“I’m going to give Frank the good news, and then maybe I ought to go and get cleaned up a little.” Morgan flexed her aching shoulders and sent a fervent thank-you to the angels as the team applied themselves to the laborious task of cleaning and repairing Pam’s abdominal cavity.
The nurses who were assisting knew both Pam and Celia, and now that the emergency was over they plied Morgan with questions about the wedding ceremony, shaking their heads in amazement and then laughing when she told them about the wine.
“The pastor thought it was for me, and boy, was I tempted,” she joked. “One thing for sure, nobody who was there today is ever likely to forget Celia’s wedding.”
They all laughed again, and Morgan lingered a moment longer, enjoying the warm, cozy sense of family she experienced so often here in the delivery room after the safe arrival of a child.
Here she knew exactly who she was and what she’d been born to do.
Chapter Two
Morgan went straight from the emergency OR to talk to Frank, giving him a congratulatory hug and then taking all the time necessary to explain exactly what had occurred. It was the better part of an hour before Pam’s abdomen was repaired, and the moment the procedure was over, Morgan took Frank to Pam’s bedside in recovery.
She was there when her patient awakened, able to witness Pam holding her daughter for the first time, and Morgan’s heart overflowed with joy when she finally left the little family alone.
In the bathroom, she sang at the top of her lungs as she scrubbed her face and hands, aware for the first time that her dress was a spectacular mess, bloodstained, creased and even tom near the hem. She mopped halfheartedly at the worst of the stains with a dripping cloth, remembering too late that the blue fabric puckered when it got wet.
Drat. Now the skirt hiked up in front so that her slip showed in a wide white arc.
Well, she was properly wrecked, but what the heck. It was for a good cause. Besides, she’d snatched the dress off a sale rack two days before because she had nothing suitable for the wedding, not because it had been an inspired choice.
Not that she ever had inspired choices where clothing was concerned, she told herself with a wry grin at the mirror, noting that the freckles on her nose were standing out like signposts and her red curls looked as if an electric current had recently passed through them.
Rain always did that to her hair. She needed a hairbrush in the worst way, and she remembered now that she’d left her purse on the seat of the pew in the church. Her keys were in it, as well as her wallet, which meant she was going to have to borrow cab fare to get back to the church and rescue her belongings.
It suddenly dawned on her that her shoes were also missing. She looked down at her bare toes protruding from what was left of her panty hose, and she had to giggle at this final calamity. She hiked up her skirt and stripped the hose off, tossing them into the wastebasket before heading for the staff lounge. With any luck there’d be someone around with ten dollars they could lend her for taxi fare. She burst into the lounge whistling a cheerful tune, and stopped short.
“Dr. Jacobsen? Good heavens, what’s happened to you?”
The cultured voice with its distinctive English accent belonged to a tall, broad-shouldered man in an impeccably tailored gray suit over a soft white shirt and charcoal silk tie.
Like her, Luke Gilbert was an obstetrician. Unlike her, he dressed for success. When Morgan first met him, she couldn’t believe anyone would wear such obviously expensive clothes to deliver babies.
Lean and graceful, he was seated now on the old brown couch under the high window, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. The overhead light glanced across the clean, strong bones of his face as he stared at her. After a second he rose to his feet and walked closer, towering over her, his thick dark brows furrowed as he took in the full extent of the damage.
“You’ve had an accident?” He had a good mouth, but he didn’t use it for smiling much.
Morgan resisted the urge to tug her puckered dress down over her bare knees. “Nope, just an emergency delivery. It was really something, cord prolapse.” She explained the circumstances, doing her best to mask the intense discomfort and annoyance she felt. “We had a beautiful baby girl. Kind of flat at first but a real winner when she got going. All’s well that ends well.”
Morgan hoped she sounded a lot more breezy than she felt. Wouldn’t you know that flawless Dr. Gilbert would be around just when she was looking her absolute worst? Of all the doctors she knew, he was the last one she’d have chosen to see today. Any day, actually. He bothered her in a way she couldn’t rationally explain.
“I’ve had only one prolapse myself. It’s not my idea of a good time,” he remarked.
“Mine, either. Especially not in church.”
Four years ago, there’d been intense excitement and high speculation among the female staff at St. Joe’s when this man appeared on the scene. Morgan had been working at the hospital then as chief resident in obstetrics. She remembered how the hospital grapevine quickly circulated the fact that Dr. Gilbert was thirty-six, a recent widower and the father of an eleven-year-old daughter.
Gossip had it he’d moved to Vancouver from Victoria when his wife died in a car accident. He’d joined a small general practice, but his specialty was OB-GYN.
It was obvious to every woman who ever laid eyes on him that he was all male and totally desirable, and Morgan hadn’t been impervious to his attraction, although she didn’t like to admit it to herself. She’d certainly never told a living soul that he’d starred in a series of highly erotic x-rated dreams that plagued her for months. She was long over them now, thank goodness, but the memory still made her highly uncomfortable around him.
During his first few months at St. Joe’s, Morgan had watched as he was actively pursued by a stampede of eager females, but the furor had eventually died down. Word went out that Luke Gilbert was polite, remote, and unavailable. It soon became evident that he spent most of his time working; he even volunteered several evenings a week in the ER. Anyone who did that was tagged a hopeless workaholic.
Morgan knew him professionally, of course. They’d even consulted occasionally. He had a good reputation, and she’d seen him often before she’d taken the job at Women’s Place.
She hadn’t seen him much since leaving the hospital, and she hadn’t missed him, either, Morgan assured herself. Luke Gilbert was too well-groomed, too quiet, too self-contained, too unemotional. All the things she emphatically wasn’t. How could a man who’d chosen to deliver babies be unemotional, for Pete’s sake?
“Can I be of any assistance, Morgan? You seem to have lost your shoes.” She realized he was trying not to stare at her bare feet, and she suddenly found it funny that he’d be the one in the lounge at this precise moment. She grinned up at him, way up. He was more than a foot taller than her.
“The shoes don’t matter, but I need to borrow some money, Luke. Ten dollars if you can spare it, for a taxi. I left my purse at the church, and my Jeep’s in a lot on Davie Street.”
“Of course.” He was pulling out a leather wallet before she finished speaking, holding out a twenty. “I’d take you down to get your Jeep myself,” he said as he proffered the money, “but I’ve got a patient arriving who sounds as if she’s about to deliver.”
“No problem. I can call a cab. Thanks a lot.” Morgan accepted the bill, careful not to touch his fingers. She was uncomfortably aware of his nearness, and also of the fact that she hadn’t gotten all the blood specks off her arm.
“I’ll get this back to you. I’ll leave the money with Edna next time I’m in.” Edna was everyone’s favorite nurse on Maternity.
“Perhaps we could arrange to meet for lunch one day next week instead?” Luke’s green eyes met hers, and one brow lifted in inquiry.
For an insane moment, Morgan misunderstood, and something inside her went still.
“You see, I’d very much like to talk to you about Women’s Place,”
he added. “I’ve taken a position there. Jenkins had me in for an interview a week ago last Friday, and it went well. As you probably know, I’ve been doing general practice, but I’d prefer to get back to my specialty. It seems we’ll be working together.”
Morgan could only stare at him, dumbfounded.
Luke Gilbert, working with her at Women’s Place? Of course she’d known the small, popular clinic had to hire another doctor. She was the one who’d insisted that there was far too much work for the staff they had, that they were forced to turn too many patients away.
An uncharacteristic torrent of confused and angry emotion swept over her. Too much work or not, the one thing she was absolutely certain of, even though she didn’t fully understand why, was that she did not—did not—want Luke Gilbert working with her.
She wouldn’t have him, and that was that. She’d tell Jenkins first thing Monday morning that Dr. Gilbert was the only obstetrician in the entire western hemisphere with whom she simply could not get along.
She remembered now that Jenkins had called her several times this past week, asking her to return his messages, and of course she hadn’t. She’d been run off her feet. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she remembered also that she’d turned down his offer to interview suitable applicants. Again, she’d simply been too busy.
Well, she’d have to make her position clear now, despite her earlier carelessness. Incompatible personalities, she’d claim. Or should that be conflicting beliefs? Whatever the wording, the meaning was the same.
“About lunch,” she managed to croak. “I’ll have to check my appointment book and let you know.” As if she’d ever kept such a thing as an up-to-date personal appointment book.
“Of course. Whenever it’s convenient,” he agreed in that terribly polite English fashion.
That’ll be about two weeks after hell freezes over. “Good. I’ll be in touch then,” she said with a bright, phony smile and a silly wave as she headed out the door and down the hall.
She phoned for a cab and was standing on the sidewalk in front of the Emergency exit waiting for its arrival before she realized it was raining harder than ever and her feet were still bare.
She was the most peculiar little woman. Luke knew she was one of the most sought after obstetricians in the city, and she was certainly the only woman he’d ever met who paid no attention whatsoever to her appearance.
He shook his head. He’d actually thought for an instant that she’d been assaulted, with her dress stained and askew, her shapely legs and tiny feet bare of shoes or stockings. She looked far more like a wayward child than a doctor if you discounted the ample breasts underneath that hideous garment she’d been wearing.
Luke stood where she’d left him, wondering what he’d said to cause the hostility so evident in her eyes and voice before she’d scampered away. She had the translucent skin that so often went with that shade of fiery hair, and he suspected she had a temper to match. Bright flags of angry color had stained her high cheekbones, and her big chocolate brown eyes had flashed a warning at him, as if he’d insulted her instead of simply suggesting a business lunch.
Women. He didn’t begin to understand them, in spite of the fact that his work necessitated contact of the most intimate sort. With a hiss of impatience, he dismissed Morgan Jacobsen and stalked off to find out what had become of his patient.
Forty-five minutes after she’d left St. Joe’s, Morgan finally drove her battered red Jeep into the garage behind her house, grateful to be home at last. She climbed out, wincing as the dratted beige pumps rubbed at the blister on her right heel. So much for shoving bare wet feet into uncomfortable shoes, she thought as she climbed the rickety back stairs. Must see about getting these steps replaced this week.
The old house she’d bought constantly needed something fixed, and she thought that was probably why it had appealed to her so much. Perfection just wasn’t her thing.
She opened the door, and a blast of rock music greeted her. Linkin Park’s “Burn It Down,” which she knew only because she’d heard it fifty million times. What ever happened to The Rolling Stones?
Obviously her foster daughter, Tessa, was home, and there’d been no sign of Dylan Volger’s motorcycle in the driveway, which was a relief. Morgan was not fond of Tessa’s boyfriend.
“Hi, Tess,” she hollered, bracing herself against the ecstatic barrage of animals that met her just inside the kitchen door.
“Major, sit.” The floppy eared golden retriever dropped obediently to the floor, but Skippy, the small black poodle, went on jumping and barking a shrill, high greeting. He was deaf, and Morgan was trying to teach him some signs, but it wasn’t working very well. He bounded around hysterically while Flower, the kitten, wound intricate patterns around her ankles.
“I’m in here,” Tessa yelled above the racket, and Morgan limped across the kitchen and into the living room.
“Hiya, Morgan. So, how was the wedding?” Tessa Hargraves uncurled herself from the depths of the old green couch in front of the fireplace and struggled to her feet. She still had ten weeks before her due date, and even though her baby was small, her skinny fifteen-year-old frame still seemed too fragile to bear the weight of her pregnancy.
She looked at Morgan and whistled between her teeth. “Man, look at you. You’re a disaster. And you’re soaked to the skin! What the heck happened to that dress?” She tipped her head with its purple spikes of hair to one side and regarded Morgan curiously.
“I’ll never wear these blasted shoes again.” Morgan kicked them off and bent down to stroke and pat her menagerie, raising her voice to be heard. “Turn the music down a couple of hundred decibels, would you, please?”
Tessa went over to the wall unit, and the music subsided to a bearable level. “Want some tea? I made chocolate chip cookies, they turned out pretty good.” Her heart shaped face shone with pride at her accomplishment. She’d never cooked before she’d come to live at Morgan’s four months ago, but it was fast becoming her hobby.
“I’d love some. Put the kettle on and I’ll go upstairs and change. Can you believe this dress?”
Tessa studied the hopelessly puckered garment, and a gamin grin spread across her pretty features. “Looks like you oughta take it back and tell 'em it shrank when you took a bath in it.” She giggled, and when Morgan did a clumsy pirouette, they both laughed aloud.
Ten minutes later, in comfortable, worn jeans and a much-washed sweatshirt that might have once been green, Morgan walked, still barefoot, into the kitchen. Tessa had cleared a small space amidst the clutter on the antique wooden table. Two mismatched mugs sat waiting beside an enormous yellow teapot and a platter of lumpy cookies.
Morgan plopped down on a chair with a grateful sigh. The dogs vied for the most strategic position and finally arranged themselves at her feet, while Flower, the small marmalade kitten with only one eye, settled on her lap. Flower was Morgan’s most recent acquisition from the pound.
“Okay, so what went down? Like, how’d you get totally destroyed just going to a wedding?” Tessa bit half a cookie and munched on it, her wide hazel eyes filled with anticipation as Morgan began to talk, deliberately leaving out the serious aspects of Pam’s situation and turning the dramatic events of the day into a comedy for her foster daughter’s enjoyment.
“And would you believe the organist went right on playing right through the whole thing, the most mournful music ever.”
Outside, the rainy Saturday afternoon darkened into evening. Water spilled down the window panes. Mud gurgled in the gutters, and as she talked, Morgan was aware of the coziness of her kitchen, of the contentment and happiness that filled her. She relished the growing closeness she and Tessa seemed to be developing. It had been hard at first to gain even a fraction of the girl’s trust.
The fact that Morgan disliked and distrusted Dylan Vogler, the seventeen-year-old youth who’d fathered Tessa’s baby, had caused heated discussions between them and a certain amount of resentment on Tes
sa’s part.
But the young girl looked relaxed and even happy today, Morgan mused as she described in hilarious detail looking into the mirror after the emergency was over, finding blood all over her face, realizing her feet were bare and her slip was showing. Tessa’s chortling giggle delighted her.
“Doncha’ know nobody wears slips anymore? Man, we’ve gotta get you in a program.”
Four short months ago, when Tessa had first come to live with her, Morgan had wondered if the youngster had ever smiled in her entire life, or had a decent meal, either. But Tessa had put on a few much needed pounds recently. Her face was slightly fuller than it had been her arms a shade less skeletal. And Morgan was less concerned about the baby than she’d been at first. Good nutrition and the fact that Tess had stopped smoking had greatly improved the chances that the fetus would reach normal birth weight
Morgan felt like thumbing her nose at the people who’d felt compelled to make dire predictions of doom when she’d first decided to take Tessa Hargraves into her home.
Tessa had been in foster care most of her short life, she had a gold ring in her right nostril, another in her left eyebrow and six more in each ear. She was tough, streetwise, rebellious and pregnant, which even Morgan had to admit was a daunting combination, but the experiment was working out well.
It would be even better if Tessa dumped Dylan, but perhaps that was too much to ask, too soon.
All in all, it was great fun having a foster daughter, Morgan mused. It was wonderful to have someone to come home to on a rainy afternoon. Much as she adored her dogs and the kitten, they’d sure never managed to make her tea and cookies.
So the kitchen was a bit of a disaster area, with pots and mixing bowls scattered on every surface, and drying remnants of chocolate dough spattered on the floor, the counter and the cupboard doors. This mess didn’t bother Morgan one bit. Messes never had. To her, people mattered. Animals mattered. Feelings mattered. Messes? Phooey. They could always be mopped up.
The Baby Doctor Page 2