Perfecting Kate

by Tamara Leigh

  “Kate?”

  I regard him with wide eyes, and before I realize what’s happening, my tongue develops a tic all its own. “That’s great. Really great. Provided you don’t think this … uh … changes anything—you know, with regard to us … um … sleeping together.” I shake my head. “No can do.”

  Ugh. That didn’t sound like English. Did he understand any of it?

  He’s still—as if listening hard to a translator. Then a half smile eases out. “I understand.”

  He does? Hmm … maybe there are wedding bells in my future.

  If you can change his mind about biological children.

  ou showered with him?”

  I jerk the phone away and, half-expecting Belle to emerge from the earpiece, hold it at arm’s length.

  “Please tell me I heard wrong,” her miniaturized voice pleads.

  I gingerly put the phone back to my ear. “Do you have any idea how effective pepper spray is? I couldn’t see a thing. It felt like my eyes were being burned out of the back of my skull.”

  “Hmm …”

  “He’s a doctor, Belle.”

  “Yeah, a doctor who’s getting way too accustomed to playing doctor.”

  How I wish I’d kept Clive’s ministrations to myself! “Nothing funny happened.”

  “I’m not worried about funny, Kate.”

  I groan. “You know what I mean. We didn’t do anything inappropriate.”

  “Did you kiss?”

  “Yeees.”

  “Okay. Let’s see—the two of you are alone in a house in some secluded valley—”

  “You told me to call him!”

  “Call him, Kate. Not drive out there.”

  True.

  “And then you go and take a shower with him—”

  “I was fully clothed!”

  “Even so, you know where a kiss might have led.”

  “Well, it didn’t. I told him no.”

  “Ah!”

  I yank the phone away again.

  “So you had to tell him no, did you?”

  Thank goodness for her blessedly miniaturized voice.

  She snorts. “Should have known. After all, a man who takes a date to see his in-laws—”

  “Belle?” I gingerly return the phone to my ear.

  “What?”

  I draw a deep breath. “I think I’m in love with him.”

  Did I lose the connection? Or is she about to take another whack at my eardrum?

  “Oh, dear.” I hear her blow a breath. “Tell me all of it.”

  I back away from the wall I’ve been transforming into hills and lean against the opposite wall where I can survey my progress. Not bad—though maybe I went too far with that one hill. I zoom in on the three crosses that point heavenward. Hardly subtle—

  “I’m waiting,” Belle singsongs.

  Phone wedged between ear and shoulder, I pick up the story where I left off: postshower.

  At the end of my retelling, Belle says, “All right. Sounds like he’s fallen for you, too. Now the question is: When are you going to let him in like he’s let you in?”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “As in yesterday, Kate. If you wait much longer, this could become more complicated than it already is. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  I know what I’m feeling—like a novice brought before a ruler-wielding Mother Superior. “I know that I’ll end up more hurt than if I’d told him earlier.”

  “That’s putting it mildly, but at least you’re not tucking tail and running.”

  If I didn’t feel so strongly about Clive, I would. “I’ll tell him.”

  “You’d better.”

  Eager to turn the conversation, I say, “So how are you feeling? Only three and a half weeks to go.”

  Her silence is telling, but finally she says, “Or less.”

  “Less?”

  “The doctor says that if he decides to come tomorrow, it won’t be necessary to stop labor again.”

  I refuse to fall beneath the wheels of my inability to experience what she’s going through, so I surrender to joy. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s well developed.”

  Praise the Lord!

  “Kate, I can hear Beau on the stairs.” She gives a sniff. “Smells like vegetable soup.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you go. Have a nice dinner.”

  “Hey! I expect a good report.”

  “I’ll do my best. Talk to you soon.”

  But when Clive shows up bearing gyros an hour later and, in the midst of sharing his meal, turns his attention to my work, the timing proves wrong.

  For what seems just shy of forever, he stares at that hill with its none-too-subtle crosses.

  Why didn’t I do something about them before he came?

  When he finally shifts his gaze, it’s to the rendering of woodland. My momentary relief is shot full of holes when I see the scene through his eyes. Though I believed I’d deftly formed crosses among the tree limbs, there’s nothing deft about it. Rather than a few, I placed a dozen. And that crown of thorns hidden amid a thorny bush—glaring.

  “Kate, it—”

  “I know. I messed up.” I lower the remainder of my gyro to its wrapper, drop my head back against the wall, and close my eyes. “Sorry.”

  His hand covers mine. “If your faith is as strong as you say it is, why do you need to splash it everywhere?”

  Maybe because it isn’t that strong. After all, though I got home early enough last night, determined to jump-start Operation: Perfect Faith, instead I hunkered under the covers. I didn’t even say a real prayer, opting for a quick “Now I lay me down to sleep …” Still, it was an hour or more before I did sleep. I just couldn’t bring myself to talk to God. It’s awkward—asking Him again to help me with Clive, being convicted again to do the right thing, then …

  Awkward. But once I tell Clive—and I will!—everything will be better.

  He leans nearer. “You know, Kate, Jesus doesn’t come because there are paintings and symbols of Him. He comes because He’s needed and called upon. Even if you hadn’t painted a single cross or child at prayer, He’d still be here.”

  It takes me a moment to place myself, but when I do, his words come at me in waves—the first bearing the message he intends, the second and every one thereafter revealing something else. I smile.

  “You have to—” He frowns. “What?”

  “I’m surprised to hear you talk like this. I didn’t know you could.”

  Apparently, neither did he, as evidenced by the momentary alarm that sounds in his eyes. Then he’s pulling his hand from mine, settling back against the wall, and touching the emptiness left by the removal of his wedding band.

  Is he missing it? Regretting taking it off?

  He draws a breath. “As I told you, I still believe in God. Trust is the problem.”

  Gulp. “Would you consider attending church with me, Clive?”

  Regret crosses his face. “If I did, it would only be to impress you, rather than a genuine attempt to heal the rift between me and God. If you’re all right with that, I’ll come. But I’d prefer not to—at least, not now.”

  I’m tempted to push him, as it’s possible that something in the pastor’s sermon might be the trigger he needs, but I know that until he’s ready to seek God himself, Clive won’t find Him. That’s how it was for me.

  “Okay.” I smile. “Later, then.”

  He looks at his watch. “I should get going. I have an early morning surgery.”

  I’m disappointed, but I know it’s for the best as I have tons to do, especially considering the alteration required to make the woodland, hills, and valleys appear more natural.

  Clive gathers up the cast-off wrappers, rises, and helps me to my feet. “Same time tomorrow.”

  “Then you’re going to make a habit of bringing me dinner?”

  “With the exception of Saturday nights, when you�
��re all mine.”

  All his …

  He frowns. “Unless you object.”

  “No!”

  “Good.” He leans in and lightly kisses me. “Don’t work too late.”

  “Only as late as I have to.”

  Then he’s gone.

  Saturday, I tell myself. Five days until Saturday. Five days to prepare for what I need to tell him. It can wait. Sure it can.

  “Kate, it’s Christopher. I’d really like to talk to you.”

  Talk? How stupid does he think I am? Or should I say how wanton?

  “You know, maybe over lunch.”

  Well, at least he isn’t proposing dinner. Might I be overreacting?

  “Or dinner, if you prefer. Call me. My cell phone number is 555-3048. Bye, Katie Mae.”

  Katie Mae! Along with red, Christopher’s exclusive pet name was tossed out when I returned the engagement ring.

  “Message received at 11:50 p.m.” An automated voice time-stamps the message.

  Just what is he doing calling me at midnight?

  “To save this message, press—”

  As if!

  “—to delete this message, press seven.”

  I jab seven, snap my cell phone closed, and return it to my purse, which I dug the beeping little creep from as I pulled out of the parking garage.

  Determined not to dwell on Christopher’s call, I ease down the lightly trafficked street and glance at the digital clock. Going on 1 a.m., which gives me five and a half hours of sleep before I have to get to my day job.

  Just where did he get my cell phone number?

  Aha! My business answering machine! Well, I’m not calling him back. Hopefully my silence will say all that needs to be said. But what if he shows up at the burn unit?

  I groan. How I wish there were a seven I could jab on the side of my head. Better yet, a way to snap my mind closed like a cell phone.

  Not in this lifetime.

  ts Christopher again.”

  Third call this week, and it’s barely Saturday. I push seven, bypassing the remainder of the message to pick up another that came in while I labored over Pilates alongside Maia.

  “Kate, it’s Beau. Looks like the little guy isn’t waiting any longer. Uh … hold on.”

  “Breathe, honey, breathe,” he muffles.

  “So we’re heading to the hospital—”

  “That’s it, sweetie. You got it.”

  “Hope to see—”

  “Ow! You’re crushing my hand!”

  “Uh … we hope to see you there, Kate. Bye.”

  Oh, my! The baby’s coming! The baby’s—!

  “Kate!”

  I find Maia’s wide-eyed face above mine; then she gives me a jerk that nearly pulls my arm out of its socket, and I stumble to the sidewalk amid a blare of horns.

  “What are you doing?” She rounds on me. “Are you nuts? You can’t just stop in the middle of a street like that. You nearly got yourself flattened.”

  I look back at the intersection that still evidences the fog that rolled in last night. For the life of me—or nearly so—I can’t remember stopping.

  Wide-eyed, I return my gaze to Maia. “Thanks.”

  She rolls her eyes, but as she starts to turn away, I wave the phone at her. “Belle and Beau are heading to the hospital—the baby’s on its way!”

  She scowls. “Not exactly news I’d care to be killed over, but good for them. Now let’s have some coffee; Michael’s waiting.” She heads for the corner coffee shop where Michael said he’d meet her after Pilates.

  Relieved to have an excuse to back out of the invite I accepted before she mentioned Michael would be present, I say, “I have to get to the hospital.”

  Maia looks over her shoulder. “Oh, really, Kate, what’s twenty minutes?”

  “Twenty minutes! She could have the baby in twenty minutes.”

  “More like twenty hours. Believe me, Belle has a long day ahead of her. Why should you waste your time pacing a hospital waiting room?”

  Waste? I will not take offense. Will not take offense.

  “You don’t understand. I have to go.” How’s that for guarding one’s tongue?

  She scoffs. “It’s not as if you’re having the baby.”

  That cuts, though she has no idea how sharply. I curl my fingers into my palms. “You stay and enjoy your coffee with Michael. I’ll—”

  Michael sticks his head through the doorway. “What’s up?”

  Maia brightens, closes the distance between them, and plants a juicy kiss on his mouth.

  Ew. Not that I’m jealous. It’s just weird watching someone kiss someone you kissed, especially when it wasn’t that long ago.

  Maia pulls back. “Belle’s having the baby, and Kate’s determined to rush to her bedside to hold her hand.” She snorts. “Like she needs Kate when she’s got her husband.”

  The truth of Maia’s words sink in like claws. Belle does have Beau. And her mother. And her sister. Have I been assuming something I shouldn’t, that Belle needs me, too? But Beau called—said they hoped to see me at the hospital.

  Michael steps from the shop. “That’s wonderful. We should go, too.”

  Maia startles. “What?”

  “My car’s around the corner. We can head over right now.” He gives me a smile. “Kate?”

  Being arm in arm with Michael and Maia isn’t how I envisioned this day. “That would be great.”

  Thankfully, Maia’s pout fades when Michael puts an arm around her. And, as we walk to the car, she slips an arm around him.

  When we arrive at the car, I don’t question that I ought to take the backseat; however, I sense Michael’s uncertainty when he straightens from pushing the passenger seat forward.

  I step past Maia and catch Michael’s eye. “I may be potentially fat, but I can still squeeze into tight spaces.”

  Discomfort draws lines across his brow, but I pat his shoulder and grin. “No hard feelings.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “Well, maybe a few, but I’ll get over it.” I duck my head, stick a foot then a hip into the gap between front- and backseat, and find myself … stuck. As embarrassment rolls up my cheeks, I squelch the impulse to point out that it’s my breasts, not my rear or thighs, that are responsible. Why bother?

  Emptying the air from my lungs, I manage to shrink my bosom just enough to drop into the seat. So much for squeezing into tight places …

  “It’s a boy!”

  We jump to our feet and step toward the door across from the waiting room—only to have Beau close it in our faces.

  We exchange glances, then start to lower back to our seats.

  He sticks his head out again. “At least, I think it’s a boy.”

  “You think?” Maia shrills.

  “Oh, Lord.” Belle’s mother moans where she leans against the wall, twisting her purse handle.

  “Well, it’s supposed to be a boy.” Beau looks wildly disheveled despite only two hours having passed since Belle was admitted. “That end hasn’t come out yet.”

  “Ugh!” Maia gives a full body shudder and drops back in her chair. “Go away, Beau.”

  He reappears thirty seconds later. “Lots of hair. And there’s this white stuff all over him—kind of gross—but the doctor says it’s normal.”

  “Let’s sit down, Mom.” Belle’s sister encourages their mother back into her chair while Michael and I gauge Maia’s reaction.

  She pulls her long legs to her chest, wraps her arms around them, and glares at the ceiling. “And I gave up a latte for this!”

  “Umbilical cord visible.” Beau peers over his shoulder. “Oh! Wow!” He wiggles his eyebrows. “It is a him, no doubt about that.”

  Maia drops her forehead to her knees.

  “And he’s out! All the way! Whoosh!”

  Belle’s mother whimpers while her younger daughter fans her with a magazine.

  “Beau!” Belle calls. “SHUT! THE! DOOR!”

  “Gotta go.”<
br />
  And the door closes as a squeaky little cry turns into a wail.

  Michael lowers to his chair beside Maia. “Isn’t life amazing?”

  I sigh and reclaim the seat on the opposite side of Maia. “Amazing.”

  Maia pops her head up. “Reality check. Their lives will never be the same.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “That’s the idea, Maia.”

  “Not in my cards. I can tell you that right now.”

  “Really?” Michael leans toward her.

  Uh-oh. Is Maia unaware that his take-’em-or-leave-’em attitude isn’t screwed in real tight?

  Maia jerks her chin. “Really.”

  “You wouldn’t even consider children?”

  She sneers, which transforms her face into something approaching a work of Salvador Dali. “And put myself through what Belle has for the past nine months and today? Ugh!”

  Looking as if someone has stolen his collection of makeup brushes, Michael sits back. “Oh.”

  Oh, dear. Wishing Beau’s florid, stubbled face would reappear, I start to avert my gaze only to catch the widening of Maia’s eyes as she clues in to Michael’s “Oh.”

  She struggles—doubtless warring with her desire for the man beside her and the desires of his heart. “Well, I suppose children are a possibility.” She threads her fingers with his. “I’m just a bit shaken by all that howling … and grunting … and screaming … and panting.”

  Mercifully, my cell phone rings. Snatching it from my purse, I step away. “Kate Meadows,” I say, only to cringe at not having checked caller ID. What if it’s Christopher?

  “Kate.” It’s Clive.

  “Hi!”

  “I stopped by the burn unit to see you. Taking Saturday off for a change?”

  “No. I mean, not intentionally. I’m here, but in the maternity ward.” I draw a quick breath. “Belle just gave birth.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “It’s a boy. I’m hoping they’ll let me in soon to meet him.”

  Another pause. “It could be a long wait. Want to join me for lunch in the cafeteria?”

  I’m tempted—until I glance down my front. Though I sprung for a new exercise outfit, I’m still not certain I wasn’t better off in shapeless sweats. This sporty, overpriced, form-fitting, logo-enhanced stuff leaves no room for error. Add to that the absence of makeup and hair that would have nothing to do with a brush this morning …