A Match for the Doctor (4 page)

“Nothing. I just wanted to say that Blair has a great reputation. My cousin is a pediatrician and she's affiliated with Blair. Dr. Nicole Connors,” she supplied. She saw him raise a brow at the surname. “As it happens, she's your real-estate agent's daughter.” The moment she filled him in, she could guess at his next thought. “Yes, it really is a small world around here.” She turned her attention back to her temporary charges. “Okay, girls, we need to hustle if we're going to get you to the school before lunch.”

“Lunch?” Madelyn cried, clearly dismayed. “Are we that late?”

Okay, she was going to have to tone down her humor, Kennon thought.

“Just another figure of speech,” she explained. With a hand once more on each girl's shoulder, she ushered Madelyn and Meghan out the door. And then she looked over her shoulder at the doctor before hurrying off to her vehicle. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” she promised in case he thought she was going to dawdle before returning to the nanny.

Simon nodded. “So will I,” he replied.

As the woman with the rapid-fire mouth left, closing the door behind her, Simon had the unshakable impression that he had just been in the company of a grade-five hurricane.

But at least he was still standing, he told himself, and that had to be worth something.

 

Blair Memorial Hospital was absolutely everything he'd been led to believe it was when he had first gotten in contact with Dr. Edward Hale. First-rate in all fields, it was state-of-the-art when it came to cardiac surgery. The hospital even boasted of having a Gamma Knife available. A Gamma Knife afforded surgeons a virtually unobtrusive method of operating that their brethren of the last century could have only dreamed about. For the most part, it had been regarded as science fiction—until it crossed over and became real.

At one point not that long ago, Simon would have gotten very excited about the possibilities that lay ahead of him. Except that these days he felt exceedingly guilty about allowing himself to feel anything but a profound sense of loss and sadness.

Nancy wouldn't have wanted you to feel that way,
the voice in his head insisted. The voice sounded a great deal like Edna at the moment because the woman had known his wife almost better than he had.

He knew that the voice—and Edna—were probably right. Nancy would have wanted him to move on. But he couldn't. His body, his entire psyche felt as if it was stuck in molasses, in the past, unable to move, unable to blink. Unable to think of life without his partner, his helper, his soul mate.

Remember the girls. They need you.

This time, the voice in his head sounded a great deal like Nancy.

He realized that the chief of surgery was shaking his
hand, a pleased expression on the older man's broad, kind face.

“Well, I've got nothing further to say right now except welcome aboard, Doctor,” he told Simon. Eminently satisfied, the older man added, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Flashing an almost perfect set of teeth, he identified the quote. “That's from
Casablanca
. You'll forgive me, I'm a big movie buff. My wife, bless her, has another term for it, but I like
movie buff
better. Wives, God love 'em, they've all got our number, don't they?”

Hale chuckled as he looked at the face of Blair's newest surgeon on staff. And then the chief of surgery suddenly grew somber.

“Oh, my God, I'm sorry. I forgot that your wife passed,” he said delicately, falling back on the squeaky-clean euphemism for death. “I'm sorry, Doctor. That had to have sounded very callous of me.”

Simon shook his head, doing his very best to detach his consciousness from his surroundings. He'd been doing that for a year now, whenever his thoughts or the conversation veered toward Nancy.

“No, that's all right,” he demurred, hoping the matter would be dropped.

Not likely. Hale didn't appear to be finished just yet. Concerned, he laid his hand on Simon's shoulder and peered into the other man's eyes.

“How are you getting along?” Hale asked, adding kindly, “Do you need anything?”

Yes, I need my wife back.

Stoically, Simon shook his head. “No, I'm fine. But that's very kind of you.” Simon glanced at his watch. Three hours had gone by. Had the meeting taken that
long? He didn't feel as if it had, but it obviously must have. “If you don't mind, my housekeeper's ill and I'd like to check in on her.”

“Of course, of course.” Hale rose, pumping Simon's hand again. “Let me know if there's anything we can do for you here at Blair Memorial. Otherwise, we'll be looking forward to seeing you at the hospital, say, on Thursday?” he suggested hopefully. He knew that most places began their people on a Monday, but he had another philosophy. “We'll let you get your feet wet slowly,” he added with a chuckle. “I always found that was the best way. I don't like overwhelming my doctors by having them start with a full week. Even a state-of-the-art hospital takes some getting used to,” he theorized.

“Thursday will be fine.”

“Remember,” Hale said, walking Simon to the glass-paneled door, “if you find you need anything, or just want someone to talk to, please don't hesitate to give me a call. My door—and phone—are always open.” He clapped the new surgeon on the back. “I operate by a simple rule—Happy doctors are good doctors. I want to keep you happy, Dr. Sheffield.”

“I appreciate that, chief.”
But you're thirteen months too late for that.
“Thank you again, sir.” And with that, Simon took his leave.

The second he turned down the corridor, Simon picked up speed.

He needed to get home to make sure that Edna was all right and that he hadn't made a huge mistake by opening his doors to that decorator.

Granted that this Kennon Cassidy did seem to have an engaging manner about her, but from what he'd heard,
so did the more successful con artists. Although he had nothing in the house that could be taken, still he would feel a great deal more at ease once he was back, attending to Edna himself.

And reclaiming his solitude.

E
ven though he had traveled behind the woman's vehicle for part of the way to Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton School and had subsequently called the principal, Sister Therese, to make sure that his daughters had arrived and each was in her proper classroom, the bottom line was that Simon was more than a little annoyed with himself for having actually relied on a woman he really didn't know from Adam.

Well, maybe not Adam, he amended.
Didn't know from Eve
would have been the more appropriate description, given that no one in their right mind would ever mistake Kennon Cassidy for anything but an exquisite example of womanhood.

His observation caught him off guard, completely surprising him. Where had that come from?

Ever since the tsunami had taken Nancy and swept
away his life, he'd caught himself sleepwalking through his life on more than one occasion.

He needed to maintain a grip on his life.

If he didn't, he wouldn't be any good to anyone, least of all himself. And there were not just his patients—his future patients—to think of, but his daughters, as well.

He'd been an absentee father at best, but it had never preyed on his conscience because Nancy and especially Edna were there to take up the slack. Nancy's death had changed all the ground rules. He had to ante up, despite the fact that he didn't know how.

It was for Madelyn and Meghan's sake that he had deliberately left everything behind and come here in an attempt to finally shake free of the malaise that Nancy's death had created. And to some extent, he had succeeded. He'd applied for a position at the hospital, actually bought a home in an amazingly short amount of time and had gotten the girls enrolled in a top-ranked school, although the last was more Edna's doing than his own.

But if someone were to ask him what color his shirt was, or to even hazard a guess as to what either of his daughters was wearing this morning, he'd have no answer. For the most part, he'd always been rather unaware of his surroundings, but it had only gotten worse in the last thirteen months.

So he was rather stunned he'd actually noticed what could politely be referred to as Kennon Cassidy's “attributes.”

He supposed that just meant he wasn't dead yet. Maybe that represented a sliver of hope that he would eventually be able to come around—in about a thousand years or so.

 

When he took the freeway off-ramp that would eventually lead him to his house, Simon glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It had taken him less time to drive back than it had to reach the hospital. The realization meant that his subconscious was apparently back online. He had always had the ability to commit things to memory after seeing them only once. This included driving directions. But even that had been less than fully operational these last thirteen months.

Pulling up into his driveway, Simon noted that the decorator—Kennon, was it?—had parked her pearl-blue sedan at the curb. She'd come back after dropping off the girls, just as she'd promised.

All right, so he'd lucked out. She'd kept her word. He still shouldn't have trusted her so readily, he silently lectured himself. With his dry cleaning, maybe, but not his daughters. What had he been thinking?

That was the problem; he hadn't been. All he knew was that he couldn't cancel his meeting. First impressions were infinitely important. There were no “do overs.”

In his own defense, Simon thought, getting out of his car, the woman had come recommended and his back had been against the proverbial wall….

Simon cut himself a little slack.

The second he unlocked the front door and walked in, he became aware of it. It was impossible not to be. The aroma embraced him like a warm hug. For a moment, he stopped to inhale deeply and savor it. Then he began to walk briskly, following the enticing aroma to its source, the kitchen.

But to get to the kitchen, he had to walk through the
living room. Edna, he found, was still there. But now her head rested on a pillow and a crisp, light blue fleece blanket was spread over two thirds of her torso.

She looked better, he thought. He was relieved to see color in her cheeks and that she appeared to be fully conscious and lucid. Edna smiled at him as he walked over to her.

“How are you feeling, Edna?” he wanted to know.

“Much better now, thank you, Doctor.” The color in her cheeks deepened as a touch of embarrassment passed over them. “I'm sorry I created such a fuss,” she apologized, then confided, “It's the first time I've fainted since I was a young girl, and we all know how long ago that was.”

The woman didn't have a vain bone in her body, but every woman needed to be reassured that she was attractive, he thought. Nancy had taught him that.

Simon took one of his housekeeper's weathered, capable hands in his own. “Not that long ago,” he contradicted. Simon had examined Edna and satisfied himself that her fainting episode had been brought on by her cold, coupled with dehydration due to her failure to replenish the lost fluids. In other words, Edna was being typically Edna and neglecting to take the time to take care of herself. A little bed rest, as well as drinking plenty of liquids, and he was confident that she would be back to her old self in no time. “And I'm sorry I had to leave you alone like that—”

“It couldn't be helped, sir. I quite understand. And you didn't leave me alone,” Edna pointed out politely. “That very lovely young woman came back after taking the girls to school. Been fussing over me as if I was a blood relative of hers since she returned.” Edna shook
her head in amazement. “She insisted on making me ‘comfortable,' by bringing down some of my bedding.” She nodded toward the sheet. “And she's in the kitchen right now, making some chicken soup for me to eat.” Edna smiled. It was obvious that she was enjoying this. “She's a rare one, she is, sir.”

Simon glanced in the direction of the kitchen. The aroma grew stronger, more enticing. Or was that because he was hungry?

“You mean she's heating up a can of soup.” Since he'd donated their microwave to charity and had yet to purchase a replacement down here, he assumed that the decorator had emptied the contents of a store-bought can of soup into a saucepan and was in the process of heating it up now, hence the aroma.

“No, I mean she's making it,” Edna insisted, coughing at the end of her sentence. After a moment, Edna regrouped and continued, her words coming out in a more measured cadence, as if she was fearful of irritating her throat. “She came in with a whole bag of groceries stuffed with all the ingredients to make an old-fashioned bowl of chicken soup. Heard her chopping celery and carrots like a pro,” she related to him, approval wrapped around each word. “I thought all the girls her age just assumed that soup came from a can.” Edna told him. And then she smiled.

“I'm feeling better just smelling it. Reminds me of home when I was a little girl. Mother always made me chicken soup whenever I was sick. Claimed it had healing properties. Whether it did or not I wouldn't be able to say, but everyone always felt better after Mother made chicken soup.”

“Except the chicken,” Simon speculated dryly.
“Maybe I'd better see what this decorator's up to,” he decided out loud.

It wasn't that he wasn't grateful for the woman's efforts, especially for the way she had just pitched right in, doing whatever needed to be done for his daughters and for Edna, but he really just wanted to be alone, to feel that he had the house to himself. Granted, Edna was here, but Edna was always around and he regarded her much the way he did the air and the warmth of the sun, undemanding integrals of his life.

He had no desire to be put in a position where he had to carry on a conversation beyond a few necessary words. With the girls in school and Edna apparently feeling better, all he wanted to do was to entertain silence until such time that he had to go pick up the girls again.

With Kennon here that wasn't possible.

Standing in the doorway, he observed this invading woman for a couple of beats. And came to the conclusion that she looked more at home here than he did.

“Why are you making chicken soup?” he asked her without any sort of preamble.

Lost in thought, Kennon felt her heart suddenly lunge and get all but stuck in her throat. He'd startled her. Kennon tried her best not to show it.

“Because it won't make itself,” she answered glibly, then gave him the real reason. “I always find that sipping soup when I'm coming down with a cold makes me feel better. Turns out that Edna feels the same way.”

That still didn't explain why she'd felt compelled to make the damn thing from scratch. “Supermarkets have whole aisles devoted to chicken soup.”

He saw her wrinkle her nose. It made her look intriguing—and rather cute.

“Chicken soup in cans,” she pronounced disdainfully. “Not the same thing.”

Coming closer, Simon glanced over her shoulder to see what she was actually stirring. He saw carrot shavings on the cutting board as well as an opened wrapper that told him she'd pressed a whole chicken into service for this undertaking. These ingredients didn't just magically appear.

“We didn't have any of this in the refrigerator,” he said, indicating the wrapper and the carrot shavings. He knew that for a fact. He'd opened the refrigerator this morning, looking for the tin of coffee in order to properly kick-start a day that had already promised to go badly. The only thing in the refrigerator besides coffee, and milk for the girls, was one leftover container of Chinese food from last night's take-out dinner.

“Yes, I know,” she told him, opening a drawer as she searched for a spoon. It took her two more tries before she located any silverware. She needed to sample the results of her efforts. Salting the soup was always tricky. She didn't want it to be bland, but she definitely didn't want it to be oversalted, either.

“You bought all this?” It was a rhetorical question, but he was nonetheless surprised.

She nodded, stirring the contents a little more. “It seemed easier than waiting for the supermarket fairy to make a drop.”

He made no comment, other than to think that she obviously favored sarcasm. He took out his wallet and pulled out several bills. “How much do I owe you?”

The ingredients had cost her little. She could certainly
afford to spring for the tab. She waved her hand at his question.

“Why don't we see if Edna likes the soup first before we talk about owing anything,” she suggested.

Opening the cupboard to the right of the stove, she found it all but bare. There were four dinner plates, four cups and four bowls all huddled together like the weary survivors of a shipwreck. Beyond that, there was nothing in the cupboards, not even dust.

“How long ago did you move in?” she asked him as she took down a bowl.

“A week ago,” he told her, dispensing the information rather grudgingly.

“Well, that explains why the house is so barren.” She placed the bowl on the counter beside the pot she was using. “How long before the moving van is supposed to get here?”

This was exactly what he hadn't wanted. A conversation. Other than being completely rude and ignoring her, he saw no option open to him but to answer her question.

“It isn't.”

She looked at him, confused. She couldn't have heard right. “Excuse me?”

“There's no moving van,” he said stoically. “At least not in the sense you mean. Some of the girls' things are being shipped out and Edna has some things coming, as well.”

When he had first mentioned leaving everything behind, putting a few things in storage while donating the rest of the things to charities, the girls had been so upset he'd given in. But if he'd had his way, everything that reminded him of Nancy would be gone, or at the
very least, stored out of sight until he could handle the memories. And the sorrow.

“The furniture is all going to be brand-new,” he informed her. “Which is where you come in.”

“If you don't mind my asking, did you have a fire?” Kennon asked.

His face appeared to close down. “No,” he replied flatly, “I didn't.”

If she was going to be of any use to this man, she needed to have the avenue of communication open, not sealed. He needed to
talk
to her.

“Then why—”

“And I do mind your asking,” he told her, answering what she'd assumed was the rhetorical portion of her question.

It took Kennon a second to collect herself. “Okay. Then I won't ask,” Kennon replied gamely, moving on. “When are you free?”

It was his turn to look at her blankly. Just what was the woman asking him? “For what?”

“To come shopping with me.” She held her breath, waiting. Nothing was going to be easy with this man, was it?

He looked at her as if she'd just suggested that he go out for a run over hot coals while barefoot. “I'm not going shopping.”

“All right, then I'm going to have to ask you some questions.”
A lot of questions.
She resigned herself to the fact that it would probably be like pulling teeth. “Not about what happened to your things,” she clarified quickly in response to the sharp look he sent her way. “But about your tastes, what you have in mind, how you see a particular room, like, let's say the family room.”

“I see it as empty,” he told her flatly. “I want to see it filled.” That wasn't strictly true, so he amended his statement. “Actually, the girls and Edna want to have the rooms furnished. As for me, I don't care,” his tone was devoid of any emotion, any feeling. “All I require is a bed, a table and some illumination at night in case I have some reading to do.”

She stared at him for a moment, the spoon she was using to stir the soup suddenly frozen in midmovement. He was serious, wasn't he? “And nothing else? No sixty-inch HDTV set? No entertainment unit?”