Perfecting Kate

by Tamara Leigh

  “I understand.”

  He takes a step toward me.

  Oh no! I hasten forward, halt before him, and hope like the dickens that his offense at being included in my prayer can be handled here. “So, what did you need to see me about?”

  The glint in his eyes seems suspiciously like … well … suspicion.

  As I silently groan, he glances past my shoulder. “Let’s talk in the dome.”

  “Obviously, I offended you,” I spew out.

  The triangle between his eyebrows deepens. “How is that?”

  “My prayer for Jessica … including you.”

  “Ah.” He widens his stance. “I have to admit it unsettled me, but I’m not offended.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “Just because I believe it’s a waste of time to expect God to act on prayer doesn’t mean you should. Besides, perhaps God is more receptive to your prayers than mine.”

  I guard my tongue against my next words but, after a moment’s reflection, decide they can’t hurt. “You sound bitter, Clive.”

  “That’s because I am bitter. You see, God and I are divided.”

  “How so?”

  Without another word, he steps around me and heads toward the domed room.

  Shouldn’t have asked. Should have guarded my tongue. Should have just listened. But no-oo …

  I follow him down the hallway and, when I enter the domed room, find him tossing back the tarp. “This is how we’re divided.” He looks across his shoulder at me. “These two innocents.”

  After what seems like minutes, he shoves a hand back through his hair. “I have no idea why I’m telling you this when you can’t possibly care.”

  “But I do care. I can’t stand to see someone hurting.”

  His lids narrow as though to discern my sincerity; however, he shrugs it off. “This isn’t why I wanted to talk to you—”

  “Was your family Christian?” I blurt out, certain the door he opened is about to close.

  “We were.”

  Were … “Then you should be comforted by knowing that your wife and child aren’t forever lost to you.”

  He’s silent for several moments, then flips the tarp over the plaque. “I’d like to discuss the progress you’ve made and how the timetable is shaping up.”

  Regret stabs me. My attempt to keep him from scrutinizing my work has failed.

  Please, God, let him see something other than the crosses and praying children.

  But as I hold my breath, he begins to frown. Shortly, he strides past me and halts before a bowed boy and girl.

  I force my feet forward and draw alongside him.

  Trust in the Lord. A sidelong glance confirms the tension he exudes.

  “I’m not blind, Kate.”

  And? Dare I hope he’ll accept what I’ve done? That it’s subtle enough not to offend? Unfortunately, another glance shows no softening of his profile, and I grasp for something to counter his forthcoming pronouncement.

  The deadline! If nothing else, for the sake of the deadline perhaps he’ll grant me this one concession. And if he doesn’t?

  I have only myself to blame. After all, I willfully went against him when he forbade it. I knew what I was doing. I—

  Oh, surely there’s some way to reach him!

  I lay an entreating hand on his arm. “Please don’t let the division between you and God deprive frightened and hurting children of His comfort.” Nose beginning to tingle, I grip his arm tighter. “Please.”

  He looks into my face, then lower at my hand on him.

  I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?

  Eyes moistening, I release him and swing away. The sudden movement causes a sharp pain to slice between my shoulder blades. I wince and take the half dozen steps to the cart upon which my tools are laid. From among an assortment of paintbrushes, I choose a two-inch job.

  Returning to Clive, I thrust the brush at him. “Have at it, then.”

  When he doesn’t take it, I grab his hand and slap the brush in his palm. “If you want it gone, then you—”

  His fingers close over mine. “No.”

  I lift my wet eyes to his and in a creaky little voice say, “No?”

  He looks momentarily away, and when his eyes return to me, I detect a softening. “It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

  I swallow. “It does. More, though, it means a lot to children like Jessica.”

  “Jessica …” He slides his gaze up the wall at my back. “It will set you back if you have to redo it.”

  Is this going the way I hope—pray? True, I’d prefer him to have a change of heart, but I’ll settle for his concern over the timetable. “It will.”

  The suspense is killing me, and just when I don’t think I can stand it any longer, he speaks. “Then it stays.”

  My heart thumps harder. “Really?”

  “Provided you keep it subtle.”

  I bite my lip to keep from beaming; however, the smile escapes and I feel myself start to glow—from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes, every pore proclaiming, “Hallelujah!”

  “I’m so happy,” I gasp.

  “Good.”

  “And excited.”

  His mouth veers toward a smile. “Great.”

  “And relieved.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry.”

  “And grateful.”

  He lowers his regard to my mouth. “Don’t be.”

  “And …”

  His thumb begins to move on top of my hand, and it’s then that I notice him noticing me—really noticing me. And he’s so close I can feel his breath on my lips. So close that he surely feels mine. And as his head descends, I realize that Clive Alexander is going to kiss me.

  Really? This has to be a dream. Any moment now, I’ll wake up and have to begin this day all over again with the same worry and stress of being caught doing something I shouldn’t. And the reality is that Clive will take the paintbrush, will X out the crosses and praying children …

  “Kate?”

  I open my eyes and peer into his face above mine. Nice dream.

  “Are you still seeing that makeup guy?”

  Not a dream.

  I nearly assure Clive of my pending boyfriend-less-ness, but it strikes me how cheap I’d sound—as if at the mere promise of a kiss, I’d dump one boyfriend for another. So reluctantly I say, “Yes, I’m still seeing Michael.”

  Clive glances at my mouth once more, then releases my hand and steps back.

  So the doctor has morals?

  He nods at the wall behind me. “Keep it subtle, hmm?”

  Struggling to hide my disappointment, I jerk my head. “Of course. And … thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Though I expect that to be the end of our exchange, he lingers. “You recall the debt I owe Dr. MacPhail?”

  As if I could forget. Over and again I’ve told myself it’s none of my business, yet it still bothers me. “Yes?”

  “It’s being repaid.”

  “Oh. Good.” Giving myself a little shake, I smile. “I mean, great!”

  “Yeah. I’ll be gone—”

  “Clive!”

  I look past him. And there, at the entrance to the domed room, is none other than that Adelphia woman. Who has a penchant for interruptions.

  “There you are,” she says as he turns to her. “I’ve been searching all over for you.”

  “I dropped by to see the progress Kate’s making.”

  She takes in the room with one quick sweep and nods. “The meeting starts in five minutes.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ll wait for you.”

  After a long, unmoving moment, Clive gives me something of a smile. “Keep up the good work.”

  That’s it? And what was that he said about being gone?

  My disappointment over what he leaves unsaid is nearly as sharp as the disappointment when he draws alongside his “co
lleague” and she loops an arm through his.

  I sigh. Why did Clive feel it necessary to inform me of the status of his debt? Because he cares what I think? And why should he? Because he’s interested in me? Interested even though, not so long ago, he warned me I wouldn’t like him?

  Mixed signals, and yet there was nothing mixed about his intent to kiss me and his inquiry into the status of my relationship with Michael—the answer to which denied me a kiss.

  Forcing myself back to the present, I consider the walls and nod. “Subtle … I can do subtle.” Which is something to smile about.

  Thank You, Lord, for hearing my prayers and making Clive receptive. And please help this day go by fast so I can have that talk with Michael.

  “Close your eyes.”

  I frown at Michael where he sits beside me. “Huh?”

  “Close them.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  I start to lower my lids only to be struck by a possibility that packs a punch. What if …? No. He wouldn’t. Would he? After all, we’ve only been dating two months. And that’s about to come to an end.

  “Kate?”

  Panic sets in. “I don’t like surprises.”

  “You’ll like this one.”

  Why didn’t I break it off sooner? It’s one thing to tell someone the relationship isn’t working, another to do so when he’s ready to take it to the next level. But surely he isn’t proposing. Surely the surprise isn’t inside a velvet-covered box.

  Fearing I might hyperventilate, I stare at my plate, which I had so wished the waiter would clear away to eliminate the temptation of finishing off the enchilada and taco special. Suddenly grateful my wish wasn’t granted, I grab my fork and stab a bite of sauce-drenched tortilla, chicken, and cheese.

  “Let me finish this first.” Hoping the remains of my meal will buy me five minutes during which I can figure out how to derail Michael, I pop the forkful in my mouth and chew with purpose.

  “Oh, come on, Kate!” Michael swipes my plate and sets it out of reach. “Listen to your stomach, not your head.”

  I feel like a child whose knuckles have been soundly rapped. Though I earlier shrugged off Michael’s hint that I order á la carte—as in taco or enchilada—there’s no hint about this.

  He didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, rational, turn-the-other-cheek says. And it’s not as if you really wanted to finish your meal.

  True, it was a diversion. But who does he think he is to make that decision for me? And despite my on-again, off-again with Pilates and that I’ve lost only a few pounds, I’m in decent enough shape. In fact, I feel pretty good about me.

  “Ready for your surprise?”

  Is he oblivious to my churning, or just trying to lighten the mood? I slide my gaze to him.

  He smiles. “Ready?”

  Oblivious.

  He slaps a magazine down on the table. “Hot off the press.”

  I stare at Changes magazine, the issue that doubtless features my makeover. No ring, then? This is my surprise?

  Oh, thank You, God. In fact, I’m so relieved it’s not a proposal of marriage that I forget Michael’s faux pas.

  “Wow. This is great. Wonderful. Terrific.”

  He chuckles. “All that and you haven’t even seen the article.”

  I smooth a hand across the cover, which features a supermodel who’s probably gorgeous the moment she crawls out of bed.

  “this page,” Michael prompts.

  I continue to stare at the model, who not only plies a perfect smile, but also shows off a perfect mole in the right crease that runs from the outside of her nose to the corner of her mouth. Bet she doesn’t have to worry about spider veins, either—all some-teen years of her. Nor her weight, the consideration of which returns my attention to the unfinished enchilada.

  “What’s with you, Kate?”

  “Nothing.” I open the magazine and flip past one advertisement after another. And suddenly there’s the beauteous Maia Glock towering over pitiful Kate Meadows. Mutt and Jeff … or should I say Jeff and Mutt?

  We stand on the street corner outside the coffee shop, Maia glowing in her form-fitting yoga outfit, me …

  “Michael, tell me Arnie used a wide-angle lens. Please.”

  “ ’Fraid not.”

  I sigh. Not that I look fat. Just out of proportion. But then, Maia is tall. And I’m not.

  Why in the world did I allow myself to be talked into the makeover? I read the paragraph that describes Michael’s mission and names the two women who submitted to his expertise.

  Steeling myself, I turn the page and … am pleasantly surprised by the photographs that capture my transformation. The last page is a spread that compares before and after. On the left, another shot of Maia and me on the street corner; on the right, Maia and me dressed to the nines in Michael’s perfectly lit studio.

  Michael taps the after version of Katherine Mae Meadows. “That’s the best your hair has looked.”

  Of course it is.

  He peers at me. “Speaking of which, you’re due for a trip to the salon—you know, to reshape your hair and touch up the color.”

  I draw a tress through my fingers. The color is borderline dull, and the ends are split.

  “I guess you haven’t had time to read the chapter in my book about the proper care and conditioning of hair.”

  I cannot tell a lie. “Sorry, I’ve been busy.”

  His lips thin. “Well, it’s worth the effort—ask Maia. She said my tips made all the difference for her. In the meantime …” He reaches behind him.

  Not the wallet! Please, not the—

  “… let me give you Amy Om’s card.” The dreaded wallet appears, and a moment later, so does the business card. “You’ll like her. In fact, she’s every bit as good as my assistant, Trish.”

  Though tempted to reject the card, I remind myself that it’s just a haircut—and that my hair is approaching critical mass. Now, if it were a liposuction referral, that would be different. Unfortunately, that’s not paranoia talking, as Michael has started dropping hints about my thighs. It’s only a matter of time before some expert in the field of sucking out fat finds his way into my collection of business cards.

  “Kate?” He wiggles the card.

  “Oh!” I pluck it from him.

  He pats the magazine. “So what do you think?”

  I consider the picture of the new and improved Kate Meadows, then read the closing paragraph, which surprisingly mentions my work on the burn unit. “What’s this?”

  “Before the magazine went to press, I asked the editor to drop it in. Not only does it make for a more interesting feature, but considering the importance of the project, it gives you more credibility as an artist. And on the money side, it’s bound to drum up more business.”

  Though I’m grateful, I can’t help but wonder what Clive will think. Not that it’s a secret I was hired to—

  “So what do you think?”

  I return my gaze to the magazine. “Once you get past that first picture, it’s great.”

  He nods. “We intentionally chose the worst before picture to give the makeover miracle proportions.”

  Miracle? Makes me sound as if I was in a world of hurt.

  Michael frowns. “Are you okay, Kate? You’re kind of …” He peers closer. “… red.”

  Red.

  I mentally bite my tongue. Lord, help me, because I really don’t want to say what I’m thinking. Well, actually I do, but—

  “Speaking of which, have you contacted the aesthetician I recommended?”

  I stare at him and wonder how many pounds of pressure my teeth can stand.

  “Oh!” Michael reaches again. “Almost forgot.”

  Not the wallet again. Not the—

  “Everyone says Dr. Abrams is the best.” He extends a silver card and wiggles it as though it’s bait and I’m the fish. “Liposuction.”

  “Ah!” I slap a hand to the table. “T
his has got to stop. And it’s going to. Right. Now.”

  He pulls back. “Kate?”

  Realizing heads are turning, I lean nearer. “Isn’t there anything about me you like just the way it is? Just the way I am?”

  His brow wrinkles. “There’s a lot I like about you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  He scans my face. “You have … uh … beautiful eyes.”

  “That would be colored contacts—green tonight.”

  He swallows. “And your smile—”

  “Less the gap.”

  He shifts uneasily. “Well, yeah.”

  “Go on.”

  “You have a pretty face.” He smiles faintly. “Real pretty.”

  “Now that the mole is gone.”

  He draws a deep breath. “The placement was all wrong. You said so yourself.” He closes a hand over my clenched fingers. “Don’t you think you’re being overly sensitive?”

  I pull my hand from beneath his. “I’m tired of all these business cards. Tired of you picking me apart, telling me how deeply you feel for me only to point out my every flaw.”

  “Kate.”

  “You might have convinced yourself that I’m ideal marriage material, but what you really want is a perfectly flawless—”

  “Kate!”

  “Don’t deny it. You want perfection, and I am not perfection.”

  “On the inside you are.”

  I gape at Michael.

  He shrugs. “I like who you are, Kate.”

  Slowly, I close my mouth. He likes who I am. But if he likes what’s inside so much, shouldn’t that be enough? Shouldn’t—?

  I startle when my cell phone gives a shrill toot-a-ly toot. I’m tempted to ignore the call, but this is an opportunity to guard my tongue that I’ll regret passing. I hold up a staying hand.

  The phone toot-a-ly toots twice more before I flip it open. “Hello?”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “Beau?” His voice sounds strained … emotional. “Is everything all right with Belle?”

  “No. I mean, not exactly. But maybe.”

  I ignore Michael’s questioning frown. “What’s happened?”

  “She’s gone into labor, and the doctors aren’t sure they can stop it.”

  Seven-month mark. She made it to the seventh month.

  “I’m on my way.”