by Tamara Leigh
“And this is my landlady and housemate, Maia Glock.”
With a smile that falls just shy of whisker licking, Maia accepts Clive’s handshake. “Stockbroker. Lovely to meet you, Dr. Alexander.”
“And you.” He immediately loosens his hand, causing my housemate to blink. And blink.
Goodness! First Michael, now Clive. This could be bad.
Deciding an explanation is in order, I look at Michael, who continues to hold me to his side. “Clive and I were out this evening to discuss—”
“Clive?” Michael exclaims.
Ugh. Dropped the formality of “Dr. Alexander.” If he felt threatened before—
“Dr. Clive Alexander?” He loosens his hold on me. “The Dr. Clive Alexander?”
The? Meaning this is no longer about me? I narrow my eyes on the object of Michael’s interest and discover that the relative ease with which Clive earlier carried himself has gone south. In fact, he’s bordering on stiff.
“As in San Francisco’s finest cosmetic surgeon?”
Maia gasps. “Really?”
Clive’s stiff. Definitely stiff.
“As in best friend to the less-than-perfect rich and famous?”
Stiffer. And yet Michael seems oblivious. Or perhaps he’s all too aware.
“As in the toast of plastic town?”
Clive broadens his shoulders with a breath. “I no longer practice cosmetic surgery, Mr. Palmier.”
“So I heard. Dropped out, what? Three years ago?”
“Almost four.” Clive’s gruff voice reminds me of the day he showed me the memorial plaque and told me he was a husband and father without a wife and child. It doesn’t take a genius to piece this together. Obviously, the loss of his family is responsible for him giving up his career as a top cosmetic surgeon.
Michael sighs. “Pity—a real loss to the profession.”
His regret seems genuine, but then I’m struck by the possibility that his regret is grounded more in the matter of one less business card.
“So how are you keeping yourself busy these days, Dr. Alexander?”
“Reconstructive surgery. Primarily burn victims.”
The opportunity is too good to pass up, so I jump in. “Which is the reason we were out this evening, to discuss the job I’ve accepted for the hospital. Cli—er, Dr. Alexander—is heading up the project.”
“Ah, business then.” Michael smiles, and I can’t help but appreciate how attractive he is in spite of his shaved head. “I suppose I have you to thank for keeping my girl warm.” He plucks the collar of Clive’s jacket.
Forgot I was wearing it. Of course, its presence probably has a lot to do with Michael’s territorial behavior.
Clive nods. “Glad to be of service.”
I shrug out of the jacket and hold it out to him. “Thank you for the loan.”
His fingers brush mine. “Shall we take a look at those sketches now?”
Trying to convince myself that the shudder that just coursed through my arm and leapt through my heart was caused by a chill, I step from Michael’s side and push the door inward. “Come in.”
Clive crosses the threshold and is followed by Michael.
Maia halts alongside me. “Nice catch, Kate. Too bad he’s married.”
Noticed the ring, did she? “He’s not my catch,” I rasp low. “And he’s a widower.”
“Reeeally?” And there’s more of that whisker licking.
“Trust me, Maia, he’s not your type.”
“Reeeally?”
I open my mouth only to realize that now I’m the one who’s getting territorial—and over a man with whom I have no right to be. Besides, maybe Clive Alexander is her type, as in unmarried.
Hmm. Is it possible she could fall for him? Of course, outside of her married boyfriend, has she ever fallen for anyone? The closest I’ve seen her come is Michael. But that may be because he’s shown little interest in her—at least, in the beginning.
“We’ll see.” Maia saunters forward and places herself between Michael and Clive—a beautiful stretch of canvas framed by two attractive men.
I close the door and, as I cross toward the stairs, offer Michael an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid tonight’s not a good night, so—”
“Don’t worry about me. Maia and I’ll brew some coffee while you take care of business. Join us when you’re finished. And you, too, Dr. Alexander, if you can spare a few minutes.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to.” Clive gives me a meaningful look.
Right. I hasten up the stairs, and he follows.
“Oh, Kate!”
I look down at Michael who’s moved to the threshold of the living room.
“Did you make an appointment with Dr. Neimer to discuss your gap?”
I frown. “What?”
He rolls his eyes and taps his teeth. “Dr. Neimer.”
Embarrassment flushes me. “Yes, I made the appointment today.” And have felt guilty ever since.
Michael smiles. “Good girl.”
Girl?
“What about Dr. Schulze?” He taps the place on his cheek that corresponds with my mole.
Is he intentionally pointing out my every flaw in front of Clive?
I gnash my teeth. “Also taken care of.” Which made me feel guiltier yet.
“Good. I promise you won’t regret it.”
I already do.
Shortly, Clive and I enter the large bedroom that serves as an office-slash-studio. Spying the sketchbook on my drafting table, I cross to it.
He follows and halts almost shoulder to shoulder as I search out the half dozen sketches. And there’s that attraction again.
I tap the first picture. “This is what I envision for the hallways: jungle transitioning to woodland … mountains … hills.”
His phone rings, and he makes a sound low in his throat. “Excuse me.” Glancing to the small screen, he starts to glower again.
When his eyes dart to mine, I smile sympathetically. “Why don’t you just get it over with?”
“All right. I’ll only be a minute.” Turning aside, he flips open the phone and strides away. “Yes, Adam?”
As in Dr. MacPhail?
Clive halts before my desk. “No, meaning the answer is still no.” He looks up then down—at my copy of The Makeup Bible.
Uh-oh.
Listening, he lifts up the cover.
Oh, no.
Certain he’s reading Michael’s inscription, I cringe.
“Listen, Adam—” he snaps the book closed—“I know I owe you, but this is not a good time.”
Owes him what?
“Yes. No. Because I can’t.”
Can’t what? Pay Dr. MacPhail what he owes him? As in money? Might Clive be a gambler?
He glances over his shoulder, and I quickly pretend an interest in my sketches.
A minute later, he returns to stand alongside me. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
I turn to the second sketch. “Here’s where we transition to lakes … meadows … farmland—” I turn the page—“rural setting … city.” I glance up at him.
Though the tension that first arose during his exchange with Michael has increased, he manages a smile. “Very nice.”
“Great.” Now for the pièce de résistance. With bated pride (I know, pride goeth before a fall), I turn to a rendering of the domed room. “An outside-in view of the earth with children of all nations represented.” I tap a group positioned against the backdrop of Asia. “Holding hands”—tap—“dancing”—tap— “praying—”
“Praying?” Clive leans in to stare at the kneeling figures.
“Yes.”
“No.”
There’s that “fall” I should have been more mindful of. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“No praying.”
He’s serious. But is this really about my religious renderings, or is it fallout from Dr. MacPhail’s call that I urged him to take?
I step back. “I suppose
you have a good reason for nixing expressions of faith?”
“I do.”
“And that would be?”
“It’s not what I …” His lips compress. “It’s not what the hospital is looking for.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand. Nearly all of my work incorporates God on one scale or another. Surely you know that.”
“Yes, but it’s not necessary for the burn unit.”
Indignation sending out roots like nasty weeds, I harden my jaw. “And why is that?”
“I don’t need a reason.”
I press my shoulders back. “If you intend to deprive children and their families of the comfort of knowing that God is watching over them, you’d better have a reason. A good reason.”
His lids narrow. “For depriving them of the false comfort of God?”
I clench my hands. “False? Ask Jessica how false the comfort of God is.”
“She’s a child, Kate.”
So it’s still Kate, is it?
“Exactly, Dr. Alexander.” I poke a finger in his chest. “Even if you want to turn your back on God because of what you believe He took from you, it’s not what children and their frightened families want.”
Pull back! Pull back!
“They want to know when they’re lying in a bed not their own, surrounded by people they don’t know, their lives completely turned inside out, that they’re not alone. They want to know that God is there. And how better to assure them than to display symbols of His love?”
Clive’s gaze drops to my finger at the center of his chest. “I’m not going to argue with you. Like it or not, there will be no religious symbols.” He steps back.
“But—”
“In the contract you signed, I have final approval, and my approval hinges on a child-friendly environment that doesn’t shove religion down anyone’s throat. Remember, it’s not only Christians who end up in the burn unit; it’s children from all religious and nonreligious backgrounds.”
“But the hospital is called St.—”
“I know what it’s called, and no further religious overtones are required.”
As evidenced by the wind in my ears, I’m close to hyperventilating. I narrow my eyes on his set face. All right, no overtones. But there will be undertones. Somehow, I’ll put God into the burn unit. And if he doesn’t like it, he’ll just have to take spray paint to it. The heathen!
“Fine,” I say, only to realize that I’m close to tears. “Whatever you want.”
He stares at me, and something like regret flashes in his eyes. Though I sense he wants to say more, he sets his jaw. “I should be going.”
“Um-hmm.”
“We’ll talk again soon.” He crosses to the door and looks around. “Can I offer a piece of advice?”
“And what would that be?”
“Don’t try to improve on something that works.”
“What?”
“The gap.” He taps his front teeth in what’s surely a mockery of Michael. “And the mole. In my opinion, neither detracts from your appearance.”
His opinion—ha! All the more reason to go through with the procedures. And I will, I decide, ignoring the voice that whispers something about cutting off my nose to spite my face.
I stand straighter. “In my opinion, the inclusion of God in the burn unit won’t detract from its appearance. Rather, it will enhance the environment.”
His shoulders stiffen. “Which is the reason it’s called an opinion.”
“All right, then, here’s another opinion—the sooner you pay your debts, the sooner you’ll get out from under them.”
He does a double take. “What?”
“Dr. Adam MacPhail.”
Understanding replaces questioning, which gives way to simmering. “Don’t assume to advise me on something you know nothing about.”
“Don’t I? I know that you owe him and are avoiding him. Now the question is: Why haven’t you paid him?” I know I’ve gone too far, but it’s too late to place a guard on my tongue.
However, he doesn’t unload on me. In fact, his dark expression eases into a bitter smile. “Are you making assumptions about my character again?”
I am, aren’t I?
“If you recall, the last time you did so, you got me all wrong.”
Which wasn’t entirely my fault, as he’s the one who continues to wear his wedding ring, thereby presenting a married face to the world.
He inclines his head. “Good evening.”
Hands clenched, I watch him go from sight.
“Good riddance,” I mutter and swing back to my sketches, only to grimace when a big, fat tear slips down my cheek. Flinging it away, I pull out the stool and plop myself down. Considering how much I have to do to prepare for the burn unit, Maia and Michael will just have to do coffee alone, which shouldn’t disappoint. They’ll likely be happier without me. If they even notice my absence.
I’m slipping into self-pity. I drop my forehead to the drafting table. Why, oh why, did I accept the burn unit job?
I wallow, then reach for the phone. As I’m going to need help, it’s time to call in identical twins, Dorian and Gray, whose mother was passionate about the literary works of Oscar Wilde. Though I do most of my own painting, bigger projects call for extra hands. And the best around are those of Dorian and his brother. If they can fit me in, they’ll take care of the time-consuming prep work.
A half hour later, Dorian delivers the punch line of a joke that causes my cheeks to burn.
He chuckles. “We’ll take care of it, Kate. See ya.”
Okay, so how am I going to slip God into the burn unit? I peer at the sketch of the domed room. However, fifteen minutes later, I remain a blank slate while in the kitchen below Michael and Maia remain oblivious to my absence.
I glower. Sure are chummy for two people who aren’t interested in each other. And that thought returns me to the secret inscription.
Provided they’re still in the kitchen …
I knock my shoes off and pad to the head of the stairs. Determining that the muffled voices are coming from the kitchen, I start down. And all goes well until I place my weight on a step that evidences the house’s 120 years. As the creak resounds around me, I freeze. When Maia and Michael’s uninterrupted voices assure me my cover isn’t blown, I descend the remainder of the stairs and creep into the living room. And there on the sofa table sits Maia’s copy of The Makeup Bible.
I peer across the room at the doorway that serves as an alternate entrance to the kitchen. It’s empty. Guessing the two are at the eat-in counter, I tiptoe around the end of the sofa, retrieve the book, and open to the title page.
To Maia—not that you need any of this. Michael
Not that you need any of this. Unlike Kate …
Monday, March 26
Dear Lord,
Thank You for generous budgets (looks like I’ll be able to afford that breast reduction). Thank You for Clive not inviting Adelphia what’s-her-name to join us for dinner. Thank You for Home-Baked Breads & Things, Ashigo Asigo Asi—whatever that bread is called—unexpected humor and laughter, first name basis (for as long as it lasted), borrowed jackets with warm, toasty sleeves, and Dorian and Gray.
Forgive me for talking to my chest (I didn’t know he was there!), hesitation over public prayer (I’m not ashamed!), and that silly comment about “brownie points in heaven” (didn’t mean it). Forgive me for being prideful about my work, poking that insufferable Clive Alexander in the chest, and making assumptions.
Help me with this gnawing jealousy. “To Maia—not that you need any of this”! Meaning Kate does. That HURTS! Not that I’m unaware of my imperfections, but why is Michael pursuing me if he can’t be content with me the way I am? And why am I letting him? And why am I making appointments that make me feel guilty? Okay, I know why. But how often does a man who doesn’t require biological children come my way? And who’s also attractive? And who makes me feel valued (well, when Maia isn’t around and
my flaws aren’t readily apparent). Oh, Lord, am I pathetic or what? I’m shaking my head BTW—see! So help me help me help me. Above all, please continue to watch over the baby.
Yours,
Kate
PS: Be patient with me. I will get back into Your Word soon.
Monday, April 9
Dear Lord,
Well, that wasn’t so bad. Thirty minutes and Zip! Zap! Zowie! That pesky little mole is gone. So what do You think? I know You put that “beauty” mark smack-dab on my cheek, but You really don’t miss it, do You? I mean, surely its usefulness (whatever that was) had run its course. And it was just the one (of course, still trying to reconcile how half an hour of work translates to almost two hundred dollars—why, that’s four hundred dollars an hour!). Though tempted to have the other three moles zapped, I did exercise control. Fortunately, they aren’t visible.
So would it be wrong to ask You to speed the healing of my skin? And to ease this incessant itching? I’d really appreciate it.
Thank You for another uneventful week in Belle’s pregnancy. Thank You for keeping baby snuggled up where the little one can grow big and strong. Thank You for visible proof that You answer prayers.
I could use some help with the upcoming burn unit—as in staying focused and juggling my schedule. Then there’s Michael, who was just a little too thrilled with the removal of my mole, which didn’t keep him from adding to my business card collection. As always, help me be patient with Maia and find opportunities to witness. Regarding the bonding on Friday, please let the dentist be worth the eight hundred dollars he’s charging to rid me of this gap. (Wonder how much per hour that works out to be!). Hello, savings account …
Yours,
Kate
PS: Sorry I missed Sunday school yesterday, but at least I made it to worship. And You do know, don’t You, that I’m caught up on tithing? Regarding my time in Your Word, could You help me remember where I left my Bible so I can catch up on it? Sorry …
Friday, April 13
Dear Lord,
Okay, that was bad. Not horrendous, but bad. Three hours in the dentist’s chair, mouth cranked open, cotton stuffed into every saliva-producing crevice, whiny drill “roughening” up my front teeth, nasty gels and bonding materials trickling down my throat, layering, sculpting, curing, and endless polishing. BAD! But what a difference! Surely not even You would deny that my smile has gone from fine to mighty fine. Look at this! Can’t believe I never noticed how much that little crack detracted from my appearance. Though I’m still far from model material (ask Michael!), I’m liking me. So I guess he was right …