.
“You look great,” he said. Nothing flowery or fake in his attitude, nothing scripted or plotted. He was the opposite of everything she’d loathed in Los Angeles—the empty values, the fake attitudes, the sense that everyone had a hidden agenda.
Toby might have an agenda, too, she thought as she thanked him for the compliment and locked the front door behind her. She still remembered his kiss—every moment of it, every movement, every sweet nuance. That kiss had probably reflected his agenda—and there was nothing hidden about it.
She shouldn’t have said yes to this invitation. Too late, though—she was already down the front walk, letting him help her into his car. He wasn’t a beast, she reassured herself. He was arguably the most responsible man she’d ever met. Whatever his agenda was, she had nothing to fear, at least not from him. It was herself she ought to be worried about.
“I thought we’d go to Dominic’s,” he said as he backed out of her driveway. “I know you like Italian food—you ate a reasonable facsimile of it at my house.”
“Italian sounds fine.” Within the confines of his car, she could smell his aftershave, a faint, tangy fragrance. She could admire the motions of his hands on the wheel. He had a light, sure touch, his fingers thick but nimble, his nails clean and short. She deliberately turned her gaze to the road ahead.
“Lindsey said I should have taken you to Reynaud,” he added, apparently much more relaxed than she was. “It’s an elegant French restaurant, one of those places where they have one waiter to serve your bread and another to serve your butter. I think it’s a bit much, but if you’d like, we could go there another time.”
Did he feel he had to impress her? “It sounds like a bit much to me, too. Have you ever eaten there?”
“I took my wife there for our tenth anniversary,” he said. “We had a good laugh trying to remember which fork was which.”
His wife. His wife, to whom he’d been married for more than ten years. His wife, who’d given him a daughter and died tragically young, making a mockery of his training and his trust in medicine. Why had he mentioned her? The only reason Susannah could think of was that he wanted to set the tone for the evening: friendly. Not romantic. Love would not be on the menu.
This was good, she decided, determined to shed her tension. It was fine. It was exactly what she wanted.
They reached the restaurant a few minutes later, and she debated whether to don her eyeglasses. Toby was already out of the car and circling to her side before she’d removed them from her purse, so she decided to leave them off. He knew how she felt about attracting attention; he’d seen how awkward it could be. Surely he wouldn’t have taken her to this restaurant if he’d thought there would be a problem.
If the maître d’ recognized her, he gave no indication. He did, however, greet Toby by name: “Dr. Cole! Good to see you. Please follow me.”
He led them to a secluded table in a dark corner. Susannah wondered whether Toby had arranged in advance to be seated in the most private area of the room, so they wouldn’t be bothered by fans.
They busied themselves with their menus for a few minutes. The entrées were more elaborate than the store-bought spaghetti with jarred sauce and rubbery shrimp that Toby had served the last time they’d had dinner together. She ordered a veal dish. He chose seafood, an antipasto platter for them to share and a bottle of Chianti Classico. The waiter took their menus and vanished, leaving Susannah with nothing to look at but Toby’s handsome face.
Did he know she was anxious? Could he guess that she was pathetically inexperienced when it came to dating? She’d never had time to socialize as a teenager, when normal kids were learning how to mingle with the opposite sex. Once she’d turned twenty, her father had hired a public-relations firm to promote her career. The firm had set her up with assorted celebrities with whom she was supposed to be “seen.” That had been the whole point of the exercise; Susannah Dawson would be seen here or there, escorted by this star or that, as if mere proximity to stardom would turn her into a star, as well. She’d struggled through stilted dinners with B-list actors, second-tier rock stars, men on their way up or on their way down. At best, they’d have a few pleasant outings, both of them aware of the artificiality of the arrangement. At worst, photographers would capture them on film, and she’d find herself in one or another tabloid, the picture carrying a caption insinuating that true love was just around the corner for up-and-coming actress Susannah Dawson.
The fact was, she didn’t know how to date.
Toby seemed completely comfortable, however. His face was tanned, his posture relaxed as he sipped his wine. “I spent this afternoon at a soccer game,” he told her. “Lindsey’s team won big. She plays midfield. She got two assists.”
Susannah smiled. Surely no man who intended to get romantic would talk about his daughter.
“I don’t know much about soccer,” she admitted.
“I didn’t know anything about it until Lindsey started playing a few years ago.” He proceeded to explain the game to her, what it meant to play midfield, how until last year Lindsey had played on six-person teams, but once she’d turned ten she’d moved up to the older league, where the children played on larger fields and each team had eleven players.
If the evening continued in this vein, with the conversation centering on Lindsey and sports, Susannah would be fine.
The antipasto arrived, a platter heaped with prosciutto, plum tomatoes, sprigs of basil, slabs of fresh mozzarella, olives and herbs drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Toby solicitously advised her on what
to try and how to soak the cheese in the dark vinegar before she ate it. He was definitely in a fatherly mood, she acknowledged, feeling more of her tension drain away. She could imagine him counseling Lindsey on how to get the most out of the antipasto, too.
“So,” Susannah said, transferring a strip of prosciutto to her plate, “tell me how you wound up becoming a pediatrician.”
The question caught him unprepared. “I thought you were going to come and observe me at work.”
“I intend to.” She truly did, once she was sure she could avoid a dangerously intimate involvement with him—and once she had him clearly separated in her mind from the pediatrician character she’d created for her script. “Maybe next week, if that would be all right with you. But meantime, tell me about your work. Did you always want to be a pediatrician?”
He laughed. She noticed his dimples, the tiny laugh lines extending from the outer edges of his eyes, the even white of his teeth. “I don’t think anyone grows up dreaming of becoming a pediatrician. A doctor, maybe, but choosing a pediatrics specialty isn’t what little kids set their sights on.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not dramatic. As far as I can tell, people become doctors because they want to save the world, they want to get rich or they’re good in science and can’t think of anything better to do with that ability. Of course, nowadays, with managed care, only a fool would become a doctor because he wanted to get rich.”
“So which are you? Do you want to save the world or did you have an aptitude for science?”
“A little of both, I guess.” Their entrees arrived. Toby waited until the waiter was gone before he elaborated. “My older brother was a golden boy. A triple-threat athlete—football, basketball, lacrosse—and a straight-A student. Officer on the student council. Winner of the oratory competition. Recruited by colleges from coast to coast. I guess I figured there was nothing left for me to do but save the world.”
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