Once Around

by Barbara Bretton

  "Did you tell your lawyer you need help?"

  She felt her face redden. "Of course I told Spencer. I tell him everything."

  "So what did Spencer say?"

  She hesitated. "He said I shouldn't worry."

  Rafe grunted. She wasn't sure if it was a commentary or he'd bumped himself.

  "There isn't much he can do for me right now," she explained, eager to keep Spencer in a good light. "He's asked Robert's attorneys to take care of my bills, but they're dragging their feet."

  "Hand me a screwdriver, would you?"

  She reached for one in the huge metal tool chest on the ground next to her and tossed it to him.

  "I need a Phillips."

  "Why didn't you say so?"

  "I figured you knew."

  "I didn't," she said, plucking a Phillips from the jumble of tools. He caught it in his left hand.

  "How bad are your finances?" he asked.

  She decided not to pull her punches. "Terrible," she said. "I can last another month and then I'm out of luck."

  He rocked back on his heels and met her eyes. "And you're willing to wait for your lawyer to make things better."

  "I don't see where I have a choice."

  "If you don't see that you have a choice, you've got a bigger problem than not being able to pay your bills."

  He turned back to what he was doing, leaving her standing there with a firestorm of snotty responses burning up her brain. Better to keep her mouth closed until he fixed the deck,

  She stalked back into the house and prowled around the kitchen. Soup sounded terrible. She was sick to death of peanut butter sandwiches, and if she ate another egg she'd turn into a chicken herself. Nothing appealed to her. She couldn't settle down. For a second, she considered picking up the telephone to call Spencer, then decided against it.

  She hated to admit it, but Rafe was right. This was her choice, not Spencer's. Taking in a boarder wasn't a perfect solution, but right now it was the only one.

  Chapter Five

  By the time she was halfway through her first week of residency, Jessy Wyatt knew she'd made the biggest mistake of her life by coming to Princeton. Most of her colleagues were Ivy League—educated children of privilege whose lineages could be traced all the way back to Plymouth Rock. She could hold her own in the hospital, where medicine was the common tongue, but once she stepped outside, she was lost. She didn't understand their references or their jokes. And she could tell they didn't understand what she was doing there, which made them even because, at this point, neither did she.

  There were times when she felt she'd be more comfortable on Neptune than she was there in the heart of central New Jersey. Not even her internship in Dallas had prepared her for this, and Dallas had been a major culture shock for her at the. time.

  At least in Dallas she'd had someone to talk to.

  "We're going over to. Marita's Cantina," one of the other residents said, poking her head into the doctors' lounge, where Jessy was slumped over a cup of coffee. "Why don't you join us, Jessy?"

  Jessy pretended to stifle a yawn. "I'm going to nap," she said, trying to look tired. "But y'all have fun."

  The resident, a light-skinned black woman, grinned. "Y'all? This is New Jersey, girl. Better work on that."

  That and everything else, Jessy thought as the woman went off to join the others. She didn't dress right, talk right, fix her hair right. Everything about her was as wrong as it could possibly be. Her exhaustion wasn't helping matters either. She'd been sleeping in the doctors' lounge, using their bathroom and shower when nobody was around. Nobody had prepared her for the prices in Princeton. The used car she'd bought at a lot near Trenton had almost depleted her savings. Rents were outrageously expensive. It would take months until she could afford a place of her own, but she had the feeling that no longer mattered. If anyone found out she was living at the hospital because she was too poor to live anywhere else, her fate would be sealed.

  Two silver-haired male doctors strode into the lounge. They wore standard-issue white coats, but there was nothing else standard-issue about them. They were both tall and lean, the kind of men you'd find on a country club golf course or tennis court. If they noticed her sitting there at the table, they gave no indication. She was part of the furniture to them. Surgeons, she thought, watching the way they used their hands in conversation. God-complexed, life-giving surgeons who viewed the world from Mount Olympus.

  She wondered what they would think if she emerged from the bathroom in her favorite pale blue nightgown and terry scuffs. Would they notice her if she curled up on one of the vinyl bench seats near the coffee machine? Would they lower their voices when she lowered the lights and tenderly cover her with a privacy drape?

  She gathered up her things and, with a nod to the two men, left the lounge to find a new place to live.

  #

  "You really don't have to do this," Molly said to Spencer for the fourth or fifth time that hour. "This is service above and beyond.''

  "You know my feelings on this, Molly," Spencer said with that easy grin of his. "I think you're making a mistake, but the least I can do is help you see it through."

  "I'm not that apprehensive anymore," Molly lied. "She sounds like a perfect tenant." Young, single, a resident at the medical center. She'd probably never be home. And a stranger, Molly. Don't forget that important fact. She was reduced to letting strangers live with her for money.

  "You're a lousy liar."

  "You noticed," she said. "And here I thought I was getting better at it."

  "I know this isn't a perfect solution," he said, moving a little closer to where she stood by the living room window. "I would do anything to settle the divorce in a timely fashion for you."

  "I appreciate everything you've done, Spencer," she said quickly, afraid she'd offended him. "I hope you realize that." Once he'd come to terms with the fact that she meant what she said about taking in a boarder, he'd taken over the process of advertising for and screening tenants. Actually his assistant did all of the hard work. Spencer had simply met with Molly and helped guide her through the stack of papers and references. The final decision had been hers.

  He was saying something about the rental agreement, but his words danced right over the top of her head.

  "I trust you," she said, waving her hand in the air. "I know you'll protect me."

  "That's my job," he said.

  She looked over at him, wondering if that was all it was. Lately her imagination had been running away with her. It was so easy to pick up the telephone and pour out her heart to Spencer. He lived the life Robert had been striving toward: successful lawyer at a successful firm with money and perks at his disposal. His family had been pressing him to marry and produce a few Mackenzie heirs, but, as he'd told Molly last night over dinner, he wasn't in a rush. "When I do it, I want to do it right," he said to her as the waiter brought them their entrées. "I've seen what happens when it goes wrong."

  So have I, she thought. She was living it. A man like Spencer would be very careful when he picked a wife. No mistakes for him.

  "I think I'll pour us some iced tea," she said, determined to banish the unpleasant thoughts from her mind.

  "You stay put," he ordered. "Jessy will be here any minute. You should be the first person she meets."

  "We're not looking to bond with each other," Molly said in a dry tone of voice. "She doesn't have to imprint on me like a duckling."

  His laughter caught her by surprise. Her best remarks usually got no more than a smile from him.

  "I'll get the iced tea," he said. "You work on your attitude."

  She thought of something smart to say but decided against it. It was enough she'd made him laugh once today. She wasn't about to push her luck.

  #

  Rafe was mowing the front lawn when he heard the sound of laughter from Molly's house. He felt like steering the mower right into the guy's shiny black Porsche.

  When you grew up in the middle
of nowhere the way he had, you learned to rely on your instincts, and his instincts told him Spencer Mackenzie was no good for Molly Chamberlain. The second the guy pulled his fancy sports car into the driveway, Rafe found himself battling the urge to ram his Chiclet-white teeth down his throat. No particular reason. The guy didn't ignore him the way another rich guy might have done. No, Mackenzie was too smooth and polished for that. He gave Rafe a friendly, hail-fellow-well-met hello then strode up the, walkway to the front door as if he owned the place.

  Rafe wanted to deck him.

  No reason. He just hated the guy on sight.

  He'd hate any man who made her laugh.

  #

  Jessy found Princeton Manor Estates with no trouble. She rolled to a stop at the, gates and gave her name to the serious young man in uniform. He made a production of checking a list, frowned, then made a telephone call. She watched as he mumbled something, nodded, then waved her on. She forced a pleasant smile and a thank-you. Her Southern background wouldn't let her do anything else. He probably thought she was a cleaning woman from a not-very-successful service. Not that she blamed him. Her car was older than he was.

  She glanced down at the map Mr. Mackenzie's secretary had faxed over to her at the hospital. A right on Rosebud Ridge, a left on Marigold Drive, a quick series of rights on Amaryllis and Lilly, and that should bring her to the base of Lilac Hill. She wondered how anybody found their way around Princeton Manor. The roads curved and meandered like, lazy Mississippi streams with no particular destination in mind. The houses were all enormous. They looked more like small hotels than private homes. Saabs and Porsches napped in the driveways. The lawns were manicured to golf-course perfection.

  And the flowers. Flowers bloomed everywhere Jessy looked. Lipstick-red geraniums, pale blue snowballs, and wild, boisterous impatiens, tumbling red over white over pink. You'd love it here, Mama, she thought as she turned right on Amaryllis. This was everything Jo Ellen had ever wanted. A big fancy house with a flower garden front and back. "You'll have all the things I never did, honey," she'd said to Jessy more times than she could count. "You'll be somebody. You'll be a doctor,"

  Lilac Hill was well named. Lilac bushes thrived everywhere she looked on the gentle rise of land. The houses were even larger than the ones on Amaryllis and Rosebud. Jessy couldn't help but wonder why someone with this kind of money would be looking to take in a boarder.

  Not that she was complaining. The rent was more than reasonable, it was close to the hospital, and meals were included. Maybe Mrs. Chamberlain was a lonely old widow who just wanted to know there was somebody else in the house. The idea appealed to Jessy. She liked old people. She probably should have gone into gerontology instead of gynecology. She hoped Mrs. Chamberlain was a blue-haired eighty-year-old matron who liked to knit and read romance novels and talk about the old days. Someone who wouldn't judge her by her accent or her bloodline.

  The Chamberlain house was at the top of the rise. It looked like every other house in the subdivision, only more so. A guy in jeans and a T-shirt was mowing the side lawn. He watched as she parked her car on the street and climbed out. She started to lock the door then realized how totally ridiculous she was being. The landscaper probably owned a better car than she did.

  She ran a quick hand over her tightly braided hair. A few of the other residents at the hospital wore their hair this way, and she'd noticed how neat and professional they always looked. Too bad the effect on her was more schoolgirl than professional. She slipped her huge tote-bag over her shoulder then started up the path that led to Mrs. Chamberlain's front door.

  The landscaper stopped mowing and watched her progress. She knew she walked like what she was: a kid who'd grown up barefoot and still hadn't made her peace with shoes. Why didn't he go back to cutting the grass and leave her alone? She shot him a look. He didn't even have the brains to seem embarrassed.. What he seemed was too darned curious for his own good. Thank God it was autumn and pretty soon there'd be no need for a landscaper to come by and mow lawns and spy on people.

  Back home people did things like that, nosing all over the place, trying to peek through windows and eavesdrop on phone calls and read someone else's mail. She would have figured Princeton folk were too sophisticated for that kind of white-trash nonsense. Goes to show how much, you know, Jessy Ann Wyatt.

  She climbed two steps to the front porch. She'd never seen a brand spanking new front porch before. All the front porches she was familiar with were rickety and old, with wood worn thin and smooth by years of footprints and gliders and rain. Nothing like this spit-and-polish wonder. More than the fancy cars or the fancy people, this fancy porch was enough to make her turn tail and run away as fast as she could. She didn't belong here anymore than her daddy belonged in the Lincoln bedroom at the White House. Some things just weren't natural.

  But it was one o'clock, and she was still her mama's girl, the one who was brought up to be on time and keep her promises. She reached out and pressed the doorbell. From somewhere deep inside the house, she heard the sound of Westminster chimes. She'd been to church services in Dallas that had less music than that.

  What are you doing here, Jessy girl? This ain't no place for you. You should've stayed home where you belong, with your own kind.

  Now, what was her daddy doing, talking to her like that? She'd left him behind in Mississippi. He'd probably forgotten all about her before her plane even taxied down the runway. It was her own insecurities speaking, that's all, reminding her that she'd never be one of them, no matter how good a doctor she was.

  Why wasn't Mrs. Chamberlain answering the door? Maybe the old woman had peeked out the window, noticed her old car, and changed her mind about the whole thing. Which was just fine with Jessy because the doctors' lounge was beginning to look like the best place in town. She turned and was about to start down the porch steps when the front door swung open.

  "Jessy Wyatt?"

  Jessy stopped, took a deep breath, then turned around. A tall, downright gorgeous woman with a mane of light auburn hair stood framed in the doorway. She wore a loose turquoise dress, strappy sandals, and huge gold hoop earrings. She looked like an upscale gypsy.

  "You are Jessy Wyatt, aren't you?" The woman's voice was husky, her tone amused. She sounded like one of those women on television who sold cars and sexy lingerie with a wink and a smile.

  "I'm Jessy Wyatt." Jessy knew exactly how she sounded. Like white trash with an education. "I have an appointment with Mrs. Chamberlain."

  "I know," said the woman. "I'm Molly Chamberlain." She might as well have said Cleopatra.

  "Jessy Wyatt."

  "You said that before." She frankly assessed Jessy with curious blue eyes. "Are you sure you're really a doctor? You look about twelve years old."

  "I'm twenty-nine."

  "You don't look it."

  "I will when I'm forty."

  Molly Chamberlain's laugh was full-bodied and lusty, not at all what Jessy would have expected from such a perfect-looking woman. "So are you going to stand out there on the porch all day or are you going to come inside?"

  "Where I come from, we wait to be invited."

  Molly's dark, perfect brows arched slightly. "Well, honey, you're in New Jersey now, and we don't stand on ceremony." She opened the door wide and motioned Jessy inside.

  There was something about Molly's words, or maybe it was the way she said them—friendly, challenging, faintly sarcastic. Whatever it was, the combination got under Jessy's skin and gave her confidence. She brushed past the woman and stepped into the foyer, half dizzy from the combination of Shalimar and central air conditioning.

  "You have an accent," Molly said.

  "So do you," Jessy said, beginning to enjoy the byplay.

  "Alabama?"

  "Mississippi," Jessy said. "Near Jackson."

  "I wish I sounded like you," Molly. said. "My husband—" She stopped. "Damn it. I've got to stop doing that."

  "Stop doing what?"

&nbs
p; "Talking about my husband. He's gone. I have to get used to it."

  "I'm sorry," Jessy said. A widow. That explained everything. "How long has it been?"

  "Eight weeks."

  Jessy tried to keep her expression bland. Back where she came from, widows didn't wear bright turquoise mini-dresses eight weeks after they buried their husbands. "Was it sudden?"

  Molly snapped her fingers. "One day he was here, the next he was gone."

  "You must still be in shock."

  "Tell me about it." She rested her graceful hands on her belly.

  For the first time Jessy noticed the swell behind the loose-fitting dress. "Are you pregnant?"

  "I just started my fifth month."

  "I'm an OB-GYN."

  Molly looked at her, then started to laugh again. "I guess we're a match made in heaven."

  "Looks like." She seemed awfully cheerful for a new widow, but that was none of Jessy's business. She could tap-dance on top of her ex-husband's grave, and it still wouldn't be any of Jessy's business.

  "Let me show you your room. Spencer went to get us some iced tea. I don't know what's taking him so long."

  Spencer? Jessy wasn't the backward country hick she'd been a few years ago, but this was too sophisticated for her. Damn but these Princeton Yankees did things different. She was about to say that sure, she'd love to see her room, but a man's voice interrupted her.

  "You ran out of ice. That's what took me so long."

  Jessy turned in the direction of that voice. She couldn't have done anything else. That was the voice she heard in her dreams.

  "Spencer!" Molly Chamberlain sounded downright delighted. Her dead husband must be spinning in his grave. "Come in and meet Jessy."

  Jessy's palms started to sweat. She was no more than ten feet away from the front door. Maybe she should make a run for it. But that voice, that sexy wonderful voice, called out her name, and she heard him walk closer. She turned around, and at 1:23 P.M., Jessy Ann Wyatt fell in love.