Wishes and Stitches (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

I
t felt good for Rig to go to the office the next morning, to
do
something. He went in extra early to find Bruno already scowling at the computer screen. On a whim he said, “Let's go get breakfast.” Bruno took a moment before removing the pencil from behind his ear, then he looked up and said, “Yeah.”

An hour later, they were back, both of them ready to go. Rig pushed open the office's door, glancing at his watch as he did. “Eight forty-five on the
dot
,” he gloated. “Not bad!”

“I still can't get over that scorpion story,” said Bruno, pushing past him to get behind the desk. “That must have been one wild night, bro.”

Rig nodded. “It was also a really long time ago. We all do things that we regret, you know? We don't always remember the rules in the heat of the moment. You know, your guy Peter is just like my five-year-old nephew, testing his boundaries. He'll come around.”

“Thanks for breakfast.” Bruno grinned back at Rig, and he was pleased to see that Bruno looked
happy
. Breakfast was all the man had needed. Breakfast and being asked about himself. Really, Rig figured that's what everyone wanted.

Bruno handed a file to Rig. “You're pretty open-minded for a guy from the Gulf, you know?”

“What did you expect, some redneck asshole? Just because I wear shitkickers?”

Bruno shrugged, then nodded. “Well, thanks.” He paused. “I guess I should talk to Dr. Fontaine.”

Rig laughed. “She felt awful about what she said, the way she said it. If I were you, I'd just wait until she comes to you to apologize. Now, I'm going to—” As he turned around, he noticed that the swinging door to the back office was ajar. A face withdrew, and the door shut quickly.

He almost knocked Naomi over when he went through. She turned and pretended she was busy with something in a drawer. Then she accidentally whacked her hand on the drawer as she shut it.

“Dammit!” she said, cradling her hand.

Maybe the best defense was a good offense. “Insta-karma?”

“I wasn't eavesdropping.” Her voice was low, and her cheeks flamed.

Rig took a deep breath. Naomi Fontaine couldn't be anything more to him than a coworker. His boss, in fact, until he could buy in. Even though she was sexy as hell with those wind-blown dark curls, there was something a little too . . . secretive about her. Rig didn't do secrets, and he'd lay good money on it that that was what he was to her: a secret, best forgotten.

Besides, he'd dated coworkers before, and it was usually a mistake.

But man, the way she'd treated that little dog, when she could easily have been affronted by being asked, that had been great. She could have sent the old woman down the street to the vet who had a big sign hanging on Main Street. The way Naomi had leaned over the dog and scratched its ugly little head when it was breathing well again, and the way she'd lied about billing the lady—that was sweet, kind, and well, hot.

But there was no way he should be attracted to her. Not now. He shouldn't even be thinking about her.

Then why was he moving to be closer to her? He didn't give himself time to answer the question.

“I apologize for talking about you to Bruno. I didn't mean anything by it,” he said. Up close, she smelled like soap and sweet flowers. Gardenia, maybe. His head swam for a second and he shut his eyes to clear his thoughts.

“I don't need you to tell me when I need to apologize to someone, Hank.”

He'd let that one go for what she'd overheard. But Christ have mercy. She wasn't doing a very good job of hiding those curves under the white coat.

“I'm sorry. I meant no offense. I was cheering up Bruno, but I went overboard, I guess. I just wanted my first day to start off on the right foot.”

Naomi looked as if she was going to say something smart-assed, something to cut him down to size. Rig braced himself. But instead, she said, “How did you cheer him up?”

“I don't know. Coffee usually helps everything, so I bought him some of that. And eggs with a bagel on the side. And he didn't say no to that huge Rice Krispies bar at the counter.”

“So you just fed him?” she asked incredulously. “That's all it took?”

Rig frowned. “And we talked. That's usually all it takes, right?”

Her eyes, green as sea glass, lifted to his as she shrugged.

“Interpersonal relations not your bag?”

She surprised him again, this time by laughing. “Believe it or not, I try.” She again shook out the hand she'd knocked against the drawer and looked away.

Rig said, “Oh, I'm sure you do just fine,” but he barely heard the words. She was close to him, just a foot away, and he felt intoxicated.
Danger, danger.
His head screamed at him to stop, but his hand moved forward of its own volition. He watched it move as if it were someone else's. He took her hand in his, opening it, palm up.

Why did he want to comfort her so much?

He heard an indrawn breath, and he wasn't sure if it was his or hers. It didn't matter. Her hand was small and impossibly soft, and he felt a knot forming on the back of it. Just the tips of her fingers were rough, as if she used them a lot. He doubted there was that much suturing to do in this town—what else was she doing with them?

Their eyes met again, and the way the bright summer sunlight streamed in through the window behind her, lighting her long brown curls to an almost maple color, made any more rational thought impossible.

Rig lifted Naomi's hand to his mouth. Until it got there, he had no idea what he'd do, but when her fingertips were close to his lips, he knew. He first kissed the injury, already bruising. She gasped. “What are you—”

“This is beautiful,” Rig said. “Engagement ring?”

“No!”

He kissed the tip of her thumb, lightly, still not believing what he was doing. His mouth moved around the firm flesh at the base, and using his tongue, just the slightest bit, he tasted her skin in a flick, almost too quick for her to feel. But she felt it, he could tell. She kept her eyes on his, and any moment he was prepared to stop. To apologize. To be slapped. But instead, her eyelids fluttered in a way that made his insides clench.

Then as softly as he could, using almost no pressure at all, he bit the tip of her thumb.

He watched her as she fought with herself, the ice in her demeanor warring with the heat in her eyes. He released her hand regretfully.

Pulling her hand back as if it was her idea, Naomi said, “What the hell was that? I thought we weren't going to—” But her voice was too breathy to sustain the anger implied in the strong language, and Rig didn't apologize, even though he knew he should.

He shouldn't have done that. But he wanted more.

A buzzer screamed next to them, and both jumped. Bruno's voice came over the intercom. “Dr. Keller, Maddy Walker's your first appointment. I'll put her in three.”

“Why did you do that?” whispered Naomi, holding her hand as if she'd sprained it.

“I don't know,” said Rig. He could only be honest with her. “I couldn't help it.”

“Well . . .
don't.
” She spun on her heel and was inside her office, the door slamming behind her, before he could draw breath to speak again.

Pushing the talk button on the intercom, Rig said, “I'll be right there.” His voice sounded completely normal. But he couldn't get a full breath into his lungs, and all he could think about was how her hand had felt in his, how it had tasted—of antiseptic and a hint of salt, and something that was completely hers . . .

Oh, no. He wouldn't do this. Of course he wouldn't. He understood self-control. He was a grown-up. But God, he ached, both physically and mentally.

Damn, it had been a long time since someone torqued him up enough to get blue balls.

Chapter Twelve

A
fter Naomi's last appointment, she left without checking on Rig. She'd seen enough of him today just walking by half-open doors of patient rooms. Invariably, he'd been laughing, presumably at something the patient had said. What was this, comedy-club doctoring? Laughter is the best medicine? She rolled her eyes at the thought.

But he was a grown man, a doctor, with all the papers. She'd never owned this place—she'd just been spoiled for a while, and it had been nice.

She waved a good-bye to a surprised-looking Bruno—Naomi seldom left before he did—and went outside. She blinked in the sudden sun, and felt the unexpected warmth of coming out of an air-conditioned climate into the coastal summer. She turned right, and went immediately inside again, entering the health clinic from the front entrance, the one she rarely used.

It was an enormous room that had been used as a dance studio until it closed overnight, leaving small dancers outside, knocking on the glass. Pederson had been ready to sublet the space to a flower vendor who was looking for retail space on Main, but Naomi had talked him into letting her try the clinic. He'd never been excited about it like she had, but that's because he was on his way out, anyway. Surely that was why.

The mirrors still hung from its dance studio days—they made the space look even bigger than it was. Naomi didn't care for the harsh overhead fluorescents, but they were all she had to work with for now.

Around the room, she'd placed card tables covered with brochures on just about every medical problem imaginable. She'd added transitional flyers, ways to help a recently diagnosed loved one apply for Medicare, for disability, for hospice. Wooden chairs bought cheaply at an office-furniture sale sat next to the tables, and the whole center of the room was empty. But if the Red Cross agreed, as she hoped they would, this would be a fantastic place to hold a blood drive.

The thought of that actually gave her tingles. There was so much that could be accomplished here, why didn't people see it?

Her father would have. Gilbert Fontaine had been her moon and her stars while she was growing up. As soon as Anna had been born to her mother and stepfather, Naomi had realized it wasn't that her mother wasn't good at mothering—she just wasn't good at mothering
her.
But as long as she'd had her father's approval, she was okay. She could handle Maybelle taking Anna on shopping trips, bringing to Gilbert's apartment a bag of clothes that were either too large or too small for Naomi, because while they'd been shopping, Naomi had been lying on the rough orange carpet in Gilbert's office, using tracing paper to go over the diagrams and images in his medical books. When she tumbled into naps on long, warm Saturday afternoons, Gilbert had always picked her up and placed her on the office settee, tucking blankets knitted by his mother around her. When she woke, sometimes she pretended to be asleep longer than she actually was so she could keep her cheek on the scratchy, overstuffed pillow, listening to the drag of her father's pen across his notes.

Only once did she shame herself in front of him. She was just nine or ten, helping in her father's practice. He'd asked her to go next door, into his health clinic, and tell everyone waiting that he was almost done with his patients, and he'd be there shortly.

“No. They smell.”

“They
what
?”

Naomi had made herself smaller as her father had grown taller, his face darkening with displeasure. But she'd said, “They don't smell good. Some of them aren't . . . clean. They should probably go somewhere and wash before they come here.”

Gilbert had thundered, “No daughter of mine would say that.”

Naomi had felt as if he'd slapped her. Her father had never said anything to her that wasn't loving or encouraging.

He'd said, “They don't
have
a place to wash. You think the people who come to the clinic
like
the way they live? You think they chose that? Out of all their options? Do you think they like having three kids before the age of twenty to a junkie dad who makes them work in a way I can't explain to you? Don't you
ever
look down on them. Don't you ever even
think
badly of them. What they've gone through, we'll never understand. They are, cumulatively, wiser than we'll ever be, and I'm ashamed of my daughter.”

Naomi had bitten the inside of her mouth so hard she'd drawn blood, and then not only had she gone next door to tell everyone her dad was almost ready to come help them, she'd used her allowance to fill up the candy bowl that was fallen upon by the children who'd been playing in the kids' area.

Now, in the re-creation of her father's dream, the one that had become her own, she looked in the direction of her kids' area. Smaller, sadder than his, it hadn't been used yet. She'd never had a child come by with a parent in tow or not. But she would. It would happen. She had to believe that.

From behind her a low growl said, “Wanna dance?”

Naomi screamed and clutched her chest as she spun around. It wasn't until she'd hit Rig in the shoulder that she really knew who he was. “You
scared
me!”

“You socked me, woman!”

“Natural response. Right up there with the screaming.”

Rig grinned, and his dark eyes danced as he held out his arms, and invited her to do the same. “Come on. That's what this old wooden floor wants.”

Naomi backed up, her heart still racing. What if she
did
dance with him? Without music? Oh, God, she must be losing it. He might bite her again. She shook her head and said, “I was thinking it wants a good waxing. Hey, speaking of things that need a little shining up, are you going to keep dressing like that?”

He looked down at himself, at his jeans and dark brown shirt, and then back at her, his arms outstretched. “My jeans not tight enough for the cowboy lovers out here? I can get some Wranglers on the weekend, no problem.”

“Jeans, though? And I know Dr. Pederson's white coat is too wide for you, since you don't have a beer gut the size of Oregon, but wouldn't it do for a couple of days until we get your own?”

He dropped his arms easily and moved to run his fingers over the bookcase she'd also picked up with the used office furniture. “I don't like to be fancy. People talk to me more when I'm not. My clothes are clean, I can assure you of that. On another subject, what the hell? Look at these books. Depressing. Cancer, cancer, oh, goody, myeloma and leukemia, more cancer, and some more cancer.” He slid his hand over the second row of books. “And it looks like this is the death and dying shelf. Cheery. Matches the rest of the vibe in here.”

Naomi spun around, looking at her creation. Yeah, maybe she hadn't decorated it enough yet. But it wasn't about the decorating, it wasn't about what it looked like. What mattered was what it contained, what was at its heart. It was suddenly vastly important to her that he got it. Pederson never had. But maybe Rig could.

“My dad always wanted a small-town practice, but he never got one. He worked in a neighborhood that straddled two districts of Los Angeles. All day his practice was full of rich clients, and he kept them healthy.” It felt strange to talk to someone about it, but she kept going. “Next door, he opened a center like this for the lower-income community to come for advice. For resources. Under his watch, it turned into the community gathering place. They had lectures and classes, even dances sometimes. Everyone went there to get all their information, about stress, and health, and diet, and there was always someone, a volunteer or my dad at night, who was sitting there with all the answers. Free health checks. It was organic. Lovely. Everything free. He'd be so proud if he knew I was doing this.” If she pulled it off. And maybe she wouldn't.
Shit.

Rig looked seriously at her. As if he was really listening. “Who comes in here now?”

“Now?” Naomi grimaced. “No one. I've seen two people in here on the nights I've sat here with the door open, and they scuttled out as soon as they saw me.”

“It does kind of have a Christian Science reading room feel, doesn't it?”

Naomi yanked the curl next to her ear. “Dammit. Really? I was hoping to avoid that.”

“Yeah. I'm thinking people expect you to preach the word if you lie in wait behind that table. Why is this so important to you?”

Naomi couldn't say the words that mattered:
My father expected me to do more than just be a doctor, just make money. He expected me to help.
So she just shrugged.

Rig, though, was already nodding. “Yeah. We can make something out of this.”

The words chafed. She'd already made something here. No one recognized it yet, that was all. “I don't think I need help, thanks. It's fine as it is.”

“What about yoga sessions? There's so much room here.”

“Really?”

Rig ignored her sarcasm. “Tai chi would be good, too. And acupuncture. All done at low cost, or free to seniors to get them in here. A real wellness, body and soul place. I'm all in favor of treating the whole body.”

“East meets West, huh?” Naomi raised an eyebrow. No way. That sure wasn't what she had in mind. Naomi believed in treating people the way she'd been trained.

He went on. “Have you thought about having support groups meet here? You could even get the twelve-steppers.”

Of course she'd thought about it. But had it happened yet? No. Did she know how to make it happen? Naomi wished she did, but she sure as hell wasn't going to ask him for help with it.

“You just leave the doors unlocked all the time?”

Naomi took a few steps away from him. “When the practice is open, yeah. The last person out, either Bruno or me, locks it up, unless I'm staying in the evenings. Which, like I said, hasn't been a popular feature.” She paused, feeling color flood her face. Was it showing? Her desperate need for this to succeed? “I'm holding a free blood sugar testing next week, and I'm hoping people come by. I put it in the paper and everything.” Her fingers twitched, and she yearned for her knitting. The yarn slipping off the tip of the needle would soothe this nervousness she felt. She twisted the hem of her shirt between her fingers instead.

“No offense, Doc, but a sharp poke in the finger? You really think people are going to line up to be told they should be healthier?”

Naomi's shoulders dropped. Damn. She looked around and tried to see it for the first time, with new eyes.

It wasn't just plain. It was
ugly
. Unattractive. Practically offensive in its nonoffensiveness. No personality. Who would like this? Who in the community would embrace this? Why would they?

“I'll figure it out,” she said, trying to keep the defeated tone out of her voice. “Lock up behind you, would you? Uses the same key you already have.”

He protested, saying something she couldn't hear over the roaring in her ears. In the sunlight, she blinked back the sudden tears that threatened to spill over. She walked briskly away from the office. Anywhere but here.

The practice sat on Main Street next door to the hardware store. Across the street was the boardwalk and the main parking lot for the pier. It was wide and flat, and public works kept back the encroaching sand as much as they could. The boardwalk had restrooms and several snack shacks—the most popular foods passing by in tourists' hands seemed to be chocolate-dipped vanilla cones and pink cotton candy. As Naomi crossed the street, she saw one round child about six years old had both, and his ice cream was in as much danger of falling off its cone as his face was of getting covered in the pink fluff.

She turned left at the boardwalk, walking along the south side of Main Street. The light slanted in that way particular to the coastal summer, still warm, but with a breath of coolness promised by the low-lying layer of fog that waited on the horizon. In a couple of hours, as the sun went down, the fog would race in and the cold, clammy air would wrap itself around the people still in tank tops and shorts. The locals could be identified by the sweatshirts wrapped around their waists. They knew come evening they'd need them.

Someone called her name.

Naomi paused and listened. She must have heard it wrong.

Then she heard it again: a woman was calling her name, and she sounded happy about it.