by Tamara Leigh
When I go into Dr. MacPhail’s arms a few moments later, he says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t convince Adelphia to partner with me one more dance.”
I pull back. “What?”
He presses a hand to the small of my back and eases me into the music. “So you and Clive could have more time together—to work things out.”
I blink. “He told you?”
“No. Gloria and Jack are my pipeline. Not that Clive tells them much either, but Gloria did play a starring role in getting that picture to you.”
Ah. “I hope he wasn’t too angry with her.”
He pushes up one of those scraggly eyebrows. “The picture’s on the wall, isn’t it?”
“That surprised me.”
He maneuvers us past a couple who are more enthusiastic than the music calls for. “Take it as a sign, Ms. Meadows.”
“Kate,” I offer, “and what do you mean ‘a sign’?”
He turns me around. “That it’s all going to work out.”
Though on the surface it may appear that way, he doesn’t know what lies beneath. “Unfortunately, it’s more than just my trespass over the picture.”
“I know.”
At my dismay, he shakes his head. “Deduction only. He hasn’t said a thing.”
I relax; however, in the next instant the music fades, and he guides me to a halt.
I smile. “Thank you—”
“Another dance?” His eyes sparkle, and I’m struck by how much he resembles a smaller-than-life Santa Claus.
As another melody unfurls, he gathers me back to him. “I’ve known Clive since before the fire.”
I stare into his face, which is on level with mine. “Then you knew his wife and son.”
“Jillian—somewhat. She attended a few functions with Clive. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to meet their son.”
We bump into another couple, but Dr. MacPhail is surprisingly quick on his feet and sweeps us toward a less-crowded corner of the dance floor.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“To establish credibility.”
“I don’t understand.”
“So that when I advise you not to give up on Clive, you won’t.”
I’m touched. “You must care deeply about him.”
Around we go again. “I do. Clive’s a good man.”
“I know. The problem is …” Dare I be so open? I hardly know this man. But then, what have I to lose? “The problem is that even if I don’t give up on him, I’m afraid he’s given up on me. I wasn’t as honest with him as I should have been, and now my past has—”
“May I cut in?” Christopher’s voice precedes his appearance.
Oh, Lord, can You help me out here?
Dr. MacPhail slows and looks to my past, which has just caught up with me again. “Actually, I’m holding Dr. Alexander’s place.”
He is? Does Clive know about this? Or is this matchmaking?
“Are you?” Christopher glances at me, and I know the glint that enters his eyes and narrows his lids—a combination of suspicion and calculation. If he hadn’t guessed there was something between Clive and me before, he’s guessed now.
He steps nearer, indicating that he expects me to be relinquished. “I’m sure Dr. Alexander won’t mind if a couple old friends play catch-up.”
“Old friends?”
Grudgingly, I nod to Dr. MacPhail. “We go back quite a few years.”
He eases his hold on me. “By all means, then.”
And suddenly I’m back in the arms of the man around whom my world once revolved.
“Nice dress,” Christopher says as Dr. MacPhail disappears among the dancing couples. “As you know—” he slides his gaze back to mine—“it’s my favorite shade of red.”
“I didn’t wear it for you.”
His mouth tightens. “For Dr. Alexander, then?”
“For me.”
“But he is the one you’re seeing.”
“Yes.” Though I’m not seeing him anymore, am I? Clive did say we need to talk, but it doesn’t change anything. At least not at this time.
Christopher pulls me nearer. “Why haven’t you returned my calls, Katie Mae?”
Piqued by the pet name, unnerved by the brush of his chest against mine, I draw back. “You have to ask?”
Thankfully, he doesn’t attempt to pull me back, which is wise because I just had this not-very-nice vision of bringing a stiletto down on his instep. Of course, the flats I’m wearing wouldn’t produce quite the same effect …
“As I told you, Nora and I are having marital problems.”
I don’t like where this conversation is heading, but it has to be had. “And as I said, I’m praying for you and your family.”
He sighs. “It’s only a matter of time. It can’t be fixed.”
“I wouldn’t know. But what I do know is that I’m not the solution, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t attempt to cast me as such.”
He draws us to a halt and searches my face with increasing intensity, as if to find the smallest glimpse of something. And when he doesn’t, weariness settles over him that threatens to sag his shoulders. “I still have feelings for you, Katie Mae. Laugh if you like, but I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”
I stare at him as closed doors within me fling themselves open to grasp at his words. Overwhelmed, I catch my breath.
Lord, forgive me for that lapse. Forgive me for glorying in the hold I’ve had over him all these years. Forgive me for that sweet feeling of vindication and the laughter of my wounded soul. Give me the right words that won’t crush him, but send him back the way he should go.
“Say something, Kate.”
“I’ve stopped thinking about you, Christopher. I’m sorry.” I let apology run to the corners of my mouth. “Like it or not, you’re dancing with the wrong woman.”
His hand flexes on my back. “You’re in love with Alexander.” He gives a short, bitter laugh. “And to think I’m the one responsible for introducing you.”
It is ironic. As gently as possible, I say, “What I feel for Clive has nothing to do with you. I’ve been over you for a long time.” At least, the love part.
“Does he know that you can’t give him a child?”
I didn’t see that coming. And that it’s made to sound like a threat causes anger to spurt through me and the guard on my tongue to look the other way.
Beginning to fantasize about stilettos and insteps again, I jut my chin forward. “The real question is this: Is he different from you? Or how about: Is it more important that he pass on his DNA to a junior than that he love the woman with whom he promised to spend his life?”
Oh, I could go on and on, but the dismay on his face causes the tongue guard to return to its station.
Christopher heaves a sigh. “I’m sorry. Chalk it up to injured pride.”
So maybe just a good stomp on the toes with my flats.…
I draw my hand from his shoulder, and it’s only then that I’m struck by how odd we must appear standing in the middle of the dance floor. I grip his forearm. “Go back and love your wife and son and that sweet baby who’s on its way into your life. Make it work.”
After a long, grudging moment, he nods. “No promises, though.”
I drop my hand from him. “As it’s no longer to me you should be making—or keeping—promises, I don’t expect any. Good-bye, Christopher.” I smooth my dress and turn opposite to weave among the couples.
At the outskirts of the dance floor, I walk straight into the tuxedo-clad chest that steps into my path. I know the hands that steady me before I look up into Clive’s expressionless face.
“I would have cut in, but it seemed as if you had a lot to say to each other.”
I have no reason to feel that I’ve been caught doing something wrong, but I know it looks bad—especially as I told Clive I had no intention of speaking with Christopher.
“He cut in when Dr. MacPhail and I were dancing.” I take a ste
p back that causes him to drop his hands from me. “As for us having a lot to say, I assure you I left no doubt as to whom I wore the dress for.”
He inclines his head. “Can we talk?”
I glance around at the press of bodies. “Here?”
“No. My office.”
“All right.”
He leads the way among the other guests—a crooked course that presses in on me and requires sidesteps and a few squashed toes not to lose sight of him.
Midway, he reaches a hand to me. “I don’t want to lose you.”
In the right context, I’d puddle. Sliding my hand into his, I allow him to draw me from the room and down the corridor. However, once we’re through the double doors, he releases me.
Shortly, he flips the switch in his office, sending light rushing into the dark corners. “We shouldn’t have any interruptions here.” He steps farther inside.
A sweep of the walls confirms that though he allowed the picture to be hung in the domed room, he isn’t ready for Jillian and Sam to look out at him from close quarters.
He turns to where I stand inside the doorway. “I want to apologize for Saturday night. I behaved poorly … said things I shouldn’t have. My only excuse is that there was too much coming at me. Of course, now I better understand your reluctance to get involved in the first place. And why I shouldn’t have pushed.”
I clasp my hands before me. “I should have told you sooner.”
He draws a deep breath. “Kate, you have to realize that when I began to imagine a future with you, it went beyond just the two of us.”
“I know.”
He looks momentarily away. “I’ve read up on Premature Ovarian Failure, and though, in some cases, women do become pregnant, it’s tenuous at best.” He shakes his head. “I hate that I’m like Stapleton in wanting a biological child, but I can’t reconcile myself otherwise.”
As numbness settles deeper, I’m grateful I haven’t allowed myself too much hope these past days—that I’ve turned back to God and His promise of endless love. “I understand.”
Not surprisingly, silence steps in and expands to fill the space between us, then winds tightly around us until I feel like I might suffocate.
I toss my chin up. “Well, I guess that’s it then. Time to get back—”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Kate.”
He is. It’s in his eyes—full-blown pity.
He steps nearer. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like to go through what you did, and at such a young age.”
Eyes moistening, I lower my chin. Does he have any idea how deep his words cut, especially now that he numbers among my losses?
“Kate?” He lightly touches my cheek.
Though I don’t mean to overreact, I’m unable to suppress the survival instinct that makes me jump back. “You’re right.” I meet his gaze. “You can’t imagine what it was like—what it is like.”
Regret shifts through his eyes.
I shrug. “Of course, you’re not exactly immune to loss yourself, are you?”
As he stares at me, I summon a smile that feels almost natural. “Well, back to the party, hmm?” I swing away.
“Are you all right, Kate?”
At the door, I turn. “Yeah. Good thing it wasn’t love, right?” A lie—a big, fat, not-even-close-to-little-white lie. “Good night, Clive.”
And he lets me walk away.
Refusing to give in to the longing for home and the comfort of tear-stained pillows, I return to the party. Throughout the remainder of the night, I catch glimpses of Clive, and more often than I can stand, his eyes are on me.
Friday, July 13
Dear Lord,
I’m broken. In more ways than one. When I chose to follow you all those years ago, I thought your healing would be complete—or at least enough to help me accept for all time what I can never give a man. But here I am again aching for what is lost in not being able to provide it. I know it’s not your fault—that it’s me who allowed my cracked places to be held together with paste rather than the heavy-duty glue of faith. Me who chose to ignore that not only was I not spiritually ready for a relationship with Clive, but he wasn’t ready for one with me. I should have followed Belle’s example of first laying a foundation of friendship upon which we could both learn to trust one another. I’m so sorry. Though this hurts really bad, all I’m asking is that you forgive me for not trusting YOU.
Repentant Kate
o, I never asked to be made over. But was I really content with Katherine Mae Meadows just the way she was—thirty-three years old (now thirty-four), five foot three, 134 pounds (now 127), and way too manless to fuss with hair and makeup?
No. I was apathetic. And self-deluded. As for Beau’s comment on my shortcomings to Dr. Clive Alexander … He meant well. As for Clive … I told you the good doctor bore mentioning. And that’s to say the least.
Sigh.
So here I am, laid out, packed in ice—
No, I haven’t died, but I do have this vague memory of going on and on about death as I surfaced from the anesthesia and was seized with a coughing fit—something along the lines of: Hack! “I’m dying!” Hack! Hack! “Dying, do you hear me?” Hack! “Ohhh, dearrr Lorrrd.”
Two days ago, I finally underwent surgery for breast reduction, and I thought I was prepared, but nothing prepares a person for this. Still, it’s worth all the yucky drainage, discomfort, and take-your-breath-away pain—or will be once I’ve fully recovered. Must keep reminding myself of that. Must imagine being free of backache and strain. Must visualize how it will feel to walk out of a clothing store with one-piece nonknit outfits.
I am content. Not that I don’t miss what might have been. And think of him sometimes—
Okay, more than sometimes, but every day it gets better. And it has only been three months.
I sigh and reach for the bottled water Belle set on the bedside table before she and her little dumpling, John Mark, left.
“Unh!” I gasp as the movement sends a sharp pain across my bandaged chest. Maybe I should take a pain pill …
I eye the vial, but before I can give it further consideration, the phone rings—line two, meaning it’s business. Which I shouldn’t take, but other than my prayer journal (two entries today) and my Bible (what made me undertake a study of Leviticus?), how else am I going to fill my bedridden time?
On the fourth ring, I lift the handset. “Kate Meadows.”
“Ms. Meadows, this is Becky Standish. I’m calling from the hospital.”
My heart lurches. “Yes?”
“We’re planning a remodel of the waiting room in our children’s cancer center and are considering a mural like the one you painted for the burn unit—on a smaller scale.”
“Oh.” Nothing to do with Clive, er, the burn unit.
“We’d love to have you take a look at the room and discuss cost and time frame.”
And if I run into Clive? “Uh … where is the cancer center in relation to the burn unit?”
“Excuse me?”
Mouth feeling more desert-y than moments earlier, I rasp, “Just a moment, please.” I grab the bottled water, grimace at the pain caused by the sudden movement, and take a noisy gulp.
“Ms. Meadows?”
“Sorry. You … uh … would like me to take a look at the room.”
“Yes. Can we set up an appointment?”
I should say no. After all, regardless of where the cancer center is in relation to the burn unit, they’re both in the children’s hospital, and if I accept the job, eventually I’ll run into Clive. And if I run into Clive—
You’ll be fine. Besides, after all those prayers for him, maybe you’ll get a chance to see God’s answer.
“Okay.”
“Great! How about next Thursday?”
“No! I mean, I’m up to my eyeballs.” Or should I say chest? It’ll be two weeks until I’m allowed to resume social activities and another two before I can return to work. “How about mid-Novemb
er?”
A prolonged pause. “That’s farther out than we’d like, and really, it shouldn’t take more than an hour. Could you, perhaps, squeeze us in … say … end of this month?”
It is just to take a look—hardly strenuous activity. “All right.”
We agree on the day and time, and she hangs up.
As I lower the handset, I draw a breath that causes the elastic bandage around my chest to stretch past the point of tolerable discomfort.
I groan, take another drink of water, and settle into my stacked pillows. “Lord, please tell me I didn’t make a mistake.”
Hoping to sleep away a few hours of discomfort, I close my eyes, but it’s no use. Clive is on my mind.
“Okay, Leviticus it is.” I gingerly reach for my Bible on the bedside table—the warped one I have yet to replace. Lowering it to my lap, I finger the beads of the Believe bracelet that I restrung into a bookmark when several of the beads came up missing (down the heat register, I imagine). At the Believe medallion, I pause.
“I do,” I say, then open to the page marked by the thin silken cord.
“Need anything?”
And there’s Maia standing in the doorway. Still can’t believe she took the week off to be here for me. “No, but thank you.”
From behind her back, she pulls a glossy catalog. “How about the new Victoria’s Secret catalog?”
I stare at the perfectly proportioned, bra-and-undie-clad, some-teen female on the front who gives me a sultry look from beneath long lashes. And who I will never resemble no matter how much I torture my credit card. And that’s okay.
Maia waves the catalog. “There are some pretty scrumptious selections in this issue.”
Though I’ll definitely need some new bras, I say, “I think I’ll start cheap and work my way up from there.”
She makes a face. “Not even a peek to give you some ideas?”
“Not even a peek. Besides, that stuff is for women who have someone to share it with.”
Maia snorts. “I still wear it, and believe me, the most Michael has seen is an errant strap.”
I smile. Despite the downs and the ups, including Maia’s continued refusal to join Michael in his pursuit of God, they’re still seeing each other. Don’t know how it will work out, but God does.