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And maybe it was because it had been a few months since Miller — since anyone — that the young doctor’s attention had set her spinning. Must be it. That and being so vulnerable after her surgery. In a few days, she’d be back to her old self. Strong. Tough. Self-sufficient.

It was okay, she told herself, to need someone’s help — temporarily — to be grateful for it, and then to move on. Emergencies could happen to anyone, and it was nice that there were good Samaritans in the world to lend a hand when they did. But Wren knew better than to expect a man to stick around for the long term, to be steady and true and reliable. The moment she believed in that, she’d be setting herself up for disappointment.

Such knowledge had spared Wren a fair amount of heartache over the years. She hadn’t been disappointed at all when she realized Miller was — at heart — a lazy freeloader. There wasn’t a whole lot she could thank her mother for, but her sense of skepticism was one of them.

When it came to men, Wren knew how to set realistic expectations, and she knew how to avoid the ones who were dangerous. The guys she’d slept with had been harmless and fun. They hadn’t been into drugs, and they’d never hit her. The ones who were more fun stuck around for a little while — until they got on her nerves or wanted more.

And then she’d find someone else.

EVEN THOUGH HE
was usually exhausted, most days at UMC were good days. Lee had learned years ago that babies were the great equalizer. Rich or poor. Black or white. Single or married. Gay or straight. The arrival of a healthy baby was a universal source of joy. The happiness of a birth did not belong solely to the privileged of the world. Or the empowered. Or the mainstream. Even his patients who were dirt-poor celebrated, thanked God, and cried tears of joy. Every day, it humbled him to be part of such a unifying human experience.

But nothing in life had prepared him for stillborns.

The vortex of grief was the same for everyone, too. And even if he had never met the mother and father (or the mother and her partner, or the mother and her sister/godmother/aunt), Lee always walked away from a stillbirth hollowed out and haunted for days.

Patients died. Everyday. For all sorts of reasons. That was commonplace in a hospital. But when it happened in the maternity ward, everyone felt it. Everyone grieved it, the families with tears and sobs and sometimes screaming. Or with stomach aches and throat clearing, like the hospital staff.

Lee sat in the breakroom, clutching his stomach. He knew the odds. Even if a case of placenta previa had been diagnosed before labor began, the chance of stillbirth was still ninety-five percent. It wasn’t much consolation for him, and it wasn’t any consolation for Lucy and Connor Merrick. The young couple, urban farmers with dreadlocks and crocheted sandals, had come in to UMC with names picked out, ready to meet the most important person in their lives.

And they were leaving with heartbreak instead.

Lee stood up and paced the room. He still had to make rounds, but he couldn’t get his head on straight, and he didn’t want to see patients while wearing a look of doom. Thinking he needed a distraction, he moved to the mail cubbies, hoping an issue of
AJOG
had arrived.

His box was free of medical journals, but he found a card, and his spirits lifted. Lee loved that a surprising number of his patients had sent him birth announcements. He’d taken them home, put them on his refrigerator, and they’d stayed there until Marcelle declared that there were too many and tossed them all in the trash. With a blank canvas, he’d start all over again.

He tore open the envelope without looking at the return address, so when he saw the drawing of a black, white, and orange cat on the card’s cover, his breath caught. In colored pencil, Agnes preened, her nose and whiskers pointing up in a look of self-satisfaction. Lee opened the card, already captivated.

Dear Dr. Hawthorne,

Thank you for returning my housekeeper to me after her unacceptable absence last week. Though she is moving more slowly than usual, she seems to have suffered no permanent damage — at least none that would prevent her from fulfilling her responsibilities to me. Therefore, I will keep her — for now. However, if you are ever looking for a new position, I would be happy to consider your application. The meal you prepared for me tasted better than any I can remember. Moreover, your skills with the litterbox trowel are most impressive!

If there is any way I or my housekeeper can repay you for your services, please do not hesitate to contact either of us.

Most sincerely,

Agnes J. Cat

Lee couldn’t hold in his smile. Around the slanted script of the note, four small drawings of Agnes scampered and played. Along the text in the top right corner, an image of her stretched out on her belly peered below as though the first line of the note were a shelf. Standing on her hind quarters in the left-hand margin, Agnes tapped the
D
on
Dear
with her left paw. She sat, cleaning one paw beneath the last sentence, and below her signature, Agnes curled up into a tight, napping ball.

The note was like a storybook in that he
believed
it had been written by a fastidious and demanding cat, even though he knew Wren was the author. It was like magic, as though it were a spell, and he felt better. For a number of reasons.

Lee knew that he shouldn’t, but he’d thought about Wren all week. And when he had, it had been like pressing his face into a rabbit fur coat. Soft. Exquisite. Guilt-inducing. But guilty or not, he couldn’t help himself. Someone as rare and wild and lovely as Wren Blanchard existed in the world, and this was reason enough to lose himself for a moment or two.

He had so many questions about her. Did she blush like that all the time? At work and with her friends? Or had
he
just embarrassed her? He thought back to the moments in the ER when she’d cursed with abandon. Her frankness about judging others as they drove. Her honesty and sass were refreshing. And when he’d stepped into her apartment and seen evidence of her work, he’d been moved. He’d never considered how sensual the job of a tattoo artist had to be. She was an artist just like any painter or sculptor, a perfectionist and a dreamer, but her canvas was the body.

But maybe his preoccupation with her had more to do with Marcelle and what happened after their dinner at Tsunami.

At the restaurant, Lee had been civil to his parents and his girlfriend — any display of anger would have earned his father’s disdain — and he’d been civil on the way home afterward when he told Marcelle it wasn’t a good idea for her to stay the night. He’d only become uncivil when she accused him of being passive-aggressive…

“And you’ve been underhanded and manipulative,” he said before getting out of his Jeep and walking around to her side to open the door. When she emerged, he went to her Miata and opened her driver’s side door without a word.

Her look of shock shouldn’t have gratified him, but it did…

They hadn’t spoken since. Lee knew that Marcelle was irate at being dismissed. Although he’d gotten over her breach, he wasn’t ready to apologize to her. And that was usually how reconciliations between them began.

Maybe if he waited her out this time, they’d make progress as a couple.

Taking one last appreciative look, he tucked the thank-you note into his coat pocket and made his rounds.

LEE KNEW WHEN
he left the hospital just after six p.m. that he had nothing at home in the way of dinner. He’d grabbed a po’boy from Olde Tyme Grocery on his way home the night before, and he didn’t like the idea of eating out too often. As a doctor, he was supposed to know better.

Thinking he could steam broccoli while he showered and then broil some fish, he headed to Albertsons. The parking lot of the grocery store teemed with cars; everyone seemed to be rushing in after work with the same idea.

“Attention, Albertsons shoppers! Pick up a loaf of hot French bread at the bakery!"

Lee heard the announcement and doubled-back from the produce department. He could smell the loaves even before he saw them. Piping hot and soft. Lee tucked a loaf at the bottom of his basket to avoid simply tearing off chunks of bread and eating them in the store.

After he grabbed broccoli and green onions, he went to the fish counter and scanned his choices. He was eyeing the tilapia when a voice tugged at him.

“Now I think you’re just stalking me.”

Lee looked over to find Wren Blanchard clasping a handbasket and eyeing him over the rims of her tortoise shell frames. She hid her smile in a look of mock suspicion.

“Wha — H-hi!” His surprise left him sputtering. Had he conjured her with his thoughts? If he had, the image of her in his memory paled considerably. Lee would have described her as pretty, but now, healthy and rested, Wren Blanchard’s beauty left him stunned. Her skin glowed, and even behind her glasses, her sharp green eyes drew him in. To escape their pull, his gaze fell to her mouth, and the ripe flesh of her lips made him swallow.

She stood before him in a white camisole of eyelet lace and a gypsy skirt that fell to her feet. The skirt was striking with its electric-blue and indigo swirls, but Lee wanted to freeze time so he could take in the artwork along her upper arms. Purple-leafed bougainvillea sprayed down both arms, and iridescent hummingbirds found nectar in its pale yellow flowers. The tattoos didn’t go past her elbows, and they weren’t symmetrical; instead, they looked organic and real.

“I got your card… Thank you. The drawings were so good,” he stammered, finally speaking and pulling his eyes back to hers. “I recognized Agnes immediately.”

The corners of Wren’s mouth turned up, and he saw that she fought her smile. But her eyes lit with pride and her cheeks colored. Again, he found himself wondering.
Does she blush like that around everyone?

“I’m glad you liked it,” she said, giving a solitary nod. “I wanted you to know I was grateful.”

Lee took a step closer. “I did like it. In fact, it cheered me up. Today was pretty rough.”

A little
V
formed between her brows as she watched him. “What happened?”

Lee shook his head, not wanting to dive back into the Merricks’ pain. And even as he tried to avoid it, he didn’t want to pretend those kinds of things had no effect on him.

“Sometimes, the hospital can be a sad place,” he said honestly.

Her frown softened as understanding shaped her eyes. Lee knew he needed to change the subject before he had to tell the whole awful story, and he didn’t think he could handle that. “How are you feeling?”

Wren made a sweeping gesture with one hand and gave a little bow. “Good as new and glad to be out of the house.” Then she gave him a no-nonsense look. “If Rocky wouldn’t have let me go back to work today, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Rocky? The boyfriend who left her at the hospital?
Something about this revelation didn’t add up. Lee knew almost nothing about Wren, but he sensed she wasn’t the type to let someone call the shots for her. The question was out before he could stop himself.

“Is he your boyfriend?"

Wren’s eyes widened in surprise. “No. He’s my boss at Studio Ink." She narrowed her gaze at him. “Why does everyone think that?”

Lee was still processing the welcome news that Rocky was
not
her boyfriend to focus on her question. He shouldn’t have asked in the first place, and he shouldn’t have cared, but the fact that Rocky was her boss made him almost as happy as Agnes’s card had. He was about to grasp for an answer to her question when she saved him.

“Anyway, he let me come in today, but he wouldn’t let me close,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I guess that’s a good thing since I’m out of almost everything except shrimp stew and fried peach pies.”

Lee’s heart skittered, and his eyes went wide. “Fried peach pies? My mom used to make those.” For an instant, he was eight years old again, standing by the stove. He’d watch her scoop each pie out of the frying pan and set them on paper towels. He hated having to wait for them to cool. “You mean, like, little peach calzones, but with pie crust instead of pizza dough?”

Wren’s warm smile brought him back to the present. “Yeah, my mamaw made them from scratch. But she’s old school.” Wren shook her head, clearly amused. “She has no fear of saturated fat and cholesterol. I can’t eat another bowl of stew or another bite of pie for at least a month.”

“I’m a little jealous,” Lee said honestly. Homemade shrimp stew and fried peach pies sounded like heaven. “I’ve been living on takeout all week.”

In truth, he’d been living on takeout for years.

She studied him for a moment. “Are you still in your residency?”

The question surprised him. “Yes. Is it that obvious?”

Her startled laughter was the only answer he needed. And Lee wanted to hear it again — even if she laughed at him.

“I mean, I’m licensed. It’s not like I just have my learner’s permit or anything.” It was a bad joke. An awful joke, but it worked because she kept laughing. Her laughter was a mix of high and low notes, like a handbell choir. And like music, he could feel it in his chest.