Perfecting Kate

by Tamara Leigh

  I pull my bottom lip from between my teeth and smile. “Neither did I. I’m … uh … trying to track down Dr. Alexander.”

  “He’s here.” She points to where I saw him moments earlier. “Oh! And here he comes.”

  Determined to make the best of it, I glance at him, but only long enough to note the absence of a smile.

  “Luke Warren’s going home today,” Jessica says.

  I return my regard to her. “That’s wonderful.”

  “Of course, he’ll have to come back like me.”

  “I understand he’s been here for three months.”

  “Yeah. His arms and chest got all burned, and one of his legs, but he’s better now.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Kate,” Clive says.

  I meet his gaze, which is less than warm. Regardless, were I made of butter, I’d melt. “Cli—er, Dr. Alexander.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “I dropped by to thank you for cleaning up my mess in the domed room.” I shrug. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to crash the party.”

  “I’m glad you did.” He looks to his left. “It gives me the opportunity to introduce the man who recommended your work to me.”

  Cranking up my smile, I start to follow his gaze.

  “Oh! What happened, Miss Kate?”

  “Hmm?”

  Jessica points at my chest, and I find I’m once more tugging at my blouse, the material of which has become increasingly irritating. Self-consciously, I lower my hand and pull the lapels of my sweater over the stain. “Nothing. I just—”

  “Spilled your coffee, hmm?” drawls a familiar voice—painfully familiar.

  Emotions slamming into one another, I come face-to-face with Christopher Stapleton the Second. The one who said he’d love me forever. Who put his ring on my finger. Who made me give it back.

  Lord, You’ve got to be kidding!

  “Are you all right, Ms. Meadows?”

  I blink at Christopher. He’s pretending he doesn’t know me. Which is for the best as his wife is probably lurking nearby.

  I give a vigorous nod. “I’m fine.”

  He extends a hand. “Christopher Stapleton.”

  I briefly consider passing on the nicety; however, my behavior is suspect enough. Hoping I’m not trembling as bad as I feel, I allow him to encase my hand in his, which is still big and soft. Big is fine, I tell myself as memories of last night return, but rough is better.

  “Kate?” Clive says in a sharp voice.

  What did I do? I pull free of Christopher. “Yes?”

  “I asked if the coffee was hot.”

  Seriously off-kilter, I say, “They were out of … um … cream, so I used one of those little packets of powder … you know …” I grip an imaginary packet and give it a shake. “So, yeah, it was pretty hot. But I’m okay.”

  Appearing unimpressed, he lowers his gaze to my neckline.

  “You should check her, Dr. Alexander,” Jessica says.

  Huh?

  Jessica gives a motherly nod. “Burns aren’t anything to fool with, Miss Kate. Believe me.”

  I do. Still, I shake my head. “I’m fine. Really.”

  Clive takes my arm. “Come with me.”

  “Really, this isn’t necessary.” However, a few moments later he ushers me out of the playroom and into a small room down the hall.

  He closes the door, leads me to an examining table, and releases my arm. “Hop up.” He pats the table and turns toward a sink.

  “Hop? Look, Dr. Alexander, I’m not eight years old.”

  He slowly turns, revealing a grin. “Sorry—habit. Would you mind getting up on the table?”

  I clutch the lapels of my sweater. “Yes, I would.”

  Losing the grin, Clive takes a step toward me. “What’s the problem, Kate?”

  As if he doesn’t know! “In case you’ve forgotten, last night you wanted to date me. And you … kissed me.”

  “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten.”

  Really?

  “Well, don’t you think it’s a bit uncomfortable that you want to, you know, look at me?” I wince. “I mean, examine me? Like a doctor.”

  Oh, Lord! My mouth runneth over!

  He folds his arms over his chest. “I am a doctor.”

  I snort. “Of course you are, but last night—”

  He steps nearer. “Have you changed your mind about last night?”

  “No.” Well, perhaps a tiny bit, but I’ll get a grip. Must get a grip.

  “Then you should have no objections to me, in the capacity of a doctor, examining your burn. Now let me—”

  “No!” I clap a hand to my chest and gasp at the sting that zings across my skin.

  Clive closes the distance between us, takes my arm, and steers me toward the table. “Up, Kate.”

  And I go like a lamb to slaughter.

  Pushing aside the sweater, he peers at the skin above the neck of my blouse. “When did this happen?”

  He’s looking at me. But if he thinks he’s going to get a closer look, if he thinks I’m going to take off my blouse and let him gawk at my unwieldy breasts, he can think again.

  He touches me with those rough fingers and probes the skin above my neckline. And I can’t be sure if my gasp is born purely of pain.

  “When, Kate?”

  I stare at the ceiling, which is the most uninteresting shade of white. “Maybe an hour ago. I was on my way into my Sunday school class when I sloshed coffee down my front.” No need to tell him the reason.

  “And you’ve done nothing for it?”

  “I was going to put ice on it when I got home.”

  “No ice.”

  I look into his serious face. “What?”

  “It’s too harsh and can cause tissue damage.”

  “Then butter?”

  “No.” He returns his attention to the burn and, a moment later, pronounces, “It’s superficial, or first degree if you prefer.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “No, but it could be far worse.”

  “Oh.”

  “And it might be.” He straightens. “I need to see the rest of your chest.”

  I yank my sweater closed. “I am not letting you—”

  “Then you’ll have to be my eyes.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll turn around and you open your blouse and tell me if there are any blisters.”

  “There aren’t. I already looked.”

  “Look again.”

  I eye him. “How do I know I can trust you not to … you know.”

  “Peek?” His mouth tilts. “I give you my word.”

  “Is that all?”

  “It’s all you need, Kate.”

  It is, isn’t it? Still, I hesitate before motioning for him to turn around.

  As he gives me his back, I start on the buttons.

  “How’s the finger?”

  I glance at the flesh-colored bandage binding my paper cut—a definite improvement over the tissue I first wrapped around it. Of course, the one Clive tied did the job pretty well. And that’s when it hits me: If I’m not more careful, availing myself of his medical expertise could become a habit.

  “It’s better, thank you.” I grimace. “Of course, I imagine you’re getting tired of playing doctor with me.”

  I jerk my gaze to his unmoving back.

  “Not at all,” he says with a note of amusement.

  Rolling my eyes, I pop the rest of the buttons free and lower my chin. “My chest and upper abdomen are just red, but it does hurt.”

  “Is the skin’s appearance the same as that on your upper chest?”

  “Not quite as red. I guess my blouse took the worst of it.”

  “You’re fortunate.” He steps to the sink and opens a drawer. “I’m going to give you an antibiotic cream. When you get home, apply a cool, not cold, compress. Are you decent?”

  I pull my blouse closed. “Sort of.”

  H
e turns. “The burn should heal in five to seven days. Until then, wear loose tops. If you experience discomfort, a mild pain reliever will help.” He uncaps the tube. “I suppose you’d like to do the honors.”

  “Yes!” I grab the proffered tube.

  Mouth tucking at the corners, he turns around again. “If you’re worried about the cream staining your blouse, I can give you gauze bandages to cover the burn.”

  “Not necessary.” I squeeze a glob onto my palm. “I’ve already accepted that the blouse is a goner.” Fortunately, it was clearanced at 75 percent off. Unfortunately, I really liked it.

  Keeping an eye on Clive’s back, I part my blouse and gingerly smooth the cream over the affected areas. And it feels somewhat better.

  Clive widens his stance. “How far back do you and Christopher Stapleton go?”

  That eye I’ve been keeping on his back nearly pops out. Hands frozen on the button I’m coaxing into its ridiculously small hole, the accomplishment of which is hindered by my bandaged finger, I search for … well … a lie. Which Operation: Perfect Faith has a lot to say about. But this time it’s 1 Timothy that warns me about being honest—keeping my conscience clear to prevent my faith from being shipwrecked.

  I sigh. Though I may not be able to bring myself to reveal my inability to bear children, I certainly can be honest about this. “How did you know?”

  Continuing to face opposite, he crosses his arms over his chest. “The look on your face, the way your hand trembled when you shook hands. Then you began to babble, and I had to ask twice if the coffee was hot.” He pauses. “But the real clincher was the way Stapleton stared at you.”

  I frown. What way was that?

  “Decent?” Clive asks.

  Realizing I’m still mostly unbuttoned, I say, “No!” and force the button into its hole. “Just a moment.” A moment I badly need, and which I stretch to nearly a minute. “Okay, I’m decent.”

  He turns, and from his raised eyebrow I know he expects an answer. “How do you know Christopher?” I stall with a question of my own.

  “The hospital leases equipment through his company, so we’ve had dealings, but most recently I got to know him through his son—”

  Son …

  “—who has visited his cousin several times a week since Luke was admitted.”

  “Luke?” I scrabble after the familiar name.

  “Luke Warren, the little boy being discharged today.”

  That’s right. Jessica told me about him.

  “When he knocked a pot of boiling water off the stove, he was burned over 20 percent of his body.”

  My imagination does a number on me, conjuring images that cause a chill to travel across my shoulders.

  Clive nods. “It was bad. Thought we might lose him those first few days, but he pulled through. He’s what we call a save.”

  My heart jostles at how amazingly beautiful that unremarkable single-syllable word sounds in the context of life.

  I smile. “That must make you feel good.”

  “It does.” He studies my face, making me self-consciously aware of my emotions.

  “So you—” I swallow—“don’t regret leaving your cosmetic surgery practice?”

  “I don’t. Though helping burn victims reconstruct their lives is hardly glamorous, the hours are unpredictable, and the compensation is beneath what I previously earned, it’s what I was called to do.”

  “Called to do? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re getting spiritual on me, Dr. Alexander.”

  He momentarily looks aside. “It does sound that way. Of course, it hardly qualifies me as a practicing Christian.”

  I flush at the reminder of my objection to dating him. Thus, I return to a relatively safe topic. “So Luke is Christopher Stapleton’s nephew.”

  Clive settles back on his heels. “Yes—rather, soon-to-be ex-nephew.”

  “Ex?”

  “According to Stapleton’s son, his parents are divorcing.”

  Then Christopher and the woman who bore him a child are calling it quits, untying the knot.

  Not that I’m gloating. Quite the opposite, as not until I put aside my anger and resentment over his rejection was I able to heal. True, from time to time I’m pained by his abandonment, but I no longer wish ill on him, which I did before giving my life to Christ. How sad for Christopher … his wife … especially their little boy.

  Clive steps nearer. “I assume the two of you were involved at some time or other.”

  Uncomfortably aware that I’m still on the examining table—in more ways than one—I hop down and search out the cap for the cream. “Yeah … we were.”

  His open hand appears inches from my face, at the center of which is the cap.

  I pinch it. “Thanks.”

  “How far back do you go?”

  As much as I hate talking about my past, I don’t want Clive to believe of me what I believed of Adelphia. “Years and years—eight, I believe.”

  “And?”

  “It didn’t work out.” No need to go into our engagement or the reason for breaking it off.

  “So he married someone else.”

  Then Clive knows we were engaged? Or is he just guessing? “So it appears.”

  “Which didn’t work out either.”

  Where is he going with all this? Well, he’s not going there with me. “Guess not.” I start for the door. “Thanks again for cleaning up my mess.” A moment later, I reach for the handle, only to jerk back when Clive’s hand arrives ahead of mine.

  “It was the least I could do after running you off.”

  “You didn’t run me off.”

  “Yes, I did.” He calls me on the lie.

  Oops. Sorry, Lord.

  “And I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you feel cornered.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Ashamed at how quick I am to resort to falsehood to protect myself, I sigh. “You’re right. I did feel cornered.” I force a smile. “You are, after all, persistent.”

  “When the situation warrants.” He eases open the door. “But under the circumstances, I suppose it all worked out for the best.”

  “Yeah.” I step ahead of him into the hallway, only to turn back. “What do you mean ‘for the best’?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Stapleton and his pending divorce.”

  I feel my face tighten. “You think he and I …? Oh no. Absolutely not.”

  “You sound certain of that.”

  “I am!”

  “As certain as you are about you and me?”

  I scoff. “More so!”

  He smiles. “I’ll take that as encouragement.”

  “What?”

  He steps forward, slides a finger up my throat, and lifts my chin. “Persistence has its advantages, Kate Meadows.”

  Set a-tingle by his touch, I lower my gaze. And a repeat of last night’s kiss is there on his lips. The kiss I want. The kiss I should deny myself.

  But surely one more won’t hurt, I reason, as the space between our mouths narrows. Just one …

  And just who do you think you’re kidding!

  “Don’t,” I whisper, the slight movement causing our lips to graze.

  “I’m not.”

  He’s not? It’s then I realize that I’m the one who moved—that I’ve gone up on my toes and leaned in.

  I drop to my heels and step back. “Sorry, I don’t know—”

  A commotion to my left pulls me around, and with a guilty flush, I watch as the noisy occupants of the playroom spill out into the hall.

  Clive steps alongside me. “Good timing, Kate.”

  Thank You, Lord.

  Not that I care if Christopher sees me with another man, as any feelings I had for him are dead. It would just be awkward. More, had I claimed a second kiss, it would have sent Clive the wrong message. Not that the message I did send by taking the initiative is anything to be proud of.

  Lord, I’m in trouble, aren
’t I?

  “Miss Kate!” Jessica runs toward me. “Are you giving us a tour of the new burn unit?”

  Is that where they’re heading?

  I glance at Clive, who inclines his head, and give him a dirty look. “So you cleaned up the mess for me, hmm?”

  “I did. Of course, two birds with one stone is always better than one.”

  “It’s still murder,” I mutter.

  Jessica halts before me. “Are you, Miss Kate?”

  I look beyond to Christopher Stapleton, who is flanked by a miniature version of himself, who is flanked by a woman of average height and plain countenance—doubtless the soon-to-be Ex–Mrs. Stapleton. And they’re heading our way.

  “Miss Kate?”

  “I’d love to give you the tour, Jessica, but I have somewhere else I need to be.” And it’s true. I really need to get back to Operation: Perfect Faith.

  “Did I hear you say you won’t be taking us on the tour, Ms. Meadows?” Christopher says as he and his family approach.

  Feeling Clive tense beside me, I smile apologetically. “I’m afraid it’s not possible.”

  “Pity.” He halts. “It would have been nice to have the artist’s take on the project.” He looks to his right. “This is my wife, Nora. Nora—Kate Meadows.”

  The woman gives me a warm smile that turns her plain countenance lovely. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Meadows.”

  I accept her handshake. “And you, Mrs. Stapleton.”

  Our hands fall away, and if not for the familiar way she settles her freed hand to her belly—seen it a hundred times with Belle—I wouldn’t have noticed the slight bulge. Nora Stapleton is pregnant. Pregnant and soon-to-be divorced. Unless Clive is misinformed.

  I look to her left hand. She is still wearing a ring. A very familiar ring. Ignoring the accompanying wedding band, I stare at the diamond engagement ring that once resided on my hand.

  “And this—” Christopher ushers forward a little boy of perhaps six—“is our son, Chris.”

  Exactly.

  Realizing I’m heading toward moroseness, I focus on Christopher Stapleton the Third, who until now has remained faceless.

  Smiling his mother’s smile, the little boy sticks out his hand. “Hi.”

  My heart gives a ferocious tug, but a moment later I’m marveling at how small his hand feels in mine. “Nice to meet you, Chris.”

  “You, too.” He pulls back.