The Magnificent M.D. (2 page)

“You wouldn't understand that,” he continued. “Being a Bancroft. You've always had everything you ever wanted.”

Everything. Except him, she thought. Once she'd wanted him so badly she thought she'd die from longing. Everything except a stable income. And even more important, everything except the love of a good man and a child of her own. But she'd come to terms with her life. Other women her age had a husband and children and security. But though she'd given up on the husband and children part, she was working on financial security by
running a successful inn. Besides, she had a whole town, a town that needed her. She couldn't let them down.

“Everything?” she repeated softly. “Not really. Even the money is gone now.”

“What? The Bancrofts without money? That's like a train without tracks. A circus without the big top. What happened?”

She sighed and looked at her watch.

“I see. It's a long story. Maybe some other time.” He shifted his gaze to the door so pointedly she'd have to be blind not to realize how much he wanted her gone.

But he was not getting rid of her that easily. She stood and put her hand on his arm before he could take action. “Sam, please. I know how you feel about my family.”

“And you,” he said, removing her hand from his arm as if she had a communicable disease.

“And me, yes, I know. But just give me a chance to explain. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Can you afford it?” he asked, his voice laced with irony.

“Yes, I can afford it. If you have the time.”

“Time? I have nothing but time,” he said bitterly. “I have six months of time.”

 

The coffee shop was on the first floor, and Sam was glad to see it was empty except for a stranger drinking a smoothie at the juice bar. Sam didn't want to speak to anyone. He especially didn't want to speak to Hayley. But as much as he wanted to turn his back on her, he couldn't. Not quite yet. Not when the memories were threatening to overwhelm him and make him feel young and poor and vulnerable again. Not until he'd gotten her out of his system again. The last time it took about ten years. This time it shouldn't take more than thirty minutes.

He certainly didn't want to have to answer any questions from colleagues who might be taking a break in the coffee shop—like what happened last week in surgery and who's the beautiful blonde you're with? And she was beautiful. And black set off her honey-blond hair. Maybe it was true that the Bancroft money was gone, but in a suit that fit her as if it was made for her, made to hug her curves and show off her long legs, she sure looked like someone who'd held onto her charge card at Nordstroms.

No question, the girl he'd known in another lifetime had turned into a stylish, sophisticated woman. And what a woman. A confident, self-assured woman with a glint of determination in her blue eyes and a firm grip on his arm. Coupled with her soft-as-cashmere voice she was damnednear irresistible. But not so irresistible that he was going to give her more than a half hour of his time. She didn't deserve it.

“Tell me,” he said, as he slid into the booth opposite her. “How long were you leaning against the door eavesdropping?”

A flush spread over her face. So she hadn't completely changed after all. She wasn't quite as self-assured as she looked. He remembered the first time he'd spoken to her, freshman year in high school. She looked so beautiful, so rich, so untouchable, and he felt so poor and so disreputable. He almost walked right by her, with the usual chip on his shoulder, eyes forward, a practiced cynical sneer on his face. If she hadn't been having trouble getting her locker open, he would have.

But she was standing there, helplessly tugging at the combination lock. The bell was ringing and everyone else was rushing by, hurrying to get to class on time. Not him. He wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere. It wasn't cool. And what was the point? School was stupid, anyway.

“Something wrong?” he'd asked.

She'd glanced over her shoulder and nodded. Her face was flushed and she was chewing on her lower lip in frustration.

He'd grabbed the lock out of her hand, asked her for the combination and with a few twirls and a quick jerk, he'd opened it for her.

“How did you do that?” she'd asked, looking at him with those incredible blue eyes as if he was a superhero.

“No big deal,” he'd said. And it hadn't been.

Then why would her words and the way she looked that day in her blue sweater and short, pleated cheerleader skirt be forever engraved in his memory? Why couldn't he have left it at that? A brief encounter between high school freshmen who couldn't have been more different. But no, he had to see her again after class, talk to her in the parking lot and get involved with her. Why? Because she made him feel special, like he was worth something. When everyone else told him otherwise.

She was like a drug, he realized later, one of those pain killers he prescribed routinely for his post-op patients. In the same way that the pills gave relief to his patients, she'd helped ease the pain in his life. And like those pills she was addictive. Even now, seeing her again, he felt the way he had that day, inexplicably drawn to her, unable to look away, unable to stay away.

He thought he'd broken the addiction. He hadn't thought of her for years. Not much, anyway. It was too painful, and though he was many things, he was not a masochist. But here she was back in his life. Showing him that she still had the power to make his pulse rate speed up as if he'd just run the Bay to Breakers Race. Still had the power to make him feel as though he was special and that he could do anything. Why? Not because she'd missed him
over the years. Not because he meant anything to her then or now. Because she wanted a favor. She wanted him to come back to the town that hated him. And for what? To check a few sore throats, prescribe some ulcer medicine and set a broken arm or two.

He'd done a six-month rotation in general practice a long time ago and soon realized it was not for him. He didn't have the patience to deal with minor problems and nonspecific complaints. No, he was a surgeon, on the cutting edge, so to speak, of the latest procedures, giving lectures at the medical school, writing articles or presenting papers at a conference.

She stirred her coffee before she answered his question. “I wasn't out there very long. I couldn't hear much of anything.”

“But you tried.”

“Yes,” she admitted with a sheepish smile. “I tried. We're desperate.”

“We?”

“The town council. The search committee. The mayor. The school board. The PTA. Everyone who lives in New Hope. We've done everything. Advertised in medical schools, interviewed retirees, promised free housing. But doctors these days want more than that. They want to live in big cities. We tried to persuade them that small towns have their own charms. We can offer clean air and beautiful beaches and friendly, grateful people. But they want more than that. They want to make a lot of money,” Hayley said, “and that's one thing we haven't got.”

“After all those years of school, of going without sleep or money or good times, can you blame them?” Sam asked.

“No, no, of course not. But we need somebody so des
perately. It's a three-hour drive to Portland and the nearest doctor,” Hayley said.

“Over a winding road,” he noted.

“You remember,” she said.

“I can't forget,” he said flatly.

“In just this last year, since Grandpa died, we've had three serious emergencies. A baby was born with complications. Henry Mills had a stroke and Mrs. Gompers died of a heart attack. If we'd had a doctor in town…”

“But you didn't,” he said, setting his cup down on the table with an air of finality. “I hope you find one, but I'm not your man.”

“I can understand your reluctance to come back,” she said, “but—”

“Reluctance is putting it mildly,” he said. “Shall I go over the reasons?”

“I think I can guess. You don't want to return to small-town life.”

“That's a good start. Go on.”

“You're a surgeon and you feel general practice is beneath you.”

“Correction. I'm a surgeon and I don't do general practice. I haven't done it since I was an intern, and then I only did it for six months. Let me be frank. I wasn't cut out for it. I can't deal with the nonspecific complaints, the colds, the flu and the heartburn. I take patients who would die without my help, and I do valve replacements and heart transplants, and I give them their lives back. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, of course. But you could do it for a while. Treat the sore throats and the minor complaints. You wouldn't even have to brush up.”

“I'm not supposed to work for six months. And that's that.”

“That's not what he said,” she said. “He said ‘cut out the long workdays and get out of town.”'

“So you
were
listening,” he said.

“I couldn't help it. You were talking so loudly I'm surprised the whole building didn't hear your conversation,” she said.

“The whole building didn't have their ears pressed against the door,” he said.

“You wouldn't have to work that hard, really, if that's what you're worried about,” she continued before he could come up with another excuse. “I've got someone to help you do the bookkeeping, wrap bandages, hold the strobe lights and refill the tongue depressors, order supplies and hand you the instruments.”

“Now who would that be?” he asked.

“That would be Mattie Whitlock,” Hayley said. “Grandpa's old nurse. She's had years of experience. And she's ready and willing to help out.”

“She's still there? She must be about ninety-five by now.”

“Seventy-three. She's slowed down somewhat, but she's still got the touch.”

“Yeah, I remember her touch,” Sam said grimly. “And the way she wielded a needle. I was more scared of her than anyone in town, including the police.” He shook his head, already regretting that he'd admitted being scared of anything. He didn't want to admit it, he didn't want to remember it. The pain and the shame he'd felt in those days still lingered beneath the surface. After all these years. Until Hayley had walked into his office, he hadn't realized how deep it went. He wished she'd stayed where she was and left him alone. “No,” he said. “I'm not coming back and that's final.”

“What are you going to do? Take up golf? Get a hobby?
Read medical journals or find a woman to marry?” The skepticism in her voice was unmistakable.

“Any one of those ideas is sounding better by the minute,” he said.

“I'm not asking you to make a permanent commitment,” she said. “Just a year, or even six months. Your patients will still be here when you return. All I'm asking is that you come back until we find a permanent doctor. It'll be like a vacation. You can go deep-sea fishing. Dig for clams. Take Wednesday afternoons off to play golf at the club. Maybe even find a woman to marry. Small-town women may not be as glamorous as the ones you're used to but they may not be as superficial, either.”

He let his gaze roam over her fashionably tousled, Meg Ryan-style blond hair, her suit jacket and the silk blouse under it. Deliberately avoiding his eyes, she tore open a packet of sugar and poured it into what remained of her coffee.

“Are you including yourself?” he asked with a gleam in his eye. “If you are, I might be tempted.”

“No, of course not,” she said indignantly.

“Sure? Because you fit the description—small-town girl, not superficial…”

“I told you, I'm not,” she said, bright spots of color in her cheeks. “I'm not available.”

“Why not? Is there a man in your life?”

“There's a town in my life. A town that needs a doctor. Now can we get back to the subject at hand?”

“Why not. Tell me, who would I play golf with?” he asked. He'd forgotten how it felt to tease her, to flirt with her, catch her off-guard and watch her blush. Sitting across from her in a vinyl-covered booth reminded him of Scotty's Drug Store, the New Hope teen hangout, where instead of sitting across from her, he used to walk by,
hands in his pocket, collar of his flannel shirt up against the wind, and look in the window. There she would be with her high school friends, the cream of New Hope society, laughing and talking and eating French fries. Everyone she hung out with was like her—respectable, well dressed, beautiful and well off—everything he wasn't. Sometimes he'd catch her eye. She would stop and stare out the window at him. He'd shrug nonchalantly and walk away to show he hadn't been looking at her at all and he didn't care that he wasn't part of the crowd. Everything had changed since then, and yet nothing had really changed at all.

“Me, I'd play with you,” she said.

“You play golf?” he asked. He shouldn't be surprised. Golf was a classy sport, an expensive sport, the kind played at the country club by people like the Bancrofts and their crowd…a crowd that didn't appeal to him then or now. But golf did. And he'd never had time to work on his game.

“I'm probably a little rusty.”

“Is that all?” he asked.

“No, of course not. Besides the golf course at the country club there's much more. There's a bookstore now and an art gallery, even a bed and breakfast, but what we really need is a—”

“A bed and breakfast? What was wrong with the old boarding house?”

“Oh, it's still there. Maudie has a steady clientele who rent by the week, but—”

“But that's not good enough for the new, improved town. They had to have a B&B. So what else can I look forward to besides golf, when I'm giving up my life for six months?” he asked. He was curious to see just how far she would go to get him back.

“What more do you want from me, Sam, besides wholesome, outdoor activities? Apologies, explanations?” She looked up at him with those incredible aquamarine eyes that could always see deep down inside him. He couldn't let her do that. Not now. Not ever again. He'd trusted her once too often, and he'd paid the price. He met her gaze with a practiced, noncommittal, cool look that gave away nothing. He hoped.