by Tamara Leigh
I will not take offense. “Hardly rooftop dining fare, but it’s not as if I’m dressed for a romantic candlelit dinner.”
When I look up again, Clive is no longer regarding me with censure but with amusement. “Rooftop dining, hmm?”
And I could just die. Rooftop dining! Romantic candlelit dinner! Might he think I’m an empty-headed romantic?
I cast about for something to turn the conversation, but all I come up with is, “So … care to share my humble fare?”
Did not mean for that to rhyme!
Amusement deepening, Clive steps nearer and, with tanned fingers, taps the bag of baked chips. “I suppose this qualifies as a serving of carbohydrates—”
Ugh.
“—and vegetables.”
Hmm. Hadn’t thought of it like that, but it fits—in a rather processed, less-than-fresh way.
He taps the gourmet cookies. “Another serving of carbohydrates and sugar.”
I know. Seriously out of whack with the food pyramid.
“And twenty of the sixty-four ounces of water required daily.”
Nothing wrong with that. Quite right, actually. So glad I didn’t give in to my baser cravings for a soda! That would have looked bad.
I meet his gaze, which is not too distant. In fact, the last time we were this close—
“Care to join me?” I blurt out.
As if becoming aware of how near he is, he takes a step back and busies himself with rolling the magazine with those tanned hands of his.
Just where did he get that tan?
When his eyes return to mine, the ease with which he holds himself is only slightly off.
“I don’t suppose you’d allow me to take you out for a sandwich?”
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Unfortunately, procrastination has never gotten me anywhere but in trouble. “Sorry, but I’m on a tight schedule. Speaking of which, I really ought to get back to the burn unit.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
I’m thrilled. And dismayed. Wishing I truly believed it possible to be unbelievably, inconceivably happy without a man, I hug my “dinner” to my chest as I walk alongside him. Despite the late hour, there are plenty of hospital personnel around, several of whom acknowledge Clive by name. Thus, our exchanges are kept to a minimum until we enter the construction area.
“So you’ve found afternoons and evenings are best to work on the burn unit,” Clive says.
“Definitely, especially now that the rooms off the corridor are being fit with equipment. Though Dorian and Gray don’t mind the commotion, I prefer quiet.”
“Understandable.”
We enter the domed room.
“Too, my other job can only be completed during the day, so it all works out.” And since we’re indulging in small talk … “So on which beach did you come by your tan?”
His lips quirk. “I was in Guatemala.”
I falter. “Guatemala? Uh, sounds exotic.”
“It is, though not in the sense you think. I wasn’t vacationing.”
I halt before the scaffolding. “Then what were you doing—?” I roll my eyes. “Sorry. None of my business.”
“But it is your business, as you’re the one who sent me there.”
“Excuse me?”
“Remember the debt you advised me to pay?”
“Dr. MacPhail’s—” I wince as my stomach gives a resounding SOS.
Clive’s eyebrows rise. “You should probably feed it.”
Despite my curiosity over my role in Guatemala, I step to the wall and lower to the floor. And Clive joins me. Well, isn’t this cozy.
Afraid that my fluster is showing, I dip my head and open the bag of chips, then the gourmet cookies. As my substandard meal hardly qualifies as dinner, I’m tempted to forgo a prayer; however, considering how far I’ve drifted from God in spite of my good intentions to launch Operation: Perfect Faith, it’s the least I can do. So I close my eyes, offer up thanks, and momentarily find Clive waiting on me.
“Okay.” I pinch a chip from the bag. “Explain Guatemala.”
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
He raises a knee and rests a forearm on it. “Contrary to your assumption, the debt I owed Adam had nothing to do with gambling—or even money.”
That’s a relief. I pinch another chip. “I’m listening.”
He settles his gaze on the far wall in the vicinity of South America. “Years ago, Adam did me a favor that I may never be able to fully repay. These past weeks I’ve attempted to put a dent in my debt.” He looks around. “He works with a Christian organization that recruits doctors to perform operations for those who lack access to adequate health care.”
I’m all ears. Or should I say eyes? “Then you …”
“Went to Guatemala.”
“Wow.” And a Christian organization to boot!
“For years, Adam has been after me to get involved, but I’ve always turned him down. So when a doctor scheduled for the Guatemala clinic pulled out, Adam called in my debt. A debt I declined until you made me relent.”
“Me?”
He lowers his eyes to the chip hovering before my mouth and with a wry smile gives my hand a push. “Eat, Kate.”
And I do, crunching through the chip without actually tasting it. Of course, it is baked.
“I don’t understand. Though I encouraged you to pay your debt, I couldn’t have been any more convincing than Dr. MacPhail.”
His lids narrow. “Couldn’t you?”
Mustn’t read too much into that. But what exactly does he mean? “Sorry, but I’m still not following.”
He shifts, and I feel discomfort rise off him like steam. “Strangely enough, I care what you think of me, Kate.”
Gulp. “What?”
“There’s something about you, but I didn’t see it the night we met—”
That would be pre-Michael, as in premakeover.
“—and tried not to see it the day I showed you the burn unit—”
Oh. Post-Michael. Postmakeover.
“—and told myself I shouldn’t see it the day you hunted me down for telling Jessica that you’d accepted the burn unit job. It was there.”
What? What made him care what I thought? Though my go at self-improvement has to be some of it, despite his attempts to discourage me, it’s more than that. Could it be my pizzazz?
Hmm …
My calm, soothing disposition?
Uhh …
My sense of humor?
Well …
My faith?
Could be. I did stand up for the inclusion of Christianity in the burn unit, and on more than one occasion he has witnessed my prayers, one of which included him. Maybe I’ve begun to exude that sense of goodwill with which steadfast Christians like Belle perfume the air.
In the next instant, I wince. As evidenced by the decreasing amount of time spent with God, I’m hardly steadfast. I believe, but am not doing much doing. Which is all the more reason to put Operation: Perfect Faith into effect tonight. And I will.
“I’m not sure what it is.” Clive startles me out of my musings. “But you moved me in the right direction. And I want to thank you.”
I blink at him. “I’m glad to have had a positive influence on you.”
He turns his gaze toward the tarp-covered memorial plaque, and what rolls off my tongue seems the most natural thing to say. “I’m sure your wife and son would be proud of what you did in Guatemala.”
He stiffens, but before I can wish back the words, his shoulders ease. “I believe they would.” Then he draws a deep breath—the kind that signals it’s time to shove off.
And I panic. Flounder. Grasp. “So what was it like?”
“What?”
“Guatemala. The clinic.”
I watch the struggle on his face, but just when I’m certain he’s about to shrug off my question, he says, “Four clinics in ten days, actually. And between the nine members of our medical team, we treated over fifteen hundred people.�
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That takes my breath away.
“Our first clinic was a refugee camp in the mountains. The pictures you see of places like that, Kate … they’re shocking.”
“I’ve seen pictures.”
“But that’s all they are—pictures that don’t come close to revealing the ungodly living conditions.” He shifts, so deeply troubled that I feel the weight of his memories. “Incredible need … poverty … and every imaginable disease and ailment. It’s not the twenty-first century there, let alone the twentieth.”
It takes all my willpower not to give his hand a comforting squeeze.
“That first day we worked eight hours in cramped tents with only a thirty-minute break for lunch. By the time night fell, we hadn’t made it through half of those seeking care. The next day, between surgery and dispensing medication, we put in twelve hours—again with only a thirty-minute break, during which I walked around the village.” His brow ripples. “I couldn’t take more than half a dozen steps without one of the children who danced ahead of me dropping back to touch my doctor’s coat as if …”
I catch my breath, but he doesn’t finish the sentence. So I do, though not aloud: As if touching the garment of Jesus Himself. As if they knew who sent Clive to them.
He draws a breath. “I peered into the cramped huts in which the families lived. They were dark, lit only by fires over which girls labored to turn cornmeal into tortillas.” His gaze swings back to me. “Conjunctivitis and lung infections are rampant there. Do you know why?”
“No.”
“Their Mayan religion encourages them to build huts without windows in order to keep out evil spirits. Thus, lacking proper ventilation, they live amid the smoke of their fires.” He gives a crooked smile. “At one point, I had an urge to grab a translator and make him tell them about Jesus.”
I startle, but no sooner does hope bud than he adds, “Fleeting only.”
It was something though, Lord.
He begins to massage the back of his neck. “After one more day at the refugee camp, we went on to a beach village on the Pacific Coast. The clinic was a large, open adobe structure with a thatched roof. That first day, we saw over three hundred people, half of them children. It wasn’t much different in the next two villages.”
He drags his hand from his neck, and the weariness deepening the lines of his face starts to lift. “In spite of it all, Kate, the people persevere. And live. And smile. And laugh. And love. Especially the children. It made me wonder what they have that I don’t.” His eyes slide to me, and his mouth edges toward a smile. “Maybe I ought to check out the Mayan religion, hmm?”
I can’t help my widening eyes, nor dropped jaw. The only thing I do control is my spluttering objection, but only because his smile goes from beginner (a little eye action) to intermediate (lots of eye action) to advanced (loads of eye action complete with a teasing glint).
Despite the fun he’s having at my expense, I warm to his gray-blue irises … thrill at their depth … experience rending disappointment when a spasm of unease causes him to break eye contact and his smile to sink below beginner level.
“Probably more than you wanted to know.”
“No! It’s wonderful to hear how God worked through you to bring healing and hope to those people.”
Oh, no. BIG “Oh, no.”
Mouth tightening, he rises, meaning soon I’ll be as alone as I was before he caught me at the vending machines. Perhaps more so now that I’ve tasted his company. And enjoyed it. And want more of it. He’s leaving. And I have yet to alert him to my boyfriend-less status.
Which is good, especially since I’m determined to remain single.
“It’s been a long day.” He gazes down at me. “And it’s going to be an early morning.”
I start to stand, but he waves me back. Urgency pounding at my temples, I crane my neck to peer up at him. “Surgery?”
“Two before noon.” He checks his watch. “Perhaps we’ll run into each other tomorrow.”
“As tomorrow’s Saturday, I should be here all day.” Hint, hint. “And a good portion of the night.”
He nods. “Good night, then—”
“Michael and I are no longer seeing each other,” I blurt out. Much to my dismay. Much to my self-loathing.
But much to my relief, his mouth turns up and the resulting smile includes teeth. “Glad to hear it.”
He’s glad …
“Good night, Kate.”
That’s it? “Uh, good night, Clive.”
Friday, June 1
Dear Lord,
He’s back. And there’s something about me that makes him care what I think of him. That’s good, isn’t it? It means … What does it mean? And if it means what I want it to mean, should I want it? I know he has turned away from you, but perhaps he’s coming back. After all, surely it was your will that he travel to Guatemala to aid those in need. Even if I’m the one he credits with pushing him into it, he’s heading in the right direction. And that’s promising.
If Clive Alexander is the one you’ve been holding in reserve for me, you wouldn’t care to send a sign, would you? Of course, here I go again calling on you when I’ve been less than faithful of late. Asking for answers when I’m negligent in answering your call for an ongoing relationship. But that all changes tonight. Tonight I begin Operation: Perfect Faith. (I’m thinking Proverbs and maybe some Luke.)
So thank you for Clive’s safe return from Guatemala and that he didn’t react negatively when I blurted out the news about Michael (that was obnoxious, wasn’t it?). Thank you for Belle’s continuing pregnancy. Thank you for spring that unfolds into summer, the absence of another message from Michael on my answering machine, and the absence of notification that my rent is going up (or did that glare Maia gave me this morning mean she’s about to sock it to me?). Speaking of which, please help me to resolve the sticky situation between the three of us.
Yours,
Kate
ATE MEADOWS is printed in a bold, I-don’t-do-flourishes hand that causes the blood pumping through my veins to put the pedal to the metal.
Dragging my bottom lip between my teeth, I pull the taped envelope from the vending machine. It’s him. Has to be. After the squandered anticipation of waiting to see him all morning, then afternoon, my hand trembles as I thrust a finger beneath the flap and sweep it along the seal.
“Ow!” I peer at the paper cut, then raise my finger to give it a good suck.
Ooh. Bad idea. Repeat after me: hospital … germs galore.…
Lifting the hem of my oversized top, I use the back of it to dab at the cut, then return to the mysterious envelope, gingerly pry at the flap, and pull out a prescription slip headed: RX.
Meet me on the roof (use the maintenance stairs off the domed room). Come hungry. —Clive
Oh, my. Clive … the roof … hungry …
I reread what is the nicest prescription ever written for me. And in a legible hand! Pulse accelerating, I recall my quip that vending machine cuisine is hardly rooftop dining fare. Took it to heart, did he?
With a thrill, I imagine a rooftop dinner like those portrayed by Hollywood—candlelight, white tablecloth, long-stemmed roses, violinist, and tuxedoed gent whose one purpose in life is to sweep me off my feet. And not just any gent, but Clive Alexander, looking like he did the night he entered Belle and Beau’s Boutique. This time looking that way for me rather than for Adelphia you-know-who. Looking at me, rather than through me. Admiring my figure in an elegant—
I glance down. Guess not.
From my accidentally colorful Keds to my victimized hip-huggers, to my short-sleeved oversized top, I’m far from elegant. Kate Meadows, Hollywood’s fleeting sweetheart, better not quit her day job. Not to mention her night job.
Clutching the prescription, I turn from the machines and start back the way I came. As I near the construction area, I turn into the restroom to check my appearance.
Yu-uck! Not only did I become less conscientious of my
appearance as the day progressed, but to keep from tumbling off the scaffolding, I’d lurched into a freshly painted wall. Hence the blue blotch on my hair and streak on my sleeve. Though I knew I ought to clean up before the paint dried, I’d given up on Clive. Thus, I’d doggedly set about repairing the smeared wall.
I pick at the blue-coated strands that start at my left temple and sweep backward, but there are too many. Grumbling under my breath, I turn on the tap and stick my cut finger into the stream.
A few minutes later, paper cut soaped, dried, and wrapped in tissue, I head for the maintenance stairs. Three flights later, I step out on the roof into a relatively warm night. Relatively, as in not certain whether the prickles up and down my bare arms are caused by the breeze coming off the bay or the eerie dim that stretches across the rooftop between isolated pools of light. One thing I do know—no candlelight, white tablecloth, or roses in sight. And no Clive—tuxedoed or otherwise. Of course, maybe once my eyes adjust—
A shift in the darkness ahead, followed by footfalls, causes me to peer deeper. A moment later, Clive strides into the light thrown by the stairway at my back, revealing casual dress of khakis, a button-down shirt, and a light jacket. Not quite the impact of a tuxedo, but certainly an improvement over doctor’s attire.
“You came.” He halts before me.
How I wish my heart wasn’t beating so wildly! “Just what the doctor ordered.”
His regard shifts from my blue-streaked temple to my eyes. “Do you always follow doctor’s orders?”
As I stare at Clive, who looks exceedingly Brad-ish at the moment, I wonder what it is about the backdrop of night that tempts one to romantic pinings. Were this a movie—
It’s not. No candlelight, no white tablecloth, no tuxedo. Too bad.