by Tamara Leigh
“Heard that before.”
The droll words are too tempting, and I glance sidelong at him. “I’ll bet you have.”
“Brad Pitt not your type?”
The absurdity of his question causes me to issue a snort so unladylike that I’d be horrified if I were still fantasizing about a future with him. “Honestly, what woman would say Brad Pitt isn’t her type?”
“Then?”
Why is he pressing me? It’s as if it really matters. As if he’s decided three years is long enough to hide behind his wedding band. Of course, perhaps he’s playing with me. Teasing me.
Determined to give as good as I get, I say, “Resemblance does not a Brad Pitt make.”
He nods. “So what about me don’t you like?”
As I resume my attempt to warm away the goose bumps, I remember my encounter with him the day I started work on the burn unit. “Maybe it has something to do with the warning—”
“Here.” He starts to remove his jacket.
Recalling how affected I’d been by his warmth wrapped around me the night we had dinner at Home-Baked Breads & Things, I shake my head. “I’m all right.”
“Come on, Kate. You know you want it.”
I do. I really do. And the longer I fight it, the more of his warmth steals away into the night. “Okay.” I slide my arms into his sleeves.
He sits back. “You said something about a warning?”
As I melt into his heat, attraction resumes its jaunt up and down my spine. I’ll get over it. Over him. A year from now—maybe two—this moment will be a distant memory.
“So someone warned you off me?”
I lift my chin from his collar. “Um-hmm.”
“Adelphia?”
I open my mouth to remind him that it was he who issued the warning, but the opportunity to delve into his relationship with that woman is too tempting.
“Why would Adelphia warn me off you?”
Regret etches his mouth. “Because she’d like to take our relationship to the next stage.”
So it has reached some “stage.” “You’re no longer just colleagues?”
“Something more than colleagues. Something far less than committed. Was it Adelphia?”
I shake my head. “Someone more convincing, with whom you’re intimately familiar.”
With a flash of annoyance, he leans nearer. “Who?”
“You.” I poke his chest. “Clive Alexander said I wouldn’t like you.”
His confusion deepens before it clears. “Ah. And you believed me?”
“That is what you wanted.”
“At the time.”
Pleasure runs through me, and for one blissful moment, I let it have its way with me. But the reminder of his desire for biological children resurfaces.
Feeling a tingle in my nose, I latch on to humor, misplaced though it is. “Are you propositioning me, Clive Alexander?”
He looks down at my finger planted at the center of his chest.
Curling the accusatory appendage into my palm, I lower my hand to my lap.
“Propositioning.” He draws out the syllables. “A rather strong word for letting a woman know that I’d like to see more of her.”
Dear God, why did You allow this? Why tempt me with what can never be?
Of course, maybe Clive would feel different about biological children if he knew I couldn’t—
Christopher didn’t.
But he’s not Christopher.
He feels the same need to perpetuate the human race with a biological junior. Get out before your heart ends up sliced, diced, and pureed!
Clive clears his throat. “Plainly put, Kate, I’d like to know you better.”
A combination of longing and fear stirs me. “Why?”
His surprise is palpable; however, it’s replaced by a frown that evidences he’s giving the question full consideration. “I asked myself that a lot while I was in Guatemala.”
Then he thought about me, actually had Kate Meadows on his mind.
Why does that sound like a country song?
“And the more I asked myself ‘Why Kate?’ the more I noticed that, despite all the hardship those people endure, they still have hope because of those willing to make the lives of those less blessed a little better.”
He said “blessed”! Christian-ese at its best. And yet he doesn’t seem to notice, as evidenced by the absence of a flinch or stricken look.
He draws a breath. “It opened my eyes to what I have despite all I’ve lost. And what I could have if I allowed myself to hope like those people. So I did. Do you know what I hoped for?”
I shake my head.
“I hoped that when I returned home, it would be over between you and Michael.”
I’m shocked by his honesty. “Oh.”
“Now you know,” he says almost businesslike. “And your answer is?”
I want it, too, but Christopher looms—as does Clive’s desire for biological fatherhood.
“Kate?”
A lump rises in my throat. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“For one, my schedule is overflowing.”
“I’m aware of your commitments and that I’m largely responsible for your burden, but from time to time you need to come up for air.”
Imagine coming up for air with Clive Alexander.…
And in a moment of weakness, I do, envisioning the kiss that should have been mine. Hardly coming up for air. More like drowning …
“What other objections do you have?”
“Uh …” I grope until, as if by divine intervention, I’m handed the one thing likely to send him packing. “I’m a Christian, whereas you’re … not. Well, at least not a practicing Christian, and it’s important to me that whomever I marry—”
His face tightens. “This isn’t an offer of marriage, Kate.”
“Of course it isn’t. Still, as marriages typically start with a date, it follows that a person should only pursue another with whom they’re … compatible.”
“In your case, a practicing Christian.”
“That’s right.”
“So Michael is a practicing Christian?”
“I … think so.”
Clive’s eyes bore into mine. “You think?”
Feeling like a butterfly—make that a moth—pinned to a board, I say, “He was saved as a teenager, and though he hadn’t attended church for years—”
“Let me guess, he resumed his pursuit of Christianity once you started dating, even attended church with you. That is, until you broke it off with him.”
Though it’s too soon to verify, I know it’s likely Michael won’t be at church tomorrow.
“Is that how you define a practicing Christian, Kate? One who attends church in order to impress a woman? If so, I could be persuaded to take a look at the inside of your nice little church.”
That last is so punctuated by sarcasm, it stings.
“Any other objections?”
You mean besides the fact you require biological children?
And I nearly say it, but to what end? So that for the remainder of my time at the hospital I suffer his pitying glances every time we run into each other? No. My inability to bear children is nobody’s business but my own.
Exactly what about Proverbs 11:3 did you not understand, Kate?
Feeling a sudden need to be alone—to straighten out the kinks in my chest, iron out wrinkled emotions—I spring to my feet. “It’s late.” I thrust a hand out. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”
After a tense hesitation, he rises and clasps my hand.
Resisting Clive’s pull, I say, “Now I really must put my nose to the grindstone.” I give my hand a tug.
He holds fast. “You like me, Kate. I know you do.”
As much as I long to deny it, I’m too transparent. “Yes, but that doesn’t change that we’re not right for each other. Simple as that.”
“No.” His breath moves the hair on my brow. “Not simple a
s that.” And to prove it, he looks to my lips … angles his head … bends nearer.…
I am so sunk.
Though his mouth lightly brushes mine, my senses react with the enthusiasm of flint on steel. Sparks. And more sparks. So bright I gasp and close my eyes to keep from being blinded by the sudden shift from night into day.
Oh, my. Clive Alexander is kissing me, causing a queasy flutter to invade my stomach and pain to prick my heart—not far from what I described to Belle all those weeks ago when I finally acknowledged that Michael wasn’t “The One.”
Then suddenly it’s over, and I blink my way back to the night and the man before me, whose eyes are just this side of triumphant.
Taking a step back, I press fingers to my lips and am surprised when I don’t receive a shock of static electricity.
“Complicated is what I’d call it.” Clive releases my other hand, which I only then realize he was still holding.
I drop my arms to my sides. “Complicated?”
“Not as simple as you thought.”
Oh. “I … didn’t want you to do that.”
“Yes, you did. You’ve been wanting it for as long as I have.”
“No.”
“Careful, Kate.” He smiles softly. “Christians aren’t supposed to lie.”
And I am lying.
I take another step back and choke out, “Good night,” then hurry across the roof.
Not until I reach the maintenance stairs do I realize that I’m still wearing Clive’s jacket. I’d return it to him, but I want another kiss too badly … want more than the secondhand warmth of his jacket … want his arms around me.…
“Ah!”
I jerk the jacket off, drape it over the railing, and descend the stairs to the domed room. Ignoring the mess of brushes and open paint cans, I head for the parking garage.
Saturday, June 2
Dear Lord,
I’m a mess. Of course, you already know that. Though your voice within says, “Tell Clive,” fear says, “Why?” After all, what’s the likelihood that this man to whom I’m so attracted might come to care enough for me that he would set aside the need to see himself in a child of his own? And even if he did, surely his desire for a biological child would always be there, as would my inability to bear him one. So why complicate matters? Why not just walk away? Yes, honesty would be the “perfect” response, but I’m just not up to perfect. Sorry.
Please help me put this Kate-Michael-Maia triangle to bed, and in such a way that I don’t further offend either of them. I know—call him.
Thank you for another good day for Belle and baby. Regarding the baby shower, thank you for Belle’s mother stepping up to the plate. I know with you all things are possible, but it would have been hard for me to host the shower.
I will be at church tomorrow.
Kate
PS: Flipped open to 1 Timothy, so I think I’ll start there tonight. Mind if I pray myself to sleep afterward?
played hooky again. But it’s not as if I didn’t try to make it to church. After all, I told God that He could count on me. It’s just that I didn’t count on Michael.
There I was, all spiffed up, when there he was. I caught sight of him a moment before he would have caught sight of me, had I not stumbled back from the doorway of my Sunday school class. Unfortunately, that little move not only cost me my doughnut, which went rolling down the hall with the smug enthusiasm of the gingerbread man before the wolf gobbled him up, but a decaf-splashed blouse. Afraid other stragglers might call attention to my plight, I’d inched along the wall toward my doughnut. Not that I intended to gobble it up—yuck!—but I couldn’t just leave it there.
Five minutes later, flapping the front of my blouse in an attempt to cool my flushed chest, I’d jumped in my car and headed out of the parking lot.
So why didn’t I stay and talk to Michael? And why am I now hurrying down the winding corridor toward the burn unit on a Sunday? With regard to the former, not only did the surprise of Michael’s presence leave my blouse doused in coffee, but considering how we left it the night I blew, church seemed an awkward place for discussion. As for my detour, the mess I left in the domed room called to me on my way home.
I know. Sunday is a day of rest. But it shouldn’t take long, and once it’s done, I’ll be able to enjoy the rest of the day without worrying about what awaits me on Monday. And it’s not as if a little paint and turpentine will make any difference to the state of my clothes.
As I step from the winding corridor, I glance at my blouse, visible between the lapels of the buttonless sweater I scrounged out of the backseat of my car. Though the coffee stain isn’t as obvious against the taupe-colored material as it was when wet, it’s still not a pretty sight.
I tug the sweater closed, only to wince as my fingers graze my skin through the blouse. Dragging at the neckline, I glance at my bright red skin. Still no blistering, but it smarts. Promising myself I’ll put something on it as soon as I get home, I cross the domed room.
Something is amiss, I realize as I near the scaffolding. I halt and frown at the tidy collection of paint cans, brushes, and folded tarps. Someone cleaned up after me. It wouldn’t be Dorian or Gray, as weekend work is out of the question for those two who have so many parties, so little time. As for the maintenance staff, they stay clear of the construction area. So?
Clive. He would have seen the mess when he came off the roof. But would he have taken the time to put it in order? Especially after the way we parted?
I try to imagine him doing it, and it isn’t all that hard. In fact, I’m certain it was Clive, which makes my attraction to him all the harder to fight.
Alternately flapping my blouse and blowing cool air down my chest, I stare at the work done on my behalf. Why? To impress me? Or was he just being considerate? Or might he be obsessive about cleanliness? Like Christopher …
Of course, Christopher with his big, soft hands—as opposed to Clive’s raspy, manly hands—wouldn’t have lowered himself to cleaning brushes.
I release my hold on my blouse and glance over my shoulder at the entrance to the winding corridor. Is Clive working today?
It would be best to thank him the next time we run into each other, but I have an overwhelming urge to do it now. Which is likely to send the wrong message. And yet, five minutes later, I’m approaching the burn unit’s “command central,” a.k.a. the nurses’ station.
It appears deserted, but when I peer over the counter, a middle-aged woman looks up from her clipboard. “May I help you?”
“I’m trying to locate Dr. Alexander. Is he in today?”
“No.”
As disappointment unfolds, she adds, “Not officially.”
“Unofficially, then?”
She narrows her lids. “You’re the artist, right? The one who’s doing up the new burn unit?”
“Yes.” I reach a hand down to her. “Kate Meadows.”
“Alice Apple.”
As we shake, I glance at her badge. Alice Apple it is. Cute name.
“I peeked in yesterday when you were working on Australia.” She pulls her hand back.
“You did?” Though there were a few comings and goings I’d been aware of, owing to the expectation of seeing Clive, I don’t recall her being one of them.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you. You looked very into it. Great work you do. I can see why Dr. Alexander chose you for the job.”
“Thank you. So is he unofficially around?”
She raises her pen and points right. “Down that hall, left, and straight through to the noise.” At my questioning frown, she adds, “Discharge party for a little boy who’s been in recovery for three months. Dr. Alexander likes to send the children home on a positive note, especially as it’s usually just the first of many hospital stays.”
As it was for Jessica …
She sighs. “Makes it easier for them to return.”
Once more plucking at my blouse, I nod. “I imagine so. However, I don�
��t want to interrupt.”
“Everyone’s welcome.” She waves me toward the hall. “Go on.”
Should I? After all, this could wait until tomorrow.
On top of the foolishness that, against all sense and reason, made me seek out Clive in the first place, my curiosity over the discharge party and the man behind it is roused.
“Maybe I’ll stick my head in.”
The woman returns her attention to her clipboard. “Have a piece of cake for me.”
Shortly, the noise leads me to a set of doors over which brightly colored letters spell out THE PLAYROOM—the soon-to-be outdated version of the domed room. Unfortunately, as the narrow window in each door is covered, I will have to stick my head in. But if the noise is any indication of the number of people, my entry should go largely unnoticed. I step inside.
The room before me, being less than half the size of the domed room, is crowded. Very few glance my way.
I move to the edge of the fray, and a quick sweep reveals as many as thirty adults, a dozen of whom are garbed in hospital fatigues. A similar number of children are present, among them victims of fire as evidenced by bandages, hospital gowns, and wheelchairs.
My heart constricts at the sight, and it lightens to see their smiles, which in several cases are accessorized by blue and white frosting. And their childish, innocent laughter—
As compared to the deeply warm laughter that turns my head.
I look to Clive, who stands to the far right with his profile to me, and swallow hard as attraction kicks in. Though I tell myself I made the right choice, I find myself entertaining the possibility that it could work out between us. At least until a little boy appears beside Clive and gives his pant leg a tug.
Dropping to his haunches, Clive lays a hand on the child’s shoulder, listens to his chirpy little voice, then draws the boy to him for a hug. He wears children well.
Time to go.
I turn away only to hear, “Miss Kate!”
Can I pretend I didn’t hear?
“Miss Kate!”
I turn back to Jessica, whose face is bright and smiling despite yet showing evidence of the fire. She waves, says something to her mother, and heads toward me.
She draws near, looking pretty in a pink checked dress. “I didn’t know you were coming.”