Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (68 page)

     "It is not Zoey's nursing skills I am questioning, Mr. Jung," Judith said. "It is her ethics. I simply don't trust her."

     They were sitting in Mr. Smith's room. Night had fallen, casting gloomy shadows into the corners where the lamps had not yet been turned on, and a silver service of coffee sat growing cold on the coffee table. So far, Smith had not spoken.

     "You have no proof," Jung said, "that Miss Larson gave the story to the tabloid." Despite the tension in the room, and Judith's obvious anger, Star's general manager remained politely unperturbed. This meeting was his idea; he had come to Mr. Smith's room like an ambassador arriving to inform King Fahd that Saudi Arabia would get all the jets it needed. He brought his
expensively dressed self into the room, along with his refined Swiss accent and smooth assurances to Dr. Isaacs and Mr. Smith that he had the situation about the tabloid article well in hand. But as far as Judith could see, Jung had nothing in hand except for some well-rehearsed words of diplomacy.

     "No, I have no proof," she said. "But I know she did it!"

     "Dr. Isaacs, Miss Burgess and I are distressed about this whole matter and are as anxious as you to get to the bottom of it, but I have spoken with Miss Larson, and she insists she had nothing to do with it. If you could possibly offer something a little more substantial...?" His voice trailed off in a question mark.

     "I have no proof, it's just a feeling I have," Judith said, annoyed at how flimsy her words sounded. What was going on behind those acute Swiss eyes? she wondered. Was Jung thinking he had two squabbling females on his hands, that this whole thing was just about some petty power play between an upstart doctor and a resentful nurse? She glanced at Smith, who was sitting on the third loveseat that formed a grouping at the hearth. He had dressed for the occasion in slacks and a sweater, with a maroon silk ascot at his throat. Judith thought it made quite a change from pajamas; he no longer looked like a patient, a man who had undergone recent surgery and who had been confined to bed, but a man of wealth and power, a man in complete control. She wondered what
he
thought about her accusations. "Mr. Jung," she said, "when it occurred to me that the tabloid had to have gotten the story
before
the operation took place, since that edition was printed two days before Mr. Smith even came here, I checked the clinic log book and saw that Dr. Newton had scheduled the surgery over a month ago. Zoey had known four weeks ago that it was going to take place."

     "And so did Dr. Newton's office staff. And so, in fact," he said, turning to Smith, "did your people."

     Smith didn't reply.

     "Dr. Isaacs," Jung said, "Miss Burgess is most anxious to be fair about this. We understand your concerns, but at the same time—"

     "You don't want to fire Zoey on just my word."

     "After all, Dr. Mitgang never had any complaints, and no other stories were leaked before this. But please be assured that if it was a Star's employee,
we will take full responsibility. But for now, we have no solid proof that Miss Larson was involved."

     "Then investigate her! Find out if she made a large deposit into her bank account recently. Or—"

     "Dr. Isaacs," Jung said slowly, checking the time in a very smooth, artful way—he reached out to straighten the corner of a pillow, extending his wrist just far enough beyond his perfectly starched French cuff to offer him a quick view of his watch. It was done very discreetly, the perfected skill of a man who knows his time is valuable. "Might I suggest that you seem to be becoming rather personally involved in this matter?"

     "My concern is not personal, Mr. Jung," she said in exasperation, "it is professional. The rights of one of my patients have been violated, and that makes me very involved. I am furious about what happened, and I believe my nurse is responsible. It's as simple as that."

     When Simon Jung started to respond, Smith suddenly said, "This is getting us nowhere. I suggest we wait and see what my attorney uncovers. He flew to Chicago this morning to meet with the tabloid's lawyers. Perhaps they will cooperate and provide us with the source of their story. Until then, arguing isn't going to solve anything."

     Jung stood up, smoothly and elegantly, as if he were the one terminating the audience. "I quite agree," he said. "That is, if Dr. Isaacs has no objections? In the meantime, Miss Burgess and I would be honored if the two of you dined with us tonight."

     Smith waved a hand. "I'm not up to company yet, but thank Miss Burgess for me. Judith?" She also declined.

     After the general manager left, Judith moved closer to Smith, a look of concern on her face. "Are you feeling all right? Can I do anything for you?"

     "Step out of that sterile white lab coat and have dinner with me. As a friend, not as my doctor."

     "I thought you didn't want company."

     "You are not company, Judith. You are pure delight."

     She turned away, feeling her heart start up its usual gallop whenever she was near him. "I would be happy to have dinner with you. Let me check in first and see if anyone needs me."

     As she dialed the clinic, Judith felt her exasperation rise. Was Simon Jung correct in implying that she was jumping to conclusions? Were her feelings for Mr. Smith clouding her judgment? After all, just because a woman was sullen and sloppy in her habits didn't mean she wasn't to be trusted.

     But as soon as Zoey answered, "Clinic," and Judith heard gum crack, her doubts fled. It
had
to have been Zoey. A nurse who was careless about sterile instruments and who handed out drugs to anyone who asked for them was not beyond selling secret patient information if the price was right.

     "This is Dr. Isaacs. Has anyone asked for me?"

     "No, but you got another one of
those
calls, Doctor. No message, like usual."

     Thinking she detected a trace of gloating in the nurse's voice, Judith said, "Thank you. I will be with Mr. Smith should anyone need me."

     "Oh? Mr. Smith?"

     Judith hung up, shaking with rage. This was an intolerable situation. Zoey had to go.

     "I'm so damn mad," she said. "Every time I see that awful article, I want to scream."

     "You know, Judith, I believe you are slaying dragons for me. Now this
is
a switch. A damsel coming to
my
rescue."

     "Why couldn't they have left you alone? What business is it of anyone's that you had surgery?"

     "There is a paradox here that might cheer you up," he said, pointing to a thick stack of envelopes on his bedside table. "Letters from men asking me about the procedure I had done, what the results were, who was the surgeon, how much did it cost. In other words, Doctor, I've become something of a national spokesman for abdominal liposuction for men!" He laughed incredulously. "By being forced to come out of the closet, so to speak, I've opened the way for others to talk about it and to admit that they would like to have the same operation done. They're thinking that if a man famous for physical fitness, like myself, deems it okay to resort to cosmetic surgery to correct certain flaws, then surely it's okay for the ordinary man. In a way, that tabloid article has done some good."

     "Do you know what I think? I think you're trying to cheer me up."

     They regarded each other across the room.

     "I'll call room service," he said, "and order for the two of us."

     When Judith removed her lab coat and draped it over a chair, she experienced the curious sensation of feeling naked, even though she wore a blouse and wool slacks. It was the shedding of her protective covering, her professional shield against intimacy with Mr. Smith. Now she was vulnerable; she wasn't a doctor, she was a woman—a woman who had already loved and lost two people in her life and who could not bear to lose a third.

     "Where will you go after you're discharged?" she asked, going to the window to watch evening settle over the desert below. As she saw the lights of Palm Springs and Cathedral City starting to wink on, she wondered how many love affairs were being consummated down there at that moment, how many illicit rendezvous were taking place, what powerful passions were coming to life as the sun died away.

     "To my home in Florida," he said, "to complete my recovery. I'm scheduled to start filming a movie in Rome in a few months. After that, who knows? Maybe I shall consider the television series I spoke of."

     A home in Florida...filming in Rome...It was a life she couldn't even begin to imagine. "Are you going to the ball tomorrow night?" she asked.

     He went to the bar and poured two brandies. Handing one to her, he said, "It depends."

     "On what?"

     "On whether I can find a lady who will accompany me."

     "May I ask you something?" she said, looking into her brandy, seeing how the liquid trembled. "I must know. Who do you believe, me or Zoey?"

     He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her to face him, and looked right into her eyes. "You, of course. Did you doubt that? For one thing, you are so certain about what you say. But also because I know that my own personal staff did not leak the story, and I believe in the integrity of Dr. Newton and the people in his office. After all, treating celebrities secretly is their livelihood; they stand to lose a great deal over one foolish transgression, But after what you've told me about that nurse of yours—"

     "She's not mine," Judith said, barely finding the breath to speak, he stood so close.

     "It's funny about first impressions. I met her the morning I arrived here. Miss Larson got me settled into this room. And I recall thinking even then how glad I was that Newton was bringing his own nurse with him for the surgery. Now isn't that interesting? I don't know what it was about Miss Larson, but I didn't like the idea of her assisting at the operation."

     Their eyes locked for a moment, and she felt the heat from his hands through her blouse. As he started to incline his head toward her, they were interrupted by a quiet knock at the door. Smith reluctantly withdrew his hands and went to answer it.

     A waiter came in pushing a cart covered in a white tablecloth, with a vase containing white narcissi and a bottle of Cristal champagne chilling in a silver bucket. "What's this?" Smith said. He read the accompanying card: "Compliments of Simon Jung."

     "What do you think, Judith?" he said, joining her at the window after the waiter left. "Shall we accept his peace offering?"

     "I seem to be more upset over this whole thing than you do."

     "You might be," he said, standing beside her so close that their shoulders touched as they watched the way night crept among the pine trees. "I've had many more years of experience with the press; I've learned to take sensational news with a certain aplomb. Or possibly I'm just as upset as you, except that I show it differently." He turned to look at her and was taken by a rather fetching little mole beneath her left earlobe. "Your approach is more direct. You rant and rave while I quietly hire a lawyer."

     She looked at him and wondered why those dark blue eyes never quite came across on the screen. He was charismatic on film, but in
real
life...

     She stepped away from the window and said, "I'd cultivate an ulcer if I didn't rant and rave."

     Dinner arrived then, with two smiling waiters who came in murmuring, "Good evening, madame, monsieur." While one set up the table and served, the other went around the room turning on lights, drawing the drapes, and building a fire from logs that were placed in the brass hod each morning.

     After they left, Smith poured the champagne, then held Judith's seat out for her, saying, "Madame."

     They ate in the comforting warmth of the fire, the crystal, silver, and sparkling china, with Smith taking the elegance and gourmet food in stride, while Judith, who had always regarded a plain filet mignon steak as the height of cuisine, marveled at the banquet he had ordered: grilled swordfish with mint butter; a red radicchio lettuce salad sprinkled with goat cheese; paper-thin slices of bread that had been roasted with herbs and butter and grated Parmesan so that they were crisp and crunchy; and cold strawberry soup in silver bowls.

     Not knowing where to begin, she followed Smith's lead by taking a little of the black caviar and spreading it thinly on a toast point. This was only the second time in her life she had tasted caviar, and she still wasn't sure she liked it.

     "You know, Judith," he said, "the first time I was introduced to the really finest Beluga caviar was when we were shooting
The Golden Horde
in Iran. The shah invited the entire film company to his palace..."

     Judith listened in fascination. He was talking of a world and a time that she had no place in; she had not, in fact, been born yet when
The Golden Horde
was made.

     "Why do you wear your hair like that?" Smith said all of a sudden, interrupting himself.

     She was startled. She had worn it in a braid since medical school. No one had ever commented on it, not even Mort.

     "I was just wondering how it would look"—he waved his hands seductively—"loose."

     She found herself thinking of the shah's palace and Beluga caviar and of all the glamorous love affairs Smith had had all over the world, with contessas and movie queens and wealthy socialites. He had once come close to marrying, she recalled now, an heiress who was believed to have been the richest woman in the United States. How could Judith, a family practice doctor from Green Pines, compete with a past like that?

     And suddenly she realized that she
wanted
to compete—she wanted to be the unique woman in his life, the one woman whom he had allowed to witness his vulnerability.

     She looked across the table and saw something dance in his eyes—the challenge of romance, of adventure.

     Suddenly, she was very excited.

     "Judith—" he began.