by Tamara Leigh
What is he doing here when I told him I rarely return from church before one? And what are he and Maia laughing at?
Anticipating the worst—after all, if Maia has no inhibitions about a married man, she’s not likely to have any over her housemate’s something-of-a-boyfriend—I step into the living room.
And there’s Michael on the sofa with Maia sitting in the chair opposite, a good six feet separating them.
Both look around, and in an instant, Michael’s on his feet. “You’re back early, Kate.”
A good hour early. And if I hadn’t been? As the possibilities sweep through me, I return my gaze to Maia, who remains seated with her bare legs curled under her. Why have I never before noted her resemblance to a cat?
Oh no! Is that jealousy coursing through my veins? It is. Jealousy when I should be pleased to see these two hitting it off. And I would be if Michael hadn’t made it clear he was interested in me, not Maia.
Add to that the sorry fact that it’s not every day I meet someone with whom I don’t have major compatibility issues, and I suppose it’s only natural for the green-eyed monster to put in an appearance.
I force a smile as Michael steps alongside me. “I thought we agreed to get together around the middle of the week.”
“I know.” He slides an arm around my waist. “But when I woke this morning thinking about you—” he squeezes me to his side—“I had to see you.”
Even as his choice of words eases my jealousy, in the distance I detect the ticktock that, in a staccato tone, warns this is too fast, too strange, and too un–Michael Palmier. As if this is who Michael wants to be and not who he really—
“Oh!” He releases me. “I brought you a gift.”
I momentarily forget his biological clock. What could it be? Flowers? Candy? Tickets to a—
“Autographed.” He thrusts forward something thick and scentless, dry and tasteless, heavy and joyless: The Makeup Bible.
I stare at the tome that lands in my hands without so much as a loopy bow or length of ribbon. “Wow.” As in who’d believe instruction on a woman’s appearance could fill up something the size of … well … a Bible. A large-print Bible.
“I brought one for Maia, too. Of course, I didn’t know she’d already purchased a copy.”
“And read it cover to cover,” she chimes in.
He winks at her. “Smart girl.”
Mustn’t take that wrong. I glance from Michael, who beams admiration at Maia, to Maia, who beams it right back.
She pats her copy, which sits on the end table. “A wealth of knowledge. And as everyone knows, one can never have too much.”
“Mmm,” I murmur.
Michael nods at my book. “Go on, read the inscription, Kate.”
He inscribed it? Wrote a personal message? Ahh. Probably something sure to make me feel bad for suspecting he’s transferred his affections to Maia.
Eagerly I flip to the title page where “To Kate” is written with a flourish, followed by “Lots in here that should help.”
Lots?
He closes with “Enjoy!” and signs it “Michael.” In red.
I eye Maia’s copy and wonder at her inscription and what excuse I can give for whipping back the cover to see for myself. However, it’s the vision of doing just that that pulls me back from the brink.
Michael’s gift is a nice gesture, and I don’t care what he wrote in Maia’s copy. I smile. “Thank you. I can’t wait to spend some time in it.” Okay, so I’m exaggerating.
He grins. “I’ve put sticky tabs on the pages I thought would be most helpful.”
And so he has … I glance at the multicolored tabs that protrude from the top edge of the book. Must be a couple dozen.
“Have a look, Kate.”
Reluctantly, I turn to the first, a chapter titled “Hair of Biblical Proportions.” And among the sections listed are “Did the Delilah?” and “Having a Samson Hair Day?”
Oh … my … gosh. Lowering my chin to hide compressed lips, which are all that’s holding back laughter, I draw a long breath.
“That’s a great one to start with.” Michael taps the page. “All kinds of tips on how to deal with uncooperative hair.”
Despite the negative connotation, I must admit that uncooperative about sums up my hair. “Great.” I sneak a peek at Maia’s copy, the top edge devoid of sticky tabs.
“So, join me for a cup of coffee?”
I make a face. “Sorry, Michael, but I chugged down two cups in Sunday school. That’s pretty much my limit.”
Though I try not to see the disappointment that throws a shadow across his brow, guilt floods me. “But I haven’t had lunch, so maybe a Polish dog at Fisherman’s Wharf?”
His face brightens.
“Polish dog! And undo all your Pilates work?” Maia grabs her thigh and makes a pretense of jiggling fat that doesn’t exist. “Trust me, Kate, it’ll go straight to your tush and thighs.”
Considering her attraction for Michael, I’d think a bit more fat on Kate would make her happy!
I shrug. “One Polish dog won’t hurt.” Of course, I do have to watch my fat intake because of the HRT. And last night I did indulge in pizza.
“Maia’s right. How about we grab a salad somewhere?”
And all I wanted was to spend a nice, quiet Sunday afternoon with a turkey sandwich, my Bible, and my daily planner—as in, is it at all feasible to take on Dr. Alexander’s project? So much to do …
I nod. “A salad sounds great.”
“Good choice,” Maia says with an air of approval that makes my emotions stand on end.
Biting my tongue, I slip from beneath Michael’s arm. “I’ll just change clothes and we can go.”
“Fine. I’ll visit with Maia—turns out we’ve got a lot in common.”
I’ll bet they do.
I swing away.
“Hey, beautiful!”
I pause, afraid to look around in case Michael’s speaking to Maia. But then no need to call out when she’s so near.
I meet his expectant gaze over my shoulder. He did mean me. “Yes?”
“Did I mention how gorgeous you are in that new outfit?”
Gorgeous. I tug the hem of my blue jacket. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” With a jaunty smile, he turns his attention to Maia, who gives a feline stretch … offers a feline smile …
“There.”
“Where?”
“There.” Michael reaches across the table to point to the left of Maia’s luscious lips, nearly touching the glob of yellow. “Right there.”
Narrowing my green gaze on the two—yes, I changed eye color—I wonder again how Maia finagled an invite to the wharf. Most unsettling is that she finagled it out of me! All I did was ask how she planned on spending the afternoon, and the next thing I knew I was suggesting she join us.
She dabs at the corner of her mouth, narrowly missing the mustard. Intentionally missing it, as how can anyone not feel a glob that size?
“Allow me.” Michael rises from the bench beside me, steps around the table, tilts her face up, and sweeps the mustard away with his napkin. “Got it.”
Maia smiles. “Thank you, Michael.”
“Anytime.” The breeze off the bay ruffles his collar in the absence of hair, and he returns her smile.
She bats her lashes. Honestly!
He blinks and faces me. “Uh … ready, Kate?”
Feeling jealousy dig deeper, I pat my stomach. “All full.” On greens, reds, whites, and yellows—as in lettuce, tomatoes, Dungeness crab, and fat-free something-or-other dressing. A far cry from the Polish dogs on which he and Maia fed.
I know. Dungeness crab isn’t exactly chopped liver. In fact, the flaky meat brought in from the wetlands of the upper San Francisco Bay really is divine—at least until one’s taste buds go numb from overindulgence. As mine wore out years ago, it takes something slightly more potent to satisfy them. Something like a Polish dog.
I glance at Mi
chael and Maia’s plates, streaks of mustard and ketchup the only evidence of their gluttony. Why did I let them guilt me out of a dog? It should have been my mouth Michael wiped mustard from.
Maia rises beside Michael. “That was good, wasn’t it?”
Go ahead, rub it in a bit more just in case good ol’ Kate doesn’t realize what she missed.
Michael nods. “Best Polish dogs in the city.”
I thrust up so suddenly that were the bench not connected to the table, it would have toppled. “Sure are,” I say as their surprised countenances turn to me. “And talk about a great salad. You’ll have to try one next time.”
Maia glances at my Styrofoam container and wrinkles her nose. “Crab is for tourists.”
You are sooo in the litter box!
“Think I’ll stick to dogs,” Michael concurs. Again.
Well, aren’t they compatible?
And that word compatible reminds me that I originally hoped to match these two. I should be thanking God for the opportunity to turn Maia from Mr. Unhappily Married, making plans to move her to the next step of attending church (with the aid of “once saved, always saved” Michael). However, while part of me urges me to “hand over the boyfriend” and cut my losses, the other part reminds me that Michael and I are also compatible—at least where biological children are concerned.
“You okay, Kate?”
I focus on Michael. “Yeah. I’m great.”
“You sure?” Maia comes around the table. I half expect her to look pleased, but she doesn’t. In fact, her concern appears genuine.
I put a hand to my chest. “Just a bit of indigestion.”
“Oh?” She loops an arm through mine. “Good thing you didn’t go Polish, hmm?”
Why does it always come back to dogs?
Shortly, I find myself strolling the wharf, Michael and Maia on either side of me. Feeling like a shelf-worn book between beautifully matched bookends that are just being kind in propping me up, I consider my go at self-improvement. Maybe I really don’t look all that different from a week ago. After all, it was just a change of clothes, a new hairstyle, a bit of makeup, and a switch from glasses to contacts. As for Pilates, thus far all I have to show for that is muscle ache and stiffness. Maybe I need to do more. Maybe I should make that appointment with Dr. Neimer. And Dr. Schulze.
Or maybe I should pull out my Bible.…
Beginning to feel tangled and knotted, I attempt to distract my emotions by taking in this small slice of Fisherman’s Wharf through the senses of the tourists who throng to San Francisco’s most popular destination.
Yes, the endless variety of shops and eateries is stimulating. Yes, the street entertainers who dance, juggle, pantomime, sing, strum, and perform sleight of hand are amazing. Yes, the barking of the sea lions that congregate at Pier 39 is …
Actually, it’s pretty obnoxious, but I’m probably among the minority who feel that way.
As for the fishing fleet that brings treasure from the sea into Pier 45, it tempts one to nostalgic musings. Then there’s the aroma of fresh seafood and sourdough bread that, mixed with the brisk salt air, piques ones nostrils and palate—
Aargh! For all my straining to tune my senses to the pleasures of Fisherman’s Wharf, the majority of my perceptions are straight out of a travel book. So I abandon the exercise and turn my energy to disconnecting from Michael, as I’ve done with others whose futures held things mine didn’t.
Okay, God, if not Michael, who? Or is there anyone for me? Would it be better if I did swear off men? As in ONCE AND FOR ALL?
Divine intervention? Biting my lip, I lower the phone and shift my attention to the planner I laid open on my desk minutes before the call from Mr. Deveraux. According to the burly voiced man, he and his wife are putting their house up for sale. Thus my services are no longer required, which frees up a month of working time five weeks from now—when Dr. Alexander proposed I begin work on the burn unit. Strange.
Attempting to relieve my strained back, I roll my shoulders and once more consider the stack of business cards—in particular, that of the doctor who specializes in breast reduction. The surgery costs a small fortune, but of all things I might do to improve myself, it carries the most weight (no pun intended), as vanity has little to do with it. And if I can fit in Dr. Alexander’s project, there should be enough funds to pay for the reduction.
“All righty, then.” I draw a line through each Deveraux entry. Unfortunately, it will take longer than a month to complete the burn unit. I flip to the following month where Fischer is penned in for two successive weeks—another children’s library. Then there’s the Hilo Youth Foundation, which I quoted out at three weeks. Maybe if I—
I sigh. “And when are you supposed to live? Not to mention sleep?”
I tap the planner. Though I try to keep my working hours from eight till four—nine till five when I attend Pilates with Maia—I could cut out Pilates (shucks) and work seven till three, thereby allowing me to put in a half dozen hours at the hospital during the evenings. Of course, there’s always Saturdays. I grimace at the realization that that leaves no time for dating—
No, I haven’t opted for a split personality, and yes, I was on my way to disconnecting from Michael; however, when we returned to the house and it was just the two of us on the doorstep, his kiss held no hint of good-bye. But the real clincher was when he said, “I’m really starting to love you, Kate.”
Thus, against all logic, Michael and I are still on. But do I decline the biggest job of my career on the chance it could mean the difference between making it with him and not? If he truly cares, surely he’ll hang on despite the long work hours. That, or have a few more heart-to-hearts with Maia.…
I look up and eye The Makeup Bible on the corner of my desk. What did he write in Maia’s copy? Probably the same as mine. Mustn’t make mountains out of molehills. Or infatuations out of mere acquaintances.
Unbidden, a mental snapshot of a certain doctor rises to mind. “So what do I do about you, Dr. Alexander? Where do you fit in?” I return my attention to the planner and snort. “Or should I say squeeze?”
I flip through the months, hash and rehash the pros and cons, and finally acknowledge that I’m not where I need to be.
Returning to my bedroom, I scoop up my Bible and settle into a worn armchair for an evening of soul feeding.
Forget about Michael. Forget about Maia. Above all, forget about Dr. Clive Alexander and the call he’s expecting. And I do—for the fifteen minutes I’m allowed to poke through Proverbs.
The phone beside my bed rings for the third time, and I consider ignoring it. But it could be a client, and as I forgot to turn on the answering machine, I have no choice but to check caller ID.
I cross the room and peer at the small screen, which comes up “private.”
On the fifth ring, I lift the receiver. “Katherine Meadows.”
“Ms. Meadows, Adelphia Jamison. I’m sure you remember me.” The consciously cultured voice brings forth an image of the polished woman I believed to be Dr. Alexander’s paramour.
As I struggle with the temptation to disavow all remembrance of her—terribly un-Christian—she prompts, “We met at the children’s boutique.”
“I remember. What can I do for you, Ms. Jamison?”
“Dr. Alexander asked me to set up a meeting between the three of us.”
“He did?” I say with restrained rebuke. “Surely he told you I haven’t committed to the job.”
“Yes, though he said you agreed to give him an answer by the beginning of the week.”
“That’s true; however, I’m still attempting to free up the time required to accept such a large project.” Too, I really need to pray about it.
“But you will accept the job.”
That wasn’t exactly a question. “I should know by tomorrow.”
“Then let’s make the appointment.” I hear the rustle of paper. “Tomorrow at two works for me.”
“Ms. Jamison, if
I don’t accept the job, an appointment won’t be necessary.”
“But if you do, the appointment is in place.”
“Ms. Jamison—”
“Ms. Meadows”—huff!—“I’m a busy woman. Go with me, will you?”
Silently chanting “guard your tongue,” I pull the handset away and glare at it before putting it back to my ear. “Ms. Jamison, what role do you play that requires your presence?”
“I head up the financial end of the hospital’s expansion projects. I’m the one who approves payment for your work.”
Then this is the “colleague” part of her relationship with Dr. Alexander.
“Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon?” she presses, and I just know she’s penciling me in.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll be up to my elbows in paint at two o’clock. However, if I accept the job, I can meet with you and Dr. Alexander around—” I make a quick calculation of the time required to get from the project in Sausalito back to the city—“four o’clock.”
“I go home at four, Ms. Meadows.”
Then I’m the only one required to make sacrifices? “Meaning you work until four?”
Huff. “Exactly.”
“So do I, Ms. Jamison—and often later.” I really don’t mean to be antagonistic, but it’s sloughing off me like dead skin. But then, this woman is a bit of a pumice stone. “I’m willing to kick off early, as long as you’re also willing to accommodate.”
Heavy sigh. “Though it will put me in the thick of rush-hour traffic, four it is.”
“Provided I accept the job.”
“Of course.”
“All right. Unless you hear from me, I’ll see you and Dr. Alexander at four o’clock.”
“Good-bye, Ms. Meadows.”
As I lower the handset, I consider calling it a night; however, I haven’t been in my Bible enough. Determined to stick it out, I swing back toward the chair.
“Oh, my back!” Kneading the muscles along my spine, I once more consider calling the surgeon Michael recommended. Which is one of the best reasons for accepting the burn unit job.
As I lower to the chair, I mentally set up a pros/cons list for my reduction.