Perfecting Kate

by Tamara Leigh

  “Do I always follow doctor’s orders? Um …” I smile. “Within reason.”

  He returns the smile, causing the butterflies to beat more frantically in my stomach.

  I pull the prescription from my jeans. “Of course, your invitation was a bit of a surprise.”

  “But still within reason.”

  “Well, I am hungry and it did sound like an invitation to a real meal.”

  “It is.”

  Tucking the prescription back in my pocket, I glance past his shoulder. “Then?”

  “This way.” He grips my arm and guides me through the darkness. Fortunately, my eyes adjust and pick out the path between metal boxes of varying sizes, all of which undoubtedly keep the hospital running. Many of which are groaning, clicking, and humming.

  “Almost there.” He turns me toward a large, dimly lit structure before which a brown shopping bag sits. And I can’t help but be disappointed. Yes, I accepted that there was no candlelight, etcetera, but in truth I was holding out for something a far cry above a brown-bag meal.

  Clive halts before what I guess to be a utility shed and releases my arm. “Sorry I didn’t bring a blanket to sit on. We’ll have to make do without.” He lowers to the rooftop.

  I sink down beside him and, with my back to the wall, quip, “Thank goodness for jeans.”

  “And Home-Baked Breads & Things.” He reaches to the bag.

  My ears perk at the name of the eatery where he took me the night I signed on for the burn unit. And a memory of the taste of Asi … Ashi—whatever!—makes me salivate.

  “Ham and Swiss on Asiago.” Clive hands me a paper-wrapped bundle. “No onions.”

  I blush. “Thank you.”

  What is it about him that makes funny things happen to my insides? Yes, he’s handsome in his own way, but Michael is on the hunk side of manhood. In fact, despite his bald head—or perhaps because of it—he’s more handsome than Clive. And younger.

  Meaning I’m not shallow? Or could it be I have an “eye” thing? Though both men’s height and breadth and physique are nice, Clive’s eyes do something to me that Michael’s never did. And his laugh …

  He sets another wrapped sandwich between us, and I’m relieved not to be eating alone. Two squat containers appear next. “Soup,” he says, “something with lentils. And to wash it down …” Bottled water.

  Hollywood would in no way approve of Clive’s version of rooftop dining, but I’m touched by his thoughtfulness. And curious about his motive. Much as I’d like to think he has romantic designs on me (so much for being unbelievably, inconceivably happy), I know I shouldn’t assign too much to what may simply be a kind gesture. But then, mustn’t forget that near kiss. Nor that he was visibly pleased to hear that Michael is out of the picture.

  “This is really nice of you.”

  “Wouldn’t do for our resident artist to collapse from a lack of nourishment. After all, you have a deadline to meet.”

  That’s what this is about, my deadline? Just my deadline? As I stare at him, his mouth tilts. No, it’s more than that. I know it, and he knows it. Unless I’m fantasizing and he’s teasing.

  I clear my throat. “Thank you, Clive.”

  My, but I like the sound of his name—the way the C and L blend so smoothly … the long, drawn-out I … the V that vibrates across my bottom lip … the strong, silent E.

  C L I V E. C L I V E. CLIVE.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Yanked back to the embodiment of that name, I try to hide my fluster by giving my full attention to the unwrapping of my sandwich.

  “Cut your finger?”

  I consider my index finger, which has bled through the makeshift bandage. “Just a paper cut. Not likely to require the expertise of a highly trained plastic surgeon like yourself.”

  He pulls my hand from the sandwich, and at the rasp of his skin across mine (aren’t doctors supposed to have soft hands?), I jerk.

  He lifts his chin. “I’m not going to hurt you, Kate.”

  Are you sure about that?

  As past experience whispers across my emotions, I avert my gaze. “I know. You just … surprised me.”

  How I hope he doesn’t look to where my heart is pounding so hard that my top is surely shuddering!

  He bends over my hand, unwinds the sorry bandage, and probes the tender flesh. “A bit more than your average paper cut. How did it happen?”

  “Used my finger as a letter opener.” In the next instant, I roll my eyes at the realization that he might connect my recent injury to his dinner invite.

  He looks up. “My prescription?”

  Oh well. “That’s right. You did this to me.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I have malpractice insurance. Of course, if you hadn’t torn into the envelope …”

  Embarrassment makes the air turn suddenly balmy. “I didn’t tear into it!”

  He smiles and returns his attention to the cut. “It won’t require stitches, but you will want to keep it clean and covered. In the meantime …” He sets my hand on his thigh.

  My hand is on Clive Alexander’s thigh! Shouldn’t be, but is. Shouldn’t leave it there, but I do.

  “… a proper bandage is in order.” He tears a strip from a paper napkin, winds it around my finger, and finishes it off with a sturdy knot. And all the while, attraction skitters up and down my spine like a lab rat on triple-shot espresso.

  “All better,” he says.

  I warm at the warmth in his eyes, almost shudder when those eyes lower to my mouth. Of course, might that be because it’s hanging open?

  Pulling my hand back, I look away, only to light on the sandwich in my lap. Without thinking, I lift the bundle to my mouth.

  “No prayer tonight?”

  Oops. I close my eyes and, fifteen seconds later, open them. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.” He takes a bite of his sandwich.

  A moment later, I nearly moan at the pleasure of ham and Swiss on Asiago bread.

  “Good?”

  “Mmm.” Nod. Nod. “Mmm.”

  After we polish off the sandwiches, we start in on the “something with lentils,” the liquid warmth chasing away my chills.

  “Better than the vending machine,” Clive says as I fit the lid on the remains of my soup and drop the container in the bag.

  I lean back against the building. “Thank you.”

  He also leans back. “Thank you for joining me.”

  “My pleasure.” And it is. Right or wrong, mistake or not, I like his company. More than like it.

  As Clive stares out across the roof, I catch movement in his lap, where he’s turning his wedding band.

  “Do you ever take it off?” I ask in advance of careful consideration. Ugh.

  “Hmm?”

  For fear that he might think I’m referring to something other than his ring, I nod at his hands. “Your wedding band.”

  The round and round movement ceases. “It’s my constant companion. A reminder.”

  In deference to his heart’s ache, my attraction to him takes a step back. He must have loved her very much.

  “Of course, I’m also grateful for the protection it affords,” he says in what seems an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “From husband-hunting women?”

  “Sounds egotistical, but yes.”

  “Then you’re not looking for another wife?” Ugh again.

  “Not yet, though three years should be long enough, shouldn’t it?”

  Yes!

  “Uh … I suppose it’s however long a person needs.”

  He gives the ring another turn. “If I marry again, I intend to do it right.”

  “Then you did it wrong?”

  Ah! Who oiled my lips?

  “Let’s just say I missed out on a lot.”

  Such as? And if I am a candidate, am I qualified to fill his departed wife’s shoes?

  Candidate! Qualified! How pathetic does that sound?

  I softly clear my throat. “Then
you’re interested in someone like … um …”

  He turns his gaze on me. And oh, how I like his eyes. And the line of his nose. And the turn of his mouth. And his firm chin, even if it is stubbled over.

  Feeling my cheeks warm, I wish the warmth would spread to my arms. “You’re looking for someone like Jillian?”

  Surprise crosses his face. “Jillian was a wonderful woman—loving, accomplished, beautiful—but there was only one of her. Just as there’s only one of you, Kate.”

  Nice line. Makes me warm all over (thankfully).

  “What I’m trying to say is that should I marry again, I want what I missed with Jillian. And our son.”

  Eerrrkkkk! Though I already know the answer, I force myself to seek clarification. “Then you want another child.”

  “Actually—” his mouth lifts in the muted light—“I’d like several.”

  Whooshhh! Struggling to maintain my bowed mouth, the corners of which feel suddenly weighted, I clench my hands.

  It’s to be expected. After all, it’s not as if I haven’t been here, done this. Many times. Men may not possess a maternal instinct, but most possess a paternal instinct. Even Michael, who professes a take-’em-or-leave-’em attitude, may find himself on the take-’em end of the spectrum eventually.

  Of course, there’s adoption. But, as always, I’m panged by the remembrance of Christopher’s reaction to the option. Maybe Clive is different.

  “But the first requirement,” he says, “is to find the right woman, a woman I can love.”

  Love. Cures all ills, doesn’t it? But can the desire for natural children be considered an ill?

  “So, until the right one comes along, this stays on.” He raises his ringed hand between us.

  But all I see is a wall that doesn’t look as if it can be scaled.

  Clive lowers his hand. “You said you’re no longer seeing Michael.”

  Surprised by the change of subject, I manage, “That’s right.”

  “Then you’re done with all this self-improvement nonsense?”

  I am, aren’t I? Well, almost. Wondering how appropriate it is to mention my breast reduction, I stall. “One should never stop trying to improve oneself.”

  “Yes, but the self-improvement I’m referring to is of the instant, superficial variety.”

  “Of which you don’t approve.”

  A shadow crosses his face that has nothing to do with the night. “There was a time when I did. A time when I was as self-absorbed as those who wrap their identity in pretty packages.”

  “And now?”

  He glances at his left hand. “Now I know different. Unfortunately, that knowledge cost me everything.”

  As his bitterness raises yet another wall, I await enlightenment; however, the silence grows, and I realize he’s said as much as he intends.

  “So you’re done?” he prompts, and it takes some backpedaling to retrieve his question of whether or not I’ve abandoned my quest for an “instantly” perfect Kate.

  I try for a mischievous smile. “Actually, there’s still liposuction—”

  “Kate.”

  “—and electrolysis—”

  He closes a hand over mine in my lap, causing me to startle.

  He thinks I’m serious. But surely my smile didn’t escape him. Or did it? After all, I’m more in the shadows than he.

  I look up. “You do know I’m teasing, don’t you?”

  “Are you?”

  Though confirmation springs to my tongue, a vision of the business card that yet lurks in my purse rises before me. “Well, sort of. I was considering liposuction and electrolysis, but I have decided against both.”

  “Why?”

  It’s a trick question. I know it as surely as I feel his warm skin against mine. Unfortunately, it’s hard to think straight with him holding my hand.

  “Why, Kate?”

  “For one, the procedures are too expensive.”

  “Then you’d go through with them if money was no object?”

  Knew it was a trick question! I flex my hand beneath his. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  I shift around to face him. “If you recall, you approved of my first attempt at self-improvement. And though it’s true you advised against the removal of my mole and gap, afterward you said I looked nice.”

  “I do like the way you look, Kate. Very much.”

  “Then who’s to say you wouldn’t like me better if I took self-improvement to the next level?”

  In concert with my mental slap upside the head, Clive’s left eyebrow soars.

  “Do you want me to like you better?” His eyes stray to my mouth, and for one lovely moment I’m certain he’s ready to deliver on that kiss.

  “Kate,” he says on a sigh that returns his regard to mine, “of course, I didn’t object to seeing you in something other than shapeless clothes and to your hairstyle and use of makeup. In fact, had the mole removal and bonding been your idea, I wouldn’t have dissuaded you. However, it was obvious that Michael was pushing, that you, like so many of those I once charged thousands of dollars to ‘perfect,’ were seeking to please someone other than yourself. And that—” his hand flexes on mine—“is where women fall into the vicious cycle of cosmetic surgery. The never-ending pursuit of something that can never be had, no matter how perfect one’s nose, chin, or thighs.”

  Put that way …

  He lowers his gaze, frowns at his hand on mine, then pulls back. “At the moment I may be on the wrong side of God, but I know He wants you to see yourself as He sees you, Kate.”

  He just said God. All by himself. Without prompting. And last night he mentioned Jesus.

  “So, no liposuction, hmm?”

  Slightly breathless, I say, “Unless it’s something I want.”

  “Do you?”

  “Well, I am a bit heavy in the thighs—”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He says it with such certainty that I flush at the realization he’s noticed that part of me. “You don’t think I could stand to lose a few inches?”

  Cannot believe I’m discussing my thighs with him! And asking for his opinion!

  His mouth twitches. “Perhaps a bit of toning.”

  Making no attempt to fight my own twitching lips, I smile. “All right, no liposuction.” Though tempted to change the subject, I know there won’t be a better time to come clean. “However, there is a procedure I’ve scheduled for this fall.”

  Bye-bye smile. “What’s that?”

  “Breast reduction.” Cheeks warming, I glance down. “In case you haven’t noticed—”

  “I have.”

  Of course he has. Doesn’t everyone? I give a nervous laugh. “My idea, not Michael’s. In fact, it’s the one procedure he advised against. Strange, huh?”

  His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t voice what I can see he’s thinking. A moment later, a sympathetic frown transforms his face. “I imagine you suffer from back problems.”

  So glad we’re on the same page. “Do I ever!”

  “Then you ought to have the procedure. However, if you can stand it, I’d advise you to postpone it until after you’ve had children, as the procedure can affect your ability to breastfeed.”

  Pang. “I … know.”

  His lids narrow. “Breastfeeding not in your future?”

  He has no idea how near the truth he is. Dare I tell him? And possibly quash any interest he has in me?

  Ouch.

  I feel like the recipient of a nasty pinch, but it’s better to know now where he stands with regard to children. Better to pay now while I’m still dealing in the currency of infatuation rather than in pieces of my heart. I do not want to repeat what happened with Christopher.

  “Kate?”

  I square my shoulders. “Actually, I don’t …”

  Say it!

  “I don’t think I’m going to have children.”

  Think? Did you say think? There’s no “think”
about it!

  Clive frowns. “No children?”

  “Natural, I mean, er, biological.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, there are so many children in the world who need homes.”

  Pay me now … pay me later!

  “So I’m thinking adoption.”

  I’m thinking boc-boc-boc!

  “And since I … well, I can’t …”

  “Are you worried about ruining your body?”

  I gasp. “Of course not. It’s just that …”

  Last night’s first installment of Operation: Perfect Faith rises before me, specifically Proverbs 11:3, which says that good people are guided by honesty, whereas treacherous people are destroyed by dishonesty. Feeling decidedly treacherous, I long to come clean. But I can’t.

  “What about you?” I gush. “Would you consider adoption?”

  Confusion slides onto Clive’s brow. “I suppose, but only after I repeated the experience of having a biological child.”

  Knew I should have stuck with unbelievably, inconceivably happy as a singleton.

  As my heart goes into a nosedive, Clive looks out across the rooftop. “There’s something about watching one’s child grow, running a hand over the little bump that becomes a bulge …”

  Pang.

  “… feeling the flutter of tiny hands just out of reach …”

  Double pang.

  “… the kick of little feet …” He trails off, and in the silence that feels like a weight on my shoulders, I rub my goose bump–riddled arms.

  His eyes return to mine. “I want to experience that again. Provided I find the right woman.”

  Which Kate Meadows is not. And that’s okay. Better than stringing myself along and ending up brokenhearted again.

  I nod at his ring finger. “Well, until you’re ready to begin the hunt for Mrs. Right, I promise not to put out the word that you’re eligible. And I assure you that you needn’t worry about keeping me at bay.”

  “Then you’re not attracted to me?”

  I startle.

  He grins.

  Oh, how I’d like to bite at his hook, but there’s Christopher. Christopher who, though I don’t doubt he loved me, couldn’t face life without a little junior. And Clive has admitted the same, though it seems for reasons other than presenting a Clive-stamped trophy to the world.

  I look away. “I admit you’re attractive, in a Brad Pitt sort of way.”