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Patrice laughed, the sound reminding him of the small copper bells that used to hang on his mom’s back porch.
“Technically I’m not a volunteer,” she explained, walking backward toward the hall, “But I am the person who makes sure there are volunteers for the children. I’m the pediatric social worker who heads up Child Services.” She opened the door. “You know where the Zoo Lobby is?”
Wade didn’t like admitting that he hadn’t a clue. “Ellicott General is like a small city, and I’ve spent most of my time in the ‘heart’ of town, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Mort came to life again. “I get it, Doc,” the monkey said. “Cardiologist…heart…. Ha-ha-ha.” Mort patted Wade’s shoulder. “First-floor elevators to the giant stuffed animal cages, left down the hall, office on the right.” Clapping, the monkey added, “The sign above the door says Child Services. Got it?”
Wade was about to echo “Got it,” when Patrice winked and ducked into the hall.
“She spreads such joy wherever she goes,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick said as Wade pulled the curtain around her daughter’s bed. “And isn’t she just the cutest thing?”
“Yeah, cute,” he muttered halfheartedly, opening Emily’s file. He’d never been a big advocate of non-family members meandering in and out of the hospital, overstaying their welcome, leaving behind their germs. And Patrice McKenzie had built a career of inviting them to do just that.
He wondered how much joy she’d feel like spreading if he gave her his two cents worth on the subject.
He pictured the long-lashed, dark eyes, heard her lilting voice in his memory, and found himself fighting an urge to rush through Emily’s examination so he could make his way past the Zoo Lobby to the Child Services office…
…and the lovely lady who’d breathed life into Mortimer Mohammad Mastriani McMonkey.
She caught sight of her reflection in the silver frame that held a photo of her father, taken before the fiery car crash. Instinctively, she fluffed her hair, effectively hiding the scar. The hideous, horrible welt coiled from just below her right earlobe to the corner of her eye, like a rope that tied her, permanently, to the accident that had paralyzed her father.
Patrice sat back and squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t until her knuckles began to ache that she realized how tightly she’d been gripping the chair’s wooden armrests. It had taken several sessions with her pastor to realize why she refused to get rid of the picture…and the scar. Flexing her fingers, she sighed. “Someday,” Pete Phillips had counseled, “you’ll give them both to God. Until then—”
Footsteps, just outside her office door, cut short the memory. Grabbing a pen, she hunched over the papers piled high on her desk and feigned hard work.
“Knock, knock….”
She recognized the charming baritone: Dr. Wade Cameron.
Patrice looked up and smiled. “Hi,” she said, standing. “Come on in.”
He placed a partitioned cardboard tray on one of the chrome-and-blue upholstered chairs in front of her desk, then sat in the other. “All they had was cherry,” he said, handing her a plastic-wrapped slice of pie. “Hope that’s okay.”
A nervous giggle popped from her lips. “Oh. Wow. I, um, I was only kidding,” she said, as he put a disposable cup on the corner of her desk. “About the pie, I mean.”
He held up one hand. “We had a deal.” Grinning, he glanced at the puppet, leaning on the silver picture frame. “Well, the monkey and I had a deal, anyway.”
She liked his smile. Liked his eyes, too. There was something familiar about him. No big surprise; thousands of medical professionals made up the Ellicott staff. She’d probably passed him in the halls, or shared an elevator, or stood in the cafeteria line with—
“Your directions were great,” he said. “I found your office just like that.” He snapped his fingers, then glanced around the room. “Kinda dim in here. You want me to hit the lights?”
She lifted her chin. “No. Thank you. Fluorescent light…” Pausing, Patrice folded both hands on the file folders stacked on the blotter. “It’s…it’s hard on my eyes.” Not quite a lie, but not exactly the truth, either. She found the incandescent glow of the sixty-watt light-bulb in her desk lamp more than adequate to work by, and it prevented people from seeing her scar.
“Well,” Wade said, pointing at the mess on her desk, “I can see you’re busy, so I’ll get right to the point.” He leaned forward, balancing both elbows on his knees. “I think we’ve met before.”
She put her hands in her lap. “Really?”
He nodded. “Fifteen years ago, in the ER at University Hospital.”
Patrice swallowed. Hard. Because fifteen years ago today, her brother had died. She felt her mouth drop open. “So that’s why you look so familiar. You’re the nice boy who bought me chocolate milk.”
One shoulder lifted in a slight shrug. “I didn’t buy it—the nurse at the reception desk gave it to me.”
“I stand corrected. You’re the nice boy who brought me chocolate milk.”
Wade stared at his clenched fists.
Patrice peeled the lid off her cup of coffee. When the puff of steam evaporated, she realized it wasn’t coffee, after all, but hot chocolate. Smiling, she said, “So you’re still a nice boy, I see.”
Even in the dim light, she could see him flush, reminding her of an innocent boy.
“So how’re your folks?” he asked. “I remember seeing them, too, that night.”
She swallowed again. “They’re…” Shaking her head, she cleared her throat. Since it wasn’t likely she’d be seeing him again, except maybe in passing, Patrice saw no point in telling him all the gory details. “We never quite got around to talking about why you were in the ER that night.”
His gaze darting from her face to Mort to his own clasped hands, Wade frowned. “I was checking on the condition of a—” his frown deepened “—a friend.”
“How’d he make out?”
He looked up. “Huh?”
“Your, uh, friend. How is he?”
“He, um, he died that night.”
Patrice leaned forward. “Oh, Dr. Cameron—”
“Hey, we’re old pals, so call me Wade, okay?”
“Sorry to hear about your friend,” she said. “Guess that was a pretty dismal night for both of us, wasn’t it.”
Something was happening behind those sparkling, hazel eyes. Something that made Patrice wish she had the ability to read minds.
Wade got to his feet. “Anyway,” he said, neatly sidestepping the question, “you’re busy, so…”
Patrice stood, too. Somewhere deep in her heart, she’d hoped that maybe the handsome Dr. Cameron’s interest in her was inspired by more than mere curiosity. She checked to make sure her scar was still hidden. Thankfully, it was. But maybe he’d seen it in Emily’s hospital room, where the lights were much brighter than in her office. “Thanks for the hot chocolate,” she said. “And the pie.”
He waved her thanks away. “Well…”
Well, what? she wanted to demand. He’d gotten the information he’d wanted. If he had more to say…or ask…why didn’t he just come out with it?
Wade clapped one hand to the back of his neck. “I, um, I was wondering if, uh, maybe you’d, um, like to have dinner with me sometime.” He pocketed both hands and stood there, a half grin on his face, waiting for her answer.
“Um, well, sure,” she began, “I, uh, I guess so.”
Wade began to laugh. It started slow and quiet, and escalated to a pleasant rumble. Soon, Patrice was laughing with him.
“Maybe we oughta join Toastmasters,” he joked.
“Oh, sure. Like anybody would hire the Um-Uh-Er-Uh Duo to give a speech!”
His smile and laughter dulled. “I’d rather hear you stutter and stammer than listen to…just about anything.”
In the seconds that followed, Patrice stood in silence, unsure what to make of his probing, penetrating gaze.
“So what do you say?”
About their mutual stuttering? she wondered. Or his dinner invitation? Suddenly aware that she was clasping and unclasping her hands, Patrice stuffed her fingertips into the back pockets of her jean skirt. “I—”
“What’s your preference? Italian? French? Asian?”
Her cheeks were hot, and she hugged herself, hoping the low lighting had kept him from seeing her blush. “I’m not fussy,” she said, shrugging. “Food’s food.”
“How do you feel about tacos, enchiladas, chimichangas, quesadillas?”
“Long as lima beans aren’t part of the recipe, I’ll eat just about anything.”
His eyes lit up. “Great, ’cause I know this terrific little Mexican place and—”
“Tonight?”
He shrugged. “Well, sure.” The sparkle dimmed as he exhaled. “Aw, man…I should’ve known you’d already have a date.”
Another nervous giggle popped from her. “Now, really, how could you have known a thing like—”
He interrupted with “You’re gorgeous, for starters!”
When he slapped the back of his neck again, Patrice realized Wade probably regretted the compliment.
Well, she didn’t; it was nice to hear, even if she didn’t believe a word of it.
“I’m not busy tonight,” Patrice blurted.
The glint returned to his eyes and he said, “How about scribbling your address and phone number for me on one of those business cards, there.” He pointed at the plastic holder on her desk.
After grabbing a card and a pen, she printed the information he’d requested. Their fingers touched when he took the card from her extended hand, sending a tremor of warm tingles up her arm and straight to her heart. He was everything she’d ever dreamed about—tall and handsome, with muscles in all the right places and a dimple beside his generous mouth.
Uh-oh, she thought, it was happening already.
Every time she allowed herself to fall boots over bonnet for some good-looking hunk, all she ended up with was another heartache. Well, not this time! she decided, straightening her back.
Wade tucked the card into the side pocket of his white lab coat. “I’ll pick you up at six, okay?”
Patrice nodded. He sounded slightly uncertain, which only added to his charm.
“Dress casual,” he said, “’cause this isn’t a fancy place.”
Another nod. Most guys wouldn’t have thought to share a thing like that, meaning that in addition to everything else, Wade was considerate. “Casual,” she echoed. “Thanks.”
Grinning, Wade snapped off a smart salute and headed for the elevators, whistling an off-key rendition of West Side Story’s “Tonight.”
Not knowing what to make of any of it, Patrice flopped onto the seat of her chair, leaned her elbows on the desk and pressed both palms to her face. “Not this time, Lord,” she prayed aloud, “’cause I don’t think I can survive another heartbreak.”
Wade frowned at a black-framed photo hanging on his office wall, taken when he was voted Baltimore’s Bachelor of the Year by The City Magazine readers last year. On its left, another picture, snapped when he won a similar award at the Heart Association Ball two years ago; on the right, a certificate naming him this year’s Most Loveable Doctor.
His participation in the contests and events helped to raise money for one worthy cause or another—the only reason Wade agreed to accept the invites. When the awards arrived, Wade gave them the attention he thought they deserved…by stuffing each into the trash can. If his secretary, Tara, hadn’t fished them out to mat and frame as Christmas gifts, they’d be buried deep in a Maryland landfill by now.
He pushed back from his desk, swiveled the chair around so that it faced the windows and propped his shoes on the credenza. Here, where other doctors kept pictures of their wives, their children and grandchildren, were more reminders of Wade’s bachelor-for-life status.
Wade stared past his certificates and awards, across the sea of cars in the parking lot below his window. Was it his imagination, or were there colorful baby seats and booster chairs in nearly half of them?
What would it be like, he wondered, hearing the words his best friend had so recently heard: “Honey, we’re going to have a baby!”? He’d never seen Adam that happy, and he’d known him nearly twenty years. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; the guy had practically done handstands on the day he married Kasey. If Adam Thorne, of all people, could make his life over, find lasting love and a life mate and the whole ball of wax, might there be hope for Wade, too?
He let out a bitter snicker. Not likely, Cameron, since you seem incapable of getting past a second date. Not that he didn’t want a lasting relationship….
“And what do you want?” he whispered to himself.
Moments passed, but no answer came. Not surprising. He’d failed to puzzle this one out, though he’d tried, dozens of times before.
Dropping both feet to the floor, Wade stood and grabbed the miniblind’s wand. After several angry twists, he effectively shut out the parking lot…and every child-toting vehicle.
His office door creaked open, and Tara said, “See you Monday, Wade.”
“You bet,” he answered. “Say hi to Matt and the kids for me.”
“Sure thing.” She started out the door, then poked her head back in. “Do me a favor?”
“If I can.”
“Get some sleep this weekend, will ya? You’re beginning to worry me.”
“Careful, or I’ll move in so you can mother me full time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tara said, waving away the comment. “Just what a guy like you wants—an infant and a toddler and mountains of diapers to come home to every night.”
He was about to say better than my one-room apartment, when he replayed what she’d said: A guy like him?
“If you’re gonna stay much longer, you might want to turn on a light in here. Eyestrain, y’know.”
He forced a grin. “Old wives’ tale,” he said, grabbing his sports jacket. “Besides, I’m right behind you.”
They walked side by side to the elevator. “Hot date?” Tara asked, pressing the down button.
He pictured Patrice, with her mop of auburn curls, doe eyes, sweet smile…. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
The car whooshed them to the garage level. “Well, don’t burn yourself.” She patted his hand. “’Cause those babies are miracle workers.”
He resisted the impulse to pocket both hands. “You have one of those baby-carrying gizmos?”
