She entered his room to find him sitting up in his crib, having a very serious conversation with Jiffy, his stuffed giraffe. When he saw her, he dropped the toy, smiled flirtatiously, and placed his hands over his face.
“Pee pie, Mama,” he said, dropping his hands and speaking in a whisper. And she melted into the floor, like she did every time he called her Mama. She still felt a little guilty about that. But the child psychologist she had consulted with after David and Sheridan Avery Cooper’s plane went down had not only approved but encouraged her to gently lead him into calling her Mama. At seventeen months, Avery had been blissfully unaware that his adoptive parents were never coming home. Now, five months later, they would have faded from his memory altogether. At least that’s what Dr. Fields had said.
“Pee pie, yourself,” she said and pushed his straight, abundant hair off his face and tried to smooth the cowlick above his right eye. Where that ash blond hair had come from she did not know, but she was grateful for it. Had he been dark-headed, like Will and herself, she might not have dared to move to Merritt.
And she had needed to move to Merritt. Daycare and long hospital hours in a city with no family nearby had simply not been working. She knew that almost right away, but it had taken until mid-December to make the arrangements to move.
After spending the holidays with Luke and Lanie, they had encouraged her to stay with them permanently in the Avery family farmhouse but she had declined. She liked Lanie, even loved her on some level—loved how she loved Luke, Emma, and John Luke. But it had been hard to watch her marry Luke, hard to hear Carrie’s little girl call her Mommy.
But this apartment, located above Heavenly Confections, Lanie’s candy shop, was perfect. It was within walking distance to work, the shops, and church. Best of all, Lanie had turned the apartment across from Arabelle’s into a little home away from home for the children. Lanie had hired Judith Garth the minute word got out that she was retiring from her teaching job and was looking for a child to watch. John Luke, who was two months older than Avery, spent his days across the hall with Judith; five-year-old Emma joined them after kindergarten let out at noon. Judith had been happy to take on Avery as well, especially when she saw how good-natured he was. Not only did Avery get to be with his cousins, Lanie popped in and out from downstairs all day and Luke often walked over from his chambers in the courthouse to have lunch with them.
And Arabelle would be able to do the same. Unlike surgeons, family practice doctors usually got to eat lunch at lunchtime.
She lifted Avery from the crib. “Do you have wet pants?” she asked.
“No.” He vehemently shook his head and his blue eyes went wide. The heaviness of his night diaper said otherwise.
“I think you might,” she said, laying him on the changing table. “What do you say we get you a bath?”
Lanie, who was a master chocolatier, came to work early to make candy and she usually turned John Luke over to Judith to bathe and dress. Arabelle could have done the same with Avery, and she might have to sometimes, but not this morning.
She’d already missed too many baths.
“Jiffy a dirty boy?” Avery said in his sweet soft little voice.
“No, no, no!” Arabelle gave him a tickle under the chin, careful not to really tickle him. Tickling could be nothing short of torture for a child, no matter how well meaning the adult. All the books said so. “Avery’s the dirty boy.”
“Avery not dirty. Avery hungry.”
Judith was also willing to give him breakfast, but Arabelle would do that too. After all, how much longer would he actually need help with the spoon?
Chapter Two
After five days on the job, Arabelle was batting about 50/50. Dr. Marshall Vines, Jr. had retired at the age of eighty-one and she had joined Dr. Marshall Vines, III in the practice.
There were a certain number of patients who had never been touched by anyone except “Dr. Junior” as they called him. They weren’t happy at the prospect of seeing his son, “Dr. Three,” but, Senator Avery’s daughter and Judge Avery’s sister or no, they were not signing up for some slip of a girl who ought to be getting her toenails painted and going to lunch.
Still, she was busy. This morning, she’d seen a sinus infection, a nasty case of the flu, and a stomach virus.
She scrubbed her hands especially hard after the stomach virus left. She’d always hated throwing up, but never more since Switzerland.
Her nurse bustled in.
“What have we got next, Kelly?” Arabelle turned and dried her hands.
“Semi-emergency needing stitches in room four. Dr. Three says he’ll take your ten o’clock if you’ll do it—says you’re better at that than he is.”
“Sure.” She walked down the hall behind Kelly. “This one is not going to rail at me because I’m not Dr. Junior?”
“I think he’ll be glad just to get immediate attention,” Kelly said with a laugh. “He walked in cold, of course.”
“Hence, semi-emergency?” To be honest, she didn’t really know what a “semi-emergency” was. She supposed bleeding, but not bleeding out.
And Arabelle opened the door to a full-blown, soul sucking, bleeding out emergency of the soul.
Will Garret sat on the examining table, his hand wrapped in a bloody towel. She should have been prepared for this—the seeing him, not the bloody hand. She had known she was bound to run into him, she just hadn’t imagined it here and now.
He looked up. How he managed to present her with that sweet smile was unbelievable. He was bound to be in pain. But there it was, complete with those distinctive dimples right under the impossibly high cheekbones. His dimples were not brief little indentions, like Luke’s and her own—angel kisses, Mimi had called them. No, they were deep crescent shaped dimples that she could have laid an index finger in if she dared to touch him.
And she was going to have to touch him, though not the dimples, not the deep cleft in his chin, and not his straight, fine, dark hair.
Kelly laid the chart on the counter. “The bleeding has almost stopped. Dr. Three gave him a quick look and said he didn’t see any nerve or muscle damage but for you to see what you think.”
Kelly seemed to be the only one capable of speech, which Arabelle did not think spoke highly for her own professionalism.
Will had not been expecting to see her either. His large, moss green eyes were wide with surprise—though he was more pleasantly surprised than she was. First, the smile; second, there was no fear in his eyes, like there was bound to be in her own.
“Hi, Arabelle,” he said in that rich, kind voice. Everything about this man was sweet and calm.
Though she’d just scrubbed her hands until they were practically raw, she turned to the sink and began soaping them again.
“Hello, Will,” she was finally able to answer. “Just let me get scrubbed up here and we’ll get a look at you. What did you do to yourself?”
“I was working,” he said with an air of disgust. “It was my own fault. I knew my carving knife was getting dull but I was determined to finish that one little fairy wing.”
Arabelle reached for a pair of surgical gloves and turned back to meet his eyes. “A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one.”
Will nodded and looked at his hand. “That’s for sure, and I know better.”
She smiled just to show him she wasn’t afraid—not that he had any reason to think she would be. “Ever think of wearing gloves?” She snapped her own gloves on and let herself down on the rolling stool in front of him.
“I have to feel the wood.”
Well, of course he did. Will Garrett was open, honest, and hid nothing. Gloves were insulation, protection, one step removed. He would want nothing to do with gloves. She was glad for the insulation of her own when she reached for his hand and removed the bloody towel.
Yet she could still feel the warmth of his skin through the thin latex. He had such beautiful hands—smooth and long fingered, an artist’s
hands. They were made more interesting by a few scars here and there. Now he would have another on top of his left hand but she would do her best to make sure it was minimal. It was the least she could do.
“You really did a number on yourself, didn’t you?” The cut started a half-inch from his index finger knuckle and ran almost two inches toward his wrist. It was still oozing a bit but didn’t look too bad. “I need to get a closer look. You’re going to feel some pressure.” That was doctor speak for it’s going to hurt like hell.
“Do what you have to,” he said.
She parted the wound and was relieved at what she saw. “Good. It’s deep but I agree with Dr. Vines. No real damage.”
And he smiled again. “Thank you,” he said softly.
“Do you have any allergies, Will?”
“Just ragweed,” he said flippantly.
“We won’t use any of that today.” She turned to her nurse. “Kelly, will you get me a suture kit and 50 cc of Novocain?” Kelly frowned slightly. She’d been doing this long enough to know that was probably an excessive amount of anesthetic but Arabelle was determined not to hurt him.
“Brantley Kincaid told me you were living here now,” Will said as Arabelle cleaned his wound, “but I’m surprised to find you here. I thought you were a surgeon.”
“I am,” she said. “I was. I decided I wanted to try family medicine and when the older Dr. Vines retired, I was glad for the opportunity.” The last thing she intended to bring up was her reasons for the switch. She forced a little laugh. “The good news for you is I’m really good at sutures. If all goes well, you should have almost no scarring.”
“I’m sorry about your cousin,” Will said softly, with real sorrow. “Your family has had its share of grief.”
That was the truth. “Thank you,” she said.
She wished she could think of something else to say, something meaningless and distracting. The last two times she’d seen him, he’d asked her out and she needed to head that off. The second time, at Brantley and Lucy Kincaid’s wedding, she had almost said yes and she had danced with him—three times. But that was before Sheridan and David were killed. Going out with him before would have been a bad idea; now, it was absolutely out of the question.
“It’s clear you’ve made some sacrifices to do right by that little boy, Arabelle,” he said. “Not everyone would do that. It’s admirable.”
Oh, God. Oh, no. The one thing she could not endure was this sweet man—possibly the sweetest human being she had ever known—heaping sweet praise on her for “sacrificing” for Avery. If he only knew—but he never would. She was in too deep. She could not discuss this, even to thank him for the unwarranted praise.
“Am I hurting you? Or are you just being brave and all macho?” She dabbed more Betadine on his cut.
He laughed a little and pushed his hair back. “I don’t think anyone could accuse me of being macho.”
As if. He was built like a lumberjack, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and narrow waist. She guessed there was a reason for that. Hadn’t he told her on that night two and a half years ago that he liked to harvest his own wood when he could? Today, he even wore the clothes to fit that image—plaid flannel shirt in shades of green worn over a brown thermal shirt, tucked into soft worn jeans.
Kelly entered the room and parked a portable instrument stand with a hypodermic needle and the suture kit within Arabelle’s reach.
“Do you need me, Dr. Avery?” she asked as she moved a small overbed table across Will’s lap. “Cindy and Dr. Vines need an extra hand.”
“Go ahead. Will’s all brave. He doesn’t need to be held down.” Good. That was banter like she would use to relax any patient—though if Will was any more relaxed, he’d be comatose.
Arabelle settled Will’s hand on the table between them and picked up the hypodermic needle. “I’m just going to deaden you up a little.” She noted that he watched as she inserted the needle at various points around the cut. “A fairy, huh? That’s what you were carving?”
“Not exactly. I’m making a black cherry music stand. The client wanted it to depict an enchanted garden and a fool, so the base is a court jester and the desk is going to be all open work with trees, vines, flowers, fairies, and such.”
“That’s different,” she said, disposing of the syringe.
“The client is having it made for his wife. She’s a musician and those things have significance for her. He wanted mahogany but I persuaded him that the cherry was better for this project. It’s a very feminine wood.”
Arabelle stopped. “Not Janelle Prater? Who just had that big hit song ‘Enchanted Garden of a Fool’?”
Will shrugged. “They’re nice people and it’s a challenging project.” He looked pointedly at his hand. “Apparently more challenging than I expected.”
“So did you chop down the tree?” She reached for the suture kit and checked the seal to make sure Kelly had not brought her an unsterilized one by mistake.
“No. But I did find just the right wood in Pennsylvania.”
She stopped. “Pennsylvania? You went all the way to Pennsylvania for wood?”
“You do what’s necessary to do a job right.” There was no malice or condescension in his voice. There never was. Still, she felt a little ashamed.
“I’m sure the music stand is beautiful. Everything you make is a work of art.” As was his fabulous log house in the woods and the furniture he’d filled it with. But she wasn’t bringing that up, didn’t want to remind him of the night when she’d seen his home. In fact, she didn’t want to talk anymore. She rose and raised the back of the examination table and adjusted the headrest. “Okay, Will, I’m going to stitch you up now. I want you to lean back, relax, and close your eyes. You won’t feel a thing.”
If he knew all that eye closing and leaning back wasn’t necessary, except to end conversation between them, he didn’t show it. He just gave her that sweet, calm smile and did as she asked.
After he had closed his eyes, she took just a moment. She would probably never get another chance to look at him unguarded. Never had she known a man so entirely comfortable in his own skin. And what skin it was—smooth, the color of rich honey, with a healthy ruddiness across his high cheekbones. She would have liked to touch his face.
Instead, she took his injured hand in her own gloved one again and reached for her tools. “Tell me if you feel anything. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I trust you,” he said.
Ha!
• • •
Will had not expected Arabelle to be the one to clean him up and put him back together after his stupid accident—the foolish accident of an amateur, Ellery Kane would have called it. Ellery had taught him everything he knew about woodworking, including how to avoid injuring himself. Not that it had done any good today.
Though it had almost been worth it to see Arabelle in her element, so self-assured and capable, yet the absolute last word on refinement. Even in those doctor’s scrubs, she was beautiful and that color of green didn’t do anybody any favors. If he’d been describing Arabelle, he might have been forced to say she was of average height and weight with medium length dark curly hair, but there was nothing average or medium about her. Somewhere along the way she had found the grace of fine art that came out in her smile and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.
My God, those eyes. He didn’t even have a word for them and he was pretty good at describing color. Almost aqua marine, but with a tad less green. They were close to the periwinkle blue in the sixty-four count Crayola box, but more jewel toned. Not that he’d had that box of crayons growing up, or even the Crayola brand. That had cost too much. After he’d sold a hope chest to a rich man from Memphis who thought nothing was too good for his daughter, Will had bought himself that very box of crayons. He still had them.
What was wrong with him, running all this through his head? He hadn’t even taken one of the pain pills Arabelle had prescribed. She said to take them if he need
ed them but under no circumstances to neglect the antibiotics. Also, he was to call her if he ran a fever.
Finally—he had permission to call her. But only under that condition. He knew better than to ask her out again. She wanted no part of it, probably regretted what had happened between them that one night. But maybe they could be friends. He’d be all right with that. Not friends with benefits either, even if she was willing, which he could not imagine. He would never do that again. He’d learned that lesson with Aspen Snow, who had sworn she was just in it for the fun. She hadn’t meant it and though he had always been honest, he’d felt bad for hurting her, until he found out she’d been telling people they were engaged. Frankly, he’d been relieved when she left town.
Turning on the road past the Avery family farmhouse—though, in truth it was more mansion than farmhouse—always gave Will a sense of peace. It meant he was away from town and almost home.
He’d grown up in town in a cramped house, on a sad street in Mill Town, to parents who had no energy for anything except misery. Mill Town was not an official place, but what everyone called the blocks of houses where most of the cotton mill workers lived—which was where Will’s father had worked when he wasn’t drunk. In his alcoholism, Royce Garrett had been more self-deprecating than abusive, but the situation itself was abusive enough. His mother was just a shadow. After his father drank himself to death when Will was sixteen, they lived on a small pension from the mill, the ironing his mother took in, and what Will made at his various part time jobs. By the time she died when he was nineteen, he’d graduated from Merritt High and was working full time stocking and sacking groceries at Big Starr Market, and part time mowing grass at the country club and cleaning up graves at the Merritt cemetery.
That his mother had owned fifty acres of land in the woods adjoining the Avery’s farm came as more of a shock to Will than her death. She had inherited the land from a distant aunt ten years before. Why she had never mentioned it, he could only speculate. Maybe she was afraid that if she told, her husband would have made her sell it and poured the profits down his throat. Maybe she’d just been too tired to fool with it. Or maybe the money that Senator Avery had paid her for the hunting rights to a ten-acre strip was the only security she had.
Secrets Gone South (Crimson Romance) Page 2