Perfecting Kate

by Tamara Leigh

  I consider Christopher and his wife, then return to their son, who bridges the palpable distance between them.

  “Can we go, Mom? I want to see the painted room.”

  Nora nods, extends her smile from me to Clive, then leads their son away.

  Aching at the unexpected turns life can take, I watch mother and child join the others heading away. Though I knew it was possible I would one day run into Christopher—and perhaps the family he made without me—I never expected to. After all, the Bay Area is huge.

  “Dr. Alexander.” Jessica breaks the silence. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.” He glances at me. “Take care of that burn.” And just like that, he walks away.

  Once he’s out of earshot, Christopher steps nearer. “It’s good to see you, Kate.”

  “And you.”

  He zooms in on the absent mole, then the missing gap. “You’ve made a few changes.”

  So glad he doesn’t know how recent. “Some.”

  “For the better.”

  Ouch. But is it really an ouch? Telling myself I will not take offense, I smile tightly.

  He smiles back, then runs his gaze down me. “Gained a little weight, but otherwise you look great.”

  Otherwise … Okay.

  “Thank you.” Mouth aching with the effort to hold up the corners, I skim his figure. “You look …”

  Dare I say it? Oh, why not.

  “… married.”

  Surprise causes his light-colored eyebrows to rise a moment before a boyish grin spreads across his face. “I suppose I do.”

  Determined I won’t let on that I’m aware of his pending divorce, which might open doors best left closed, locked, and sealed, I say, “Wife … son … and another on the way. Congratulations.”

  His smile fades. “Thank you. Unfortunately, Nora and I are going through a difficult time right now.”

  Oh, no. No. No. No. He’s not opening that door! “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m sure you’ll work things out.”

  Silence. But just as I’m about to announce that I need to go, he says, “I gather Clive didn’t tell you I’m the one who recommended you for the burn unit.”

  “Clive” rather than “Dr. Alexander”? Of course, Clive referred to him as Stapleton, so it must be one-sided. At least, I hope. “No, he didn’t.”

  Of course, he tried, but Adelphia’s interruption the night we met left me in the dark, and I’m about to clarify that when Christopher says, “I’d seen your work in a magazine, and when I heard the burn unit was short a gifted artist, I brought the article to Clive’s attention.”

  “Thank you. Though it’s been a challenge, I believe this job is just the boost my business needs.”

  He cranks up his smile. “Glad I could be of assistance. So, outside of work, how’s life?”

  “It’s good.”

  He gives my bare left hand a meaningful glance. “Are you with anyone?”

  Clive rises to mind, and before I know it, I’m nodding a lie that I justify with the remembrance of his kiss. “Actually, I am.”

  Sorry, Lord, but unless I’m way off, the last thing Christopher and his family need is for an old flame to reignite.

  Christopher’s face tightens. “And you’re happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then wedding bells are in your future.”

  That hurts. Oh, how I’d like to confirm that a wedding is, indeed, on my calendar, but that would be another lie. Still, neither can I bring myself to deny it, so I merely smile.

  After a long moment, Christopher forces a smile of his own. “I’m happy for you.”

  Guilt washes over me, but I can’t bear to correct him. “Thank you.”

  “Well, I ought to catch up with Chris.”

  Just Chris. Not Nora.

  “I’ll let you go, then.”

  “It was nice running into you, Kate.” He lingers a moment longer, then turns away.

  As I watch him distance himself, I call out, “I’ll pray for you and Nora.”

  He halts and looks over his shoulder.

  I smile. “And Chris. And, of course, your new little one.”

  His lips thin. “I appreciate that.” Then he’s walking away from me—again. But this time it hardly registers on the hurt scale.

  Sunday, June 3

  Dear Lord,

  You’re testing me, aren’t you? That’s what this is all about—first Michael, then Clive, now Christopher. A smorgasbord of men! But are any of them the answer to my prayers? Well, of course Christopher isn’t. He’s married—and with kids, just like he wanted. As for Michael, I think you’ll agree he’s not “The One.” So that leaves Clive, who wants biological children. Could it be that you have someone else you haven’t yet made appear? Or is there no one? What ARE your plans for me? I know. I know. WAIT.

  Please, Lord, give me patience. Help Christopher and Nora work out their marriage—for their sakes and their children’s. Please continue to watch over Belle and Beau’s baby. Please help me figure out what to do about Clive and my attraction for him. And please heal my burn. Thank you for cool compresses and antibiotic cream.

  Thank you for Maia making eye contact and smiling this afternoon. And humming. Wonder what she’s so happy about …?

  Kate

  PS: Time for an Old Testament reading. Maybe Ruth. I like Ruth.

  m I good or AM … I … GOOD?”

  I draw back to further survey my artistic genius. Yep, I’m good.

  Thank You, Lord.

  Returning the smile of the little girl whose formerly lifeless eyes are smiling in concert with her mouth, I triumphantly whip my paintbrush overhead. She’s the last. Other than touch-up and the addition of details likely to become apparent once I move into the hallway, the dome is done!

  Feeling my burden lighten, I singsong, “Uh-huh”—swing hips left—“Uh-huh”—swing hips right—“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh!” All punctuated by a snap of my brush. My celebration is interrupted by a blur of red that falls from my paintbrush, and I jump back. Too late.

  “NO!” I stare at the paint that streaks the right thigh of my hip-hugging jeans—my previously undefiled seventy-dollar version, which due to mounting laundry found their way up my legs this morning.

  “Bad, Kate! You are the clumsiest, klutziest clod!” Of course, if I hit it with solvent—

  I whip around, grab the frame of the scaffold, and lose my balance at the sight of the man crossing the room toward me.

  Grip slipping, I scramble to right myself at the platform’s edge—even have the forethought to release the paintbrush and make a grab for an overhead rung. And, for one relief-filled moment, it seems I might save my neck. But my hands slip … feet fall away … and the cement floor hurtles toward me with disastrous enthusiasm.

  I hit—hard—but rather than the floor, it’s Clive Alexander’s chest I slam into … his arms that come around me … my weight that thrusts us back. No sooner do I register his gusting breath against my brow than we meet the floor.

  Not daring to breathe, let alone move, I gape at the cement floor just inches from my face and marvel that, if not for Clive’s save, I would likely have broken my nose, among other things.

  But he caught me, just like in the movies.

  Well, maybe not. Were this a movie, I would have landed in his arms and he would be standing like a rock. Of course, it might help if I weighed less …

  “Are you all right, Kate?”

  I jerk my face around and come nose-to-nose with him. And in that moment I become ultra-aware of where our bodies touch—which is just about everywhere.

  Oh my …

  “Yeah.” I scramble onto my knees alongside him.

  He sits up and winces as if pained. “Sure?”

  “Thanks to you.”

  He smiles wryly. “You’re forgetting that I’m the one who caused you to lose your balance.”

  He noticed, then. And knows his effect on me. Wonderful.

&nb
sp; “Still, I’m grateful. You saved my neck.”

  “And missed the opportunity to play doctor again.”

  “Oh.” I blush. “Yeah.”

  He flexes his shoulders. “Unfortunately, it didn’t work out the way I envisioned. Hardly hero material.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I give a nervous smile. “It seemed pretty heroic to me.”

  He rubs his back.

  “Are you all right, Clive?”

  “Will be.” He pushes up and offers a hand.

  I reach out for it only to snatch my arm back and thrust to my feet under my own power.

  Clive’s knowing gaze awaits mine. “It was just a hand up, Kate.”

  Embarrassed by my avoidance of further contact, I shrug. “I … uh … didn’t want you to strain anything else.” I look away and pretend an interest in my watch. The digital numbers show that it’s 6:57 p.m.

  I draw a deep breath. “So—”

  6:57 … 6:57 …

  I frown over the tap-tapping that arises from a corner of my mind with the persistence of an SOS.

  “So?” Clive prompts.

  I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “So you’re working late again, hmm?”

  “I was. Thought I’d drop by and check on your progress before heading home.”

  “What do you think of it?”

  He takes in the countries and children that have become a part of the landscape.

  6:57 … 6:57 … What?

  “It’s wonderful.” He turns back around. “You’re done here?”

  “Pretty much.” I sigh. “A really good feeling.”

  “Obviously.”

  I start to nod. “Obviously?”

  “I caught your little victory dance. It was … enlightening.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, so you know the truth. Kate Meadows does not have rhythm.”

  “And talks to herself.”

  Well, at least he didn’t catch me talking to my breasts again—

  In the next instant, I remember the reason for my one-sided conversation on the scaffold.

  Oh, no!

  As feared, the paint on my jeans is smeared. And a glance at the left leg of Clive’s charcoal gray pants reveals its inkblot match. “I am so sorry.” I reach to him. “Let me—”

  I snatch my hand back. “Um … I have some solvent. If you catch it soon enough, it’s possible to get the paint out.”

  “Don’t worry about it. They’ve been hanging in my closet for years.”

  “Still …”

  “Really.” He smiles.

  And my heart goes tripping—while that corner of my mind keeps tap-tap-tapping.

  6:57 …?

  I clear my throat. “Did Sunday’s tour go well?”

  “Everyone was impressed with your work, especially Stapleton.”

  Oh, how I hope—pray!—the two didn’t discuss me beyond my artistic ability. “I’m glad he doesn’t regret recommending me for the job.”

  “Far from it,” Clive says, then lets me off the hook with, “How’s the burn?”

  Though it has only been three days since my mishap, the skin has lost most of its angry flush, and the discomfort is all but gone. “Better.”

  He eyes my modestly scooped neckline. “May I?”

  I startle. “What?”

  “Have a look—in the capacity of a doctor.”

  “Uh …”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “It’s …” I flutter a hand down my neck to my upper chest. “As I said, it’s better.”

  Still, he steps forward, and his shadow that falls over me feels warm. And the head he bends toward me makes me catch my breath. And the hand that pushes aside mine causes my breath to release in a rush. And his light touch across my healing skin sends shivers hip-hopping along my spine.

  I stare at his fingers beneath my collarbone, which, in the capacity of a doctor, are entirely innocuous. But in the capacity of an attractive man for whom I have feelings.…

  He nods. “It looks good.”

  I meet his eyes near mine, and my attraction for him strains its seams. “That’s, uh, pretty much representative of the rest of it.” Just in case he’s curious about what’s not revealed below the neckline.

  He continues to gaze into me. “Good.”

  Oh, boy. Not good. “Er, thank you for the antibiotic cream.”

  “Sure.”

  Though I know I should grab my brush, climb the scaffold, and not come down until he’s good and gone, it’s not what I want. I want—

  His hand moves up my neck and slides along my jaw.

  —what he wants.

  His head lowers.

  “Kate!” Michael’s voice hails from beyond the domed room. “You here?”

  Not 6:57, but 6:30! Tap-tap-tap!

  I throw open lids that were on their way down. “It’s Michael.”

  Clive’s eyebrows converge. “You said it was over between you.”

  “It was—is! I mean, I told him …”

  So hard to think with him so near.

  “But Michael wanted to talk it over, clear the air. So I agreed to meet him for dinner, but I guess I lost track of time.”

  Clive doesn’t appear convinced. And neither am I. What if the dinner I agreed to over the phone last night isn’t about clearing the air? What if Michael is still pursuing me? How do I prove to Clive that I’m not some wishy-washy—

  “Kate! It’s me, Michael.”

  His voice carries easily across the domed room, and I become aware of how close Clive and I are and how it may appear. I lurch back. But not soon enough, making me look ten times guiltier to the man whose hurried step slows as he approaches the threshold of the domed room.

  Michael stops and glances between me and Clive. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  Hearing the hurt in his voice, I force my feet forward. “Michael, I … uh … forgot about our dinner.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “I wonder why.”

  I halt before him. “I’m really sorry.”

  “How long have you two been seeing each other?”

  “We’re not.” The dinner on the roof doesn’t count, does it? Of course, Clive did kiss me. And was about to kiss me again tonight. “Well, not exactly.”

  He glances past me. “Surely you’re not telling me this is a first.”

  “No, but …”

  Lord, this is uncomfortable!

  Of course, I have nothing to feel guilty about. Or do I? After all, though I’d accepted it was over between Michael and me that first time Clive and I almost kissed, I had yet to break it off with him. If not for the honor Clive exhibited, we would have kissed. Guess I do have something to feel guilty about.

  I draw a deep breath. “It’s true I was attracted to Clive.” How I hate that he’s listening! “But nothing happened while you and I were together.”

  Michael considers me through narrowed lids. “All right, but he is the reason you broke it off with me, isn’t he?”

  Surprised he would think that after all I threw at him that night in the kitchen, I open my mouth to remind him of his push to perfect me, only to press my lips closed. We really don’t need to rehash it. But then, what if he concludes that his magnification of my every flaw wasn’t hurtful after all? And does it to someone else?

  I open my mouth, then close it again.

  And suddenly, his mouth turns up. “Okay, not the only reason, but some of it, huh?”

  Good compromise. “Yeah.”

  He sighs and drops his arms from his chest. “I won’t say that seeing the two of you like that didn’t throw me, especially considering you used to be my girl, but it’s not as if we’re not broken up.”

  Did you hear that, Clive?

  “So now we’re back to my reason for asking you to dinner.”

  I nod. “To clear the air.”

  “That’s right. But rather than waste your time or Dr. Alexander’s—” he glances past me—“I’ll just say what I h
ad to say and let you two get back to … whatever.”

  I so feel like squirming. “Okay.”

  “Can we talk somewhere private?”

  I peer over my shoulder at Clive, who watches from alongside the scaffolding. “Of course.” I lead Michael into the winding hallway.

  “This is good,” he says when we hit the second curve.

  I turn to him. “Okay?”

  “You were right about Maia and me. I am attracted to her—just like you were attracted to Dr. Alexander.”

  “Go on.”

  “I fought it because I didn’t want to care for a woman like her. After all, she’s not exactly marriage material. She’s …”

  “Gorgeous? Sophisticated? Educated?”

  He gives a relieved nod. “Yeah, not at all like you, Kate.”

  I gasp.

  He startles. “What I mean is she’s not grounded, you know, girl next door and all.”

  Unintentional or not, that was a slam, though not quite as hurtful as “potentially fat.”

  I tilt my head. “So?”

  “I just can’t imagine Maia in wedded bliss. As for toting a kid on her hip, that’s pretty far-fetched.”

  Did he not notice my jerk of surprise? “A kid? So it’s not just about finding someone to settle down with? Now you’re talking kids? You told me you could take them or leave them.”

  “Sure, but what if I change my mind?”

  I knew it!

  I grit my teeth. “That could be a problem.”

  “Yeah, and yet it’s almost worth taking a chance.”

  “Then you feel strongly about her.” Hmm. I sound a bit like a shrink.

  “I’d like to give it a try.”

  “Does she know how you feel?”

  “We’ve … uh … been talking.

  Mystery of Maia’s smile solved. And the humming. “It sounds like you should talk some more.”

  “I think we will.”

  I place my hands on my hips. “Air cleared?”

  “One more thing. I apologize for trying to perfect you, for dumping all those business cards on you and making you feel inadequate. It’s just that in my line of work, every imperfection is so … glaring.”

  Grudgingly, I nod. “And Kate Meadows had a lot of glaring going on.”

  “Sorry. Of course, you have to admit that the recommendations you acted on improved your appearance considerably.”