Читать книгу Revealing The Real Dr Robinson - Dianne Drake, Dianne Drake - Страница 5

BEN ROBINSON threw back the peeling wooden shutters, inviting in the crisp morning air. There’d been a dusting of snow in the valley overnight, for which he was glad. New powder on the ski slope, and one more day of skiing left before he returned home—it was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

In fact, everything about this holiday had been perfect. First time off in half a decade, first time in that half decade he’d almost relaxed. Tuscany in winter had been his dream, the one he hadn’t expected to achieve given the way he lived his life. This was the best, though. He’d slept late every morning, then every night dined on his favorite indulgences—pastas and sauces and desserts—all of them sure to add an inch to his waistline. In between his indulgences, he’d explored the fairy-tale villages unchanged over the past two centuries, with all their little shelters for shepherds on the high pastures and the breathtaking succession of age-old churches, hermitages, castles and fortresses.

And he’d met Shanna. She’d shared some of that with him—the late-night dinners, the explorations. All very free and easy, but all very nice.

Ben’s thoughts immediately turned to… well, whatever it was that had developed between them. Friendship? Brief acquaintance? Ships that passed in the night? Whatever it was, it was done. She’d had her plans for the day, he’d had his, and tomorrow he’d be gone. So there it was, come, gone, pleasant memories in its wake.

No, he hadn’t had a holiday fling in the traditional sense. No kisses—not even a farewell kiss other than a peck on the cheek. No sleeping in late with her in bed next to him. Certainly no intimacies shared across the table during a late-night dinner. Then last night it had turned into a simple parting of the ways after a pleasant evening without any promises for his last day. Not even a mention of him leaving. But that was the way he’d framed it, wasn’t it? Keep his distance. Enjoy the companionship, but not too much.

Play it safe.

Admittedly, for a moment or two, he’d wondered what might have happened between them if he’d let it. But he didn’t even let that get past the wondering stage. No reason to because he would go home to Argentina alone. Continue his medical practice alone. Live his life alone.

And Shanna… A wistful sigh escaped him. He hoped she would come to the café this morning, the way she had every morning for the past two weeks. One last look would make his day seem a little better. But he wasn’t counting on anything. He never did.

“Is that seat taken?” a familiar voice asked, twenty minutes later.

“Could be,” he said, without looking up at her, for fear she’d read eagerness in his eyes. “If the right person asks politely.”

“Who would she be?”

“Someone who would change her plans for the day. Ski with me now, shop tomorrow when I’m gone.” Said in a matter-of-fact manner, taking great care not to sound hopeful or anxious.

Shanna Brooks. She was bundled up to the eyes with scarves, hat pulled down that almost covered her eyes and wisps of copper hair escaping their confinement, the way he’d come to count on. Breathtaking however she appeared. As she slid into the chair across from Ben, he couldn’t help himself. He had to look across at her beautiful green eyes so full of life.

“That could be me,” she said as the wraps came off her, layer by layer.

Had he really gotten up and walked to the table at the back of the café that first day she’d approached him? Pure insanity. But in his defense he’d stayed the next day and every day after that, feasting his eyes at the ritual of her revealing, the slow peeling away of scarves and hats and mittens. After all, he wasn’t dead, just alone by choice, or design, or whatever the hell it was that had constructed his life to turn out the way it had. “But the question is, is it you?”

Frowning as she tossed her knit cap on the ledge of the picture window next to their table, she appeared to be thinking about her answer. “Did you ever consider that you could go shopping with me?” she finally asked. “Instead of me skiing with you?”

“No,” he said, sounding too abrupt even to his ears. So he pulled back a little. “I’m on a mission. Twelve straight days of skiing without breaking a leg.”

“What if your luck runs out and this is the day you come off the slopes with a tibia fracture?”

“Open?” Meaning bone protruding.

“Too much risk of infection,” she said, tossing her mittens aside then starting to unzip her ski jacket. “I like to keep my fractures a little more straightforward. But I am thinking a tibial shaft fracture of some sort might be good.” Something breaking between the knee and ankle. “Maybe a tibial plateau fracture?” Just below the knee. “Could be you accidentally hit one of those little mogul hills, popped up, crashed back down.”

“No, I don’t think so. Too much risk of late-onset arthritis with a plateau fracture. How about a tibial plafond fracture?” Closer to the ankle. “It has the same degree of seriousness, same lengthy recovery, but less of a risk for long-term disability.”

She smiled brightly, then nodded. “Good idea. And I’ll make sure I’m there after the surgery with all my bundles and packages, because I’m going shopping this morning.”

“More scarves, hats and mittens?”

“A girl can’t have too many.”

“But knowing how I’m going to injure myself on the slopes this morning, would you actually choose mittens over my wounds?” This was dangerous territory. Too close to being flirty. He knew that. But after nearly two weeks he was still no closer to learning why she’d quit her medical practice than he’d been that first day when he’d shunned her at breakfast, only to find her seated next to him on the lift up the mountain.

“Mittens over wounds because I’m still on leave.”

He faked an exasperated expression. “You created my injury, the least you could do is patch me up.”

“Wrong specialty,” she said.

“What was your specialty?” he asked. “Before you quit?” She hadn’t told him. In fact, they’d been five or six days into their relationship before she’d let it slip she was a doctor. Odd thing was, she’d known he was. That had probably been the most he’d revealed about himself, yet she’d kept their similar backgrounds to herself.

“It wasn’t bones,” she said.

Her eyes turned distant. He could see it, see her shutting out whatever it was that seemed to be skimming the surface of her unhappiness. Or aversion. “Never cared much for bones, either. Not after I broke my big toe once.”

“Skiing?” she asked, turning to face him but obviously not focused on the conversation.

“Ever heard of turf toe?” Where a person propelled themselves forward by pushing off on the big toe, resulting in their weight shifting to their other foot. If the toe stayed flat on the ground and didn’t lift to push off, the joint injury, associated with athletes who played on artificial turf, resulted.

That caught her interest for real. “You played soccer? Or football?”

“No. I was chasing an angora goat.”

Her eyes widened. “Not sure I want to ask why.”

He chuckled. “Nothing… untoward. My parents raised goats and sheep for the wool. The one I was shearing got away.”

“Hence turf toe. But that’s a ligament strain, not a break.”

“Or in my case both.”

Laughing, Shanna said, “Poor Ben. He doesn’t even get the glory of claiming some great athletic accident. You don’t really tell many people you had a goat injury, do you? Very embarrassing, Ben. Very.”

“So would someone pointing out how embarrassing my embarrassment was.” He flagged over the server, who immediately brought cups of coffee to the table.

“I don’t suppose I could coax you into a send-off mimosa this morning, could I?” she asked. “Since this is our last morning together.”

“Coffee’s good,” he said. Revealing a goat injury was enough for one day. No need to reveal any more than that.

“Champagne and orange juice is better.” She paused, thought for a moment. A knowing expression tracked across her face in delayed measures as the full awareness of what she’d just realized finally struck her. “But you don’t drink at all, do you? Not a drop.”

“How do you figure?”

“When we’ve had dinner I’ve had wine a few times, yet you’ve always ordered…” She shrugged. “You’re right. Coffee’s good. And you should have told me, Ben. I wouldn’t have…” Shaking her head, she picked up her coffee mug and held on to it for dear life. “I know we’re not involved, but you should have told me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Such a huge lie. But why say anything and ruin a little light flirting, a few pleasant meals, a couple runs down the slope? There was nothing sloppy, nothing sentimental about the two of them and he’d appreciated that because it had been a step totally outside his normal self. Now, though, it was time to step back in, and inside Ben Robinson there was no need to tell anybody anything about himself. Those who knew knew. Those who didn’t never would.

“Nothing except a drinking problem? In the past, I’m assuming. It would have been nice to know, because I wouldn’t have had wine—”

“Wouldn’t have had wine?” he interrupted. “What people do or don’t do around me doesn’t bother me. I’m not influenced.”

“Maybe you’re not influenced, but I don’t like being insensitive. If you’d told me…”

“It would have changed things between us. You would have been a little more on guard. Or wondered what caused me to turn into an alcoholic, which I am, by the way. That wasn’t the kind of relationship we were having.” And now started the awkwardness between them, when all they should have been doing was having a carefree last day. It was another perfect example of why he didn’t get involved. She’d peeled back one of his layers and discovered the first well-guarded aspect of a man called Ben Robinson. Yeah, he was an alcoholic. Yeah, he did still struggle with the temptation occasionally, even though he hadn’t taken a drink in a decade. Yeah, it was a social barrier.

“Or it would have been a reference in passing. Not everybody is harsh in their judgments, Ben. Trust me, I understand how moments of weakness can escalate. But you’re right. We didn’t establish the kind of relationship where confessions were required. Anyway, I’ve enjoyed our connection for what it was—a few hours of fun with a man who speaks my language. It made my sabbatical easier.” She reached across and squeezed his hand. “Although I am sorry you struggled with alcohol, Ben. Glad you made it through, but sorry for whatever took you on that journey.” She fixed her gaze on the view of the mountain as she let go of his hand.

Then breakfast came, they ate, made light conversation about insignificant things, endured more silence between them than they had before. And it was over. Done. They descended into that so-called mutual parting of the ways of infamous fame and he went to ski while she went to shop. Afterward Ben Robinson, forever alone as he’d pledged himself to be, spent the thirty-six hours that came in a plane or between flights wondering why the hell he hadn’t just lived in the moment for once. Or lived for the moment.

“Because reality returns after the moment,” he muttered to himself, fastening his seat belt as he prepared for the last stretch of his journey home. Fourteen hours in the air left him with a lot of time to think, a lot of time to regret.

“Coffee, tea, soft drink? Glass of wine?” the flight attendant asked him as he tried stretching out his lanky legs in too tight a space. “Or a cocktail, sir? We have all the standards—gin, vodka, Scotch…”

Glancing at the beverage cart, he saw the array of small booze bottles, all ready for pouring. Except he didn’t drink anymore. That was what he’d told Shanna, and that was the way he’d lived his life for a long, long time now.

Even so, nights like this weakened his resolve. Made it tougher on him to fight when he wasn’t sure what he was fighting more—the booze, or himself.

Then he thought about Shanna’s green eyes, and the way she’d looked at him that first morning when all she’d really wanted was the view of the mountain he had. He’d seen vitality, a spark that had made him change his ways for the duration of his holiday. He’d opened the door just a crack to let somebody in. Only now the holiday was over and Shanna was but a memory. And like every other time he’d been tempted to break his resolve, he’d take a deep breath and remind himself about his responsibilities. Then stay on track. “Water, please,” he told the attendant. “Water will be fine.”

“Okay, Ben Robinson, just who are you?” Two days ago he’d left her sitting in the café, wondering what it was about her that clearly hadn’t inspired his trust. And it wasn’t just about his drinking. It was about everything. They’d spent some nice time together, but every minute of it had shown her how obviously distant he was. More than that, how distant he wanted to stay. Being alone together—that was how she’d felt when she’d been with him. Alone. They’d shared a ski lift, shared meals, shared a few walks, shared time. What he hadn’t shared had been himself.

“So who are you, really?” she asked her computer screen as she typed his name into a search engine. “And why are you in Argentina?” The even bigger question was, Where in Argentina? Because it was only after he’d gone that she’d realized she didn’t know. Realized she didn’t even have his phone number. Realized he had merely been a stranger passing through, stopping for a few moments without making a connection.

Except he had. She wasn’t sure what kind it was, but here she was, looking for information about him, wondering what it was about Ben Robinson that pulled her in.

Maybe it was a simple thing, really. He was so found, and she was so lost. Found had a certain sense of stability to it. A security she’d thought she had but had then discovered it had all been an illusion. Ben didn’t give in to illusions. Didn’t even let them come near. Sure, it was a harsh way to live your life, but there was safety in that harshness, and that was what she needed—that safety. Because the rug had been pulled out from under her. All those things she’d defined her life by—gone now. One tug and she was flailing.

But Ben had flailed, hadn’t he? The scars on his neck accounted for some kind of flailing. So did the alcohol. He’d recovered, though, and that was what eluded her. How to recover. How to even start. Or where to start. Which was why she was keying in his name and connecting it to Argentina medical facilities.

Her life was open now. She had no place to be and nothing to do until she figured out how to be someone else. A journey to start over—that was essentially what she was about. And Ben knew that journey. It was, in a word, dispassion. It’s where he lived, where he succeeded. It’s where she needed to live and succeed if she were to continue in medicine. Because if she couldn’t find that place in her own soul, what she loved would destroy her. So her choices were two: learn how to separate herself completely from her passion; or walk away from it altogether.

That was why Ben fascinated her. He’d separated himself. She’d seen that the first morning he’d refused to sit across the table from her, then later sitting shoulder to shoulder on a ski lift with her in near silence. Yet he was a doctor. Owned a little hospital. It didn’t seem to jibe. Or maybe it did. Maybe Ben was the master of that separation she needed to find, and embrace.

“I’m probably crazy, Ben,” she said to the screen as a series of links popped up, none of them leading her to her object of fascination. “But I don’t think we’re through. If I can find you…” she said to the next futile attempt. The one after that she cursed, and the one after that she merely grunted at. But the next attempt… maybe not so futile. “Are you my Ben Robinson?” she asked the figure who finally popped up on her screen. Handsome, not a particularly friendly smile on his face. Same eyes, only hidden behind glasses. Shorter hair, no three-day growth of beard covering his face.

“Dr. Benjamin Robinson, owner and director of…” Shanna breathed a sigh of relief. No, she wasn’t crazy. She was simply looking for a way home and Ben was the map. So, with that in mind, Dr. Shanna Brooks booked a plane ticket, packed her bags and headed to Argentina.

“Are you finally back in the swing of things?” Dr. Amanda Kenner asked her brother. “Or do you need some holiday recovery time?”

“Another week or two in Tuscany would work. But if I can’t have that then, yes, I’m back in the swing of things.” He gestured for her to follow him through the central ward in the forty-patient-capacity hospital called Caridad. There were no epidemics now, thanks to Amanda’s husband, who’d solved a recent crisis with giardiasis. But there were still patients to be seen, and he was glad to be back on steady ground. This was where he belonged, and as much as he’d loved Tuscany, waiting another half decade for his next holiday would suit him fine. Getting away was good, but this is where he belonged.

Although… his thoughts drifted back to Shanna. Thoughts filled with regrets and missed opportunities. He was a normal man in those things, had desires, hopes and dreams. But he also had his reality, the one that told him who he was every time he looked into a mirror. And that was the fact of his life that never changed.

“You couldn’t stand being away any longer,” Amanda teased. “In fact, I’m surprised you stayed as long as you did.”

“It was a nice place. Good food, the best skiing I’ve ever done. And Signora Palmadessa ran an outstanding little inn. But it was a holiday, and we can’t spend our lives on holiday, can we?”

“Am I hearing some sadness in your voice?” Amanda asked.

He shook his head. “Exhaustion. It was a long trip home.” Emotionally and physically.

Before they walked through the doors of the ward, Amanda stopped in front of her brother and studied his face for a moment. “You met someone there, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “Not like you think, though.”

“But you fell in love with her. You had a holiday fling and fell in love.”

“No fling, no falling in love. She was just a nice way to pass some pleasant hours. Someone to take the stigma off eating alone. No big deal, really.”

“Then why the wistful sigh?”

“Not wistful. Agitated. I have patients to see and you’re standing in my way.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Ben. Whatever it was between you, whoever she was, I’m sorry it didn’t work out, because I was truly hoping you’d meet a beautiful Tuscan woman who’d steal your heart at first sight, then you’d have some kind of wild adventure with her. Maybe even get married and send me an email telling me you were staying there to have a full life and lots of babies.”

She backed away from Ben and brushed tears from her eyes. “Anything that makes you happy… that’s all I want. All I’ve ever wanted for you.”

“I know and I appreciate it. But I’m reconciled to what I have, what I am, Amanda,” he said gently. “It’s taken me a lot of years to come to terms with it, but it’s a decent choice, all things considered. So now it’s your turn to comes to terms with it. Okay?” Being alone had been his choice since he’d been fifteen. More strongly confirmed at age twenty-two with a fiancée, Nancy Collier, who’d gasped, but not in ecstasy, the first time they’d made love. Or attempted to.

The look on her face then the apologies and the discomfort… no man wanted to face that. But what he’d faced that day, even more than Nancy’s repulsion over his physical scars, had been the fact that this was the way it was always going to be. One look at the monster, and people turned away. And that was what unleashed the real monster.

Now it was easier to not let them look.

“No, it’s not okay. Your choice is too hard, Ben. You’re too hard on yourself, and it worries me, because if someone wonderful did come along…”

Someone wonderful, like Shanna… “It is what it is. My life is good, I’m not alone.” Subconsciously, he brushed his fingers across the scars on his neck. “And you’re too sentimental right now. Pregnancy hormones running amuck with your emotions, or something like that. How’s my nephew, by the way?” he asked, fervently hoping to get off the circumstances of his life, for which there was no solution. “I’ve missed him. Wondered how he was settling into family life.” He was referring to Ezequiel, the twelve-year-old Amanda and Jack had recently adopted. Also the sure proof there were happy endings out there. Just not for him.

“He and Jack are out on a medical run, but they should be back in a couple of days. Jack decided it’s good to take Ezequiel with him whenever he can when he goes out on short trips. It gives them some quality father-son time, and also gives Ezequiel a sense of purpose, pretending to be a doctor’s assistant.” She smiled with pride. “My new son is like a sponge. He absorbs everything, and he’s so anxious to learn and experience new things. I think he might be a doctor someday.”

“Children have so many expectations at that age,” Ben commented as he stepped around Amanda and pulled open the door to the women’s ward. He’d had those same expectations once. Not about being a doctor so much as the other things life might hold in store for him. In his youthful naivety he had just been waiting for the world to open up for him so he could take whatever he wanted.

Then one day it had ended. Everything. No more expectations, no more youthful hopes and dreams because those didn’t happen where he’d spent the next year of his life—in a burns ward, fighting for his life, going through skin graft after skin graft, battling any number of opportunistic infections trying to kill him by various degrees.

Those had been the days when his expectations had turned away from the world and centered only on surviving through the next few minutes, the next hour, the next day.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” she said as they walked shoulder to shoulder to their first patient. “Your affair in Tuscany. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“There was nothing to work out,” he said, stopping short of the bed where his first patient was dozing, then turned to face his sister. “See, that’s the thing. She wasn’t into me. If she had been, I wouldn’t have spent those few days with her. That’s the way it is, Amanda, and it’s not going to change.” He gave her a squeeze on the arm. “I love you for trying, but you’ve more important things to worry about now. And in the meantime I’ve got a middle-aged woman, bad diet, uncontrolled diabetes to look after.”

“Do you remember that treehouse Dad built us?” Amanda asked.

“The one where I wouldn’t let girls inside?” he replied, wondering where this was going.

“But I always managed to get in, Ben.”

“And left dolls there.”

“I knew you didn’t want a sister, knew you felt threatened when Mom and Dad adopted me. I was only five, but I could see it in you. See the resentment and the fear that maybe they were replacing you with me. It shows, Ben. It always shows on you.”

“But we eventually had fun there when I finally managed to get rid of the dolls.”

“And the pink curtains Mother made for the treehouse.”

Good memories, those days when his family had been happy. They were good to hold on to, especially when the darker days had prevailed. “So, are you thinking we should build a treehouse for Ezequiel? Is that where this conversation is leading?”

“You know it’s not,” she whispered, fighting back tears. “In the days before you accepted me as your sister, you hid in that treehouse. Refused to come out. I watched from my bedroom window. Could see you in there angry, hurt… crying. Ben, you have to come out of the treehouse. You can’t spend your whole life hiding.”

“I run a hospital. I work twenty hours a day, seven days a week. That’s not hiding.”

“There are different ways to hide, Ben.” She swiped at her tears. “Anyway, you’ve got patients to see, I’ve got patients to see…”

“I’m fine, Amanda,” he said as she walked away. She didn’t answer, though. Just kept on walking. And he… well, he just tried to blot it out of his mind. What else was there?

“So, I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon,” he said, turning his attention to his patient as he pulled up a chair next to the bed, and sat down. “It’s only been three weeks, Maria, which means we need to talk again about the things that can happen to you if you don’t take better care of yourself.” Said to a lady who was eyeing a plate of pastries next to her bed, left there by a too-sympathetic husband.

Sighing, Ben began the spiel he’d used on her ten times before. Apparently to no avail again. But he understood. It was never easy giving up what you loved, or what you wanted, no matter what the reason. Sometimes, though, life was just plain cruel and forced it on you. “First, you could have heart complications…” Something he assiduously avoided in his personal life.