From the Beginning

by Tracy Wolff

  Straightening her shoulders, feeling a professional determination that had been lacking in her for quite a while, she walked straight up to the desk and the woman she guessed to be in charge.

  “The line starts over there,” the woman said.

  “I don’t want—”

  “Doesn’t matter. If you want to talk to the doc, you need to stand over there.”

  “But I’m not here to see a doctor. I’d like—”

  “You can’t get a script without seeing the doctor.”

  “A script?”

  “For pain medication or whatever it is you want. Lord deliver us from addicts looking for a fix.”

  “You think I’m a junkie?” Amanda asked incredulously. She thought she’d gained weight these past few weeks and lost that gaunt look.

  “Darlin’, I don’t actually care what you are. If you want anything around here, you need to stand in that line over there and wait your turn.” She tossed the last over her shoulder as she walked away, a stack of charts in her hands.

  Amanda stood there for a moment, staring after the woman as she contemplated what she should do next. Finally, with a shrug, she got in line. If she wanted a job, she probably needed to talk to the doctor that ran this place, anyway.

  It took her almost forty-five minutes to even make her way to the triage nurse, which bothered her a great deal. What if she was having a heart attack or a stroke? Or even a very high fever? Forty-five minutes to get an initial assessment was ridiculous. Urgent cases died in much less time.

  When it was finally her turn, she said to the nurse, “I’m not here to be examined. I’m a doctor and I’d really like a chance to talk to someone about working here.”

  The nurse’s mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? I spent forty-five minutes in line to see you so I could get a job application.”

  The nurse smirked, as if she knew the punch line to an inside joke. “We don’t take applications here.”

  “Oh.” She glanced around. “You can’t tell me it’s because you have a full staff.”

  “No, it’s because no reputable doctor actually wants to work here. Not for what the doc can pay.”

  “I do.”

  “Which immediately makes you suspicious in my mind, but what the hell. I’ll take you back to meet Dr. C.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  “Okay, then. Follow me.”

  There was a slight grumble from the people in line behind her as the nurse took her directly to the back. As she was led through the maze of exam rooms, Amanda noticed that despite the huge number of people being taken care of, the clinic was scrupulously clean. Old and worn, but definitely clean. She approved.

  “You can wait in here. I’ll send him back as soon as he finishes with his patient.”

  “Is Dr. C the only doctor who works here?” she asked.

  “There are usually a couple of residents, but they pull night shift. And some local doctors volunteer a few hours here and there.”

  “But Dr. C. is the only full-time doctor?”

  “It’s his baby” came the cryptic reply. And with no further explanation, she was gone.

  Amanda settled herself in one of the two chairs on the patient side of the desk and glanced around the cluttered office. It was small, with barely enough room for the battered furniture. Two bookshelves were crammed into the corner, every inch of them stuffed with medical texts and journals.

  Dr. C’s degree hung on the wall behind his desk. His full name was Lucas Carrington and he had graduated from Harvard Medical School a couple of years after she did.

  Interesting.

  After a few minutes, she grew bored with waiting and crossed to the shelves. She picked up one of the journals, dated the previous month. Not that it surprised her. The more she saw of this place, the more she was coming to realize that the elusive Dr. C didn’t miss a trick. Flipping through the Journal of Modern Medicine, Amanda killed another twenty minutes before the office door flew open and Lucas Carrington—tall, dark and exceptionally handsome—came whirling in, chart in hand. “Latonya tells me you’re looking for a job. I only have a minute—we’re swamped today—but if you leave me your name and number I can get back to you at a more convenient—”

  He broke off as he glanced at her. “You don’t look desperate.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not.”

  “Hmm. It looks like I need to make time.” He sank onto the corner of his desk, extending his hand. “I’m Lucas Carrington.”

  “Amanda Jacobs.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “What kind of doctor are you, Amanda?”

  “I’m an internist.”

  “And where’d you go to school?”

  Her eyes flickered to the degree on the wall. “Harvard Med. A couple of years before you.”

  “Really? And you want to forsake all the glory that comes with being a Harvard grad to work here?” His voice was blatantly skeptical.

  “I forsook it a long time ago. I’ve spent the past eleven years working in developing nations with For the Children.”

  “Really?” His interest sharpened and she got the feeling they were finally getting down to a real interview. “Tell me about it.”

  She did, relating as much of her story as she could in a few minutes—and leaving out the close call with a nervous breakdown that had been her real reason for leaving Somalia—before finishing with, “I’ve decided to make Atlanta my home. And while I could go into private practice or sign on with a hospital here, I was driving by your clinic a little while ago and figured working here would be more up my alley.”

  “I see. And all your credentials are in order, I assume.”

  She grinned. “Of course. I can have my transcripts faxed over.”

  “You do that.” There was a knock on the door and he stood. “Coming, Latonya.”

  He turned to Amanda. “I have to go. But get those transcripts to me. If you bring in a copy of your degree tomorrow, I’ll let you work for a few hours. See how it goes.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Too soon?”

  “No, it’s perfect.”

  “Good. I’ll see you then.” He started out the door, then turned at the last second. “The pay’s terrible.” He named a figure that was actually comparable to what she’d been making with For the Children.

  “I can live with that,” she told him.

  “Something told me you could.” He gave her a little salute that had her smiling all over again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She nodded, following him out into hall. “Definitely.”

  “All right, then. Welcome aboard, Dr. Jacobs.”

  She practically skipped back down the hall to the waiting room. It looked as if she had a job. She couldn’t wait to tell Simon.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SIMON STOOD ON Amanda’s doorstep, waiting impatiently for her to answer. She’d slipped into his mind many times throughout the day—when he was working on the footage of the South American story and ran across an image of a doctor treating the sick and injured, when he was walking to work and smelled freesia. When he was sitting at lunch and Mark had ordered one of Amanda’s favorite meals.

  He’d tried to put her out of his mind, had reminded himself that they were just going to be friends, but it didn’t matter. She crept back in, like she always did.

  This time it was different, though. At least two or three times a day, he had to fight the urge to pick up the phone and tell her about some cool fact his research had uncovered or to ask her to go see a movie with him. They were both movie fiends, though their jobs had never allowed them to indulge in that pastime very often. And most telling of all, today he had put off his trip to Yemen, the first time he’d ever passed on a story, because he wanted to stay close to her. When he’d found himself rushing through a meeting on the state of the Middle East because he’d wanted to
see her, he’d known he was sunk.

  Which was why he was here, standing unannounced on her doorstep because she hadn’t answered her brand-new cell phone all day. He hoped the Chinese takeout and latest DVD with her favorite actress would make up for the fact that he was stopping by unannounced. The last thing he needed was for her to decide he was trying to take care of her again. Even if he was, she didn’t need to know. And if things went as planned, he’d get to spend some time with her, to see how she was doing. To hold her, and maybe even sneak in a kiss or two, if she’d let him.

  When she didn’t answer the door after a couple of minutes, he rang the bell again. And started to feel like an idiot—nothing like showing up at a woman’s house, desperate to see her, only to find out that she had other plans.

  He waited another minute, to be sure. Still nothing. Then he rang the doorbell one last time before heading back to his car, wondering what the hell he was going to do with all the food he’d bought.

  Amanda’s front door flew open when he was almost at his car. “Simon?” she called.

  He turned, feeling pathetically grateful that she was home, after all. And burst out laughing when he saw her, dressed in paint-spattered clothes with a handkerchief wrapped around her hair and a long smear of blue paint on her cheek.

  “I know, I know,” she said with a grin. “It’s a good look for me.”

  “No doubt. Painting, I assume?”

  “The master bedroom, all the way at the back. I was in the middle of it when the doorbell rang.” She smiled proudly. “I want to get it done first so that I can actually get a bed. My back is not as young as it used to be.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re sleeping here already?”

  “I know, it’s crazy. But fun, too. Kind of like a prolonged camping trip, with running water, of course.”

  “Thank God for running water.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “What about your stuff from Boston? You haven’t had it shipped down yet?”

  He felt like a jerk when her face closed up. “I decided I didn’t want it. I’m going to have to arrange to sell it eventually, or donate it. This house is a fresh start for me and I think it’ll be better if I don’t weigh it down with stuff from before.”

  He nodded, thinking of her coffee table with the childish drawing of a flower in permanent marker in one corner. “That sounds like a pretty good idea, actually.”

  She smiled, held the door open. “You want to come in?”

  “Absolutely.” He held up the bag of takeout. “I come bearing food.”

  “Oh, thank God. I’m so hungry that I was contemplating gnawing my own arm off.”

  “Don’t do that—I brought your favorite.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she asked, leading him into the dining room, where the yellow quilt was still spread on the floor. “What’s that?”

  “Kung Pao Chicken.”

  “Oh, right. Thanks.” She didn’t say anything else, just shook her head with a bemused grin, and his reporter radar went off.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I appreciate the food, really.”

  “But?”

  She went over to a cooler she had sitting in the corner. “Do you want water or a soda?”

  “I’ll take a Coke. And the truth, if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s nothing, Simon. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Yeah, well, let me be the judge of that.”

  “It’s stupid. I was amused because the truth is, I don’t like Kung Pao Chicken.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since forever.”

  “No way,” he exclaimed. “I’ve gotten it for you a million times.”

  “I know. And I’ve never liked it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” He could feel color creeping up his cheeks, but he couldn’t stop it. He felt like a total moron.

  “I did tell you, a bunch of times. You kept forgetting, so I stopped mentioning it.” She was spreading the food out on the blanket, but stopped when she got a good look at his face. “Don’t worry about it, Simon. I’m sorry I said anything. Especially since I really appreciate you bringing dinner by.”

  But he barely heard her. He was too busy going over twelve years of shared past, trying to figure out what else he’d missed. If what she said was true, then he’d somehow been so self-centered, so wrapped up in himself, that he hadn’t really listened to what she was saying. Which meant he was a complete asshole.

  “Did I do that a lot?” he demanded. “Assume that I knew stuff about you? Not listen when you told me something I should know?”

  “Come on, Simon. Let’s not do this.”

  “Just tell me, Amanda. I want to do things right this time, and how can I do that if I don’t know all the ways I screwed up?”

  She sighed in exasperation. “It’s chicken, Simon. Not the end of the world.” She grabbed the container and took a large bite. “See, I haven’t gone into convulsions yet. Now, come on, loosen up and let’s eat. You brought enough food to feed an army.”

  “Yeah, but do you like any of it?”

  “I like all of it, especially the hot-and-sour soup. Okay?”

  It wasn’t, really, but he didn’t want to ruin her good mood. Already, he could see her wilting a little around the edges, the carefree smile she’d worn when he’d gotten there growing dim with annoyance.

  “Yeah. And while we eat, you can tell me what your real favorites are. I promise, this time, I won’t forget.”

  She laughed, and after a minute, so did he.

  AFTER THEY’D FINISHED dinner and cleared up the trash, Amanda turned to Simon. “Do you want to see what I’ve done upstairs?”

  “I’d love to. Have you been at it all day?”

  “Well, except for this morning when I was dealing with the men ripping my kitchen to pieces.” She led him up the stairs. “And my job interview.”

  “What job interview?”

  “I’m going in tomorrow for a provisional first day at a low-income clinic over on Hyacinth. There are no guarantees, but I think I have a good shot at landing the job.”

  When he didn’t say anything, she turned to look at him. “Simon? What’s wrong?”

  “You’re really planning on staying.”

  “You’re just now figuring that out? I sank three hundred thousand dollars into this place and you take it in stride. I interview for a job and suddenly you’re shocked that I’m planning on making a life for myself in Atlanta?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I always thought you’d go back to For the Children. Back to Africa.”

  “I’m done with Africa, Simon. I just don’t have it in me to watch any more children die. Not like that.”

  He didn’t say anything, but then she didn’t really expect him to. He’d left Africa nearly a decade ago because the famines had gotten to him, because he couldn’t stand watching any more children slowly starve to death.

  But before she could continue down the hall to the master bedroom, Simon swept her into a giant bear hug. She returned it with a laugh.

  “Congrats on your new job! That’s fantastic.”

  “I told you. It’s not official yet.”

  “But it will be. That’s what matters.”

  “Yeah, well. We’ll see.” She shrugged. “It’s a beginning, anyway.”

  “It seems like you’re saying that a lot lately.”

  “I like it better than the alternative.”

  He slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled her against him. “So do I.”

  “Good, because I want to finish this room today and I’m a little behind. So grab a roller and get started.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Amanda crossed the room and turned the radio on, then reached for her own roller—and nearly painted the door frame blue as she caught sight of a shirtless Simon. He was already working, his muscles bunching and shifting as he covered the wall with long strokes.

  He
looked amazing.

  Reminding herself that they were taking things slow this time around, she resisted—barely—the urge to run her hand down the smooth expanse of his back. Instead, she focused on applying the second coat to her own wall. They painted the room in companionable silence, talking randomly when the mood struck them. Amanda kept waiting for Simon to try to take over and start giving directions, but he never did. Instead, he seemed content to just relax and follow her lead.

  It was a different dynamic than she was used to and one she had to admit she liked. Maybe he wasn’t joking when he’d mentioned that he’d made some changes in his life. And if that was the case, so far she thoroughly approved.

  Part of her wanted to go back to their discussion from the night before—the one about being friends, or maybe something more. The idea excited her, but at the same time, she was more nervous than she could ever remember being. They’d tried this whole thing before and both of them had ended up getting hurt. She wasn’t sure if she had it in her to do that again—especially now that she wasn’t only worried about herself getting hurt. The idea of hurting Simon was as painful.

  At the same time, she obviously wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him. She’d tried that a few weeks ago and here they were, sharing cozy dinners for two and painting her bedroom. She wished she knew what was happening between them, why she kept coming back to him. Was it because of her feelings for him—or because of his connection to Gabby? Until she figured that out, she’d be better off keeping her eyes, and her thoughts, to herself.

  They finally finished the walls around ten-thirty, and she stepped back to peruse their handiwork. “Not bad,” she told Simon with a smile. “For a jet-setting journalist, you’re pretty good with your hands.”

  He smirked at her and she blushed as she realized how her words could be taken. Or at least how he was choosing to take them. But instead of rubbing it in—or offering to remind her how talented his hands were—he reached for a gallon of creamy-white paint.

  “You want to knock the trim out tonight? It shouldn’t take long to do the door wells and windowsills.”

  “Actually, I’m kind of tired. It’s been a long day.”

  He immediately put the paint back down and crossed to her. “Turn around,” he murmured, and when she did, he started kneading her neck and shoulder muscles. It felt so good that her eyes nearly crossed, though she didn’t know what she appreciated more—the massage or the fact that Simon was the one giving it to her. She had a feeling it was the latter. So much for good intentions.