Читать книгу I Need More - Kimberley White - Страница 9

“Good. It’s done, then.” Mark Garing was the opposite of what Brock had become. He expressed his feelings for Erika at every opportunity. He was affectionate and available, knowing how to manage his work and still have a social life. It was his warmth, when Brock’s love had turned chilly, that had made Erika gravitate toward his friendship.

“Not quite,” she told him.

“What do you mean?” He placed his arm across her shoulders, bringing her into him. He always sat next to her in the booth of their favorite restaurant, telling her he didn’t like the table separating them.

“Brock said no.”

“No?”

“No, he wouldn’t sign the papers, and, no, he won’t give me a divorce.”

“How can he not give you a divorce if you’re asking for it?” Mark lifted his drink to his lips, sipping it slowly as he gathered his thoughts.

Erika angled toward him. “I think he knows about us.”

“Did he say something?”

She repeated Brock’s cryptic statements. Mark was the kind of man who grew on you, and before you had realized what had happened, you were falling for him. His kindness made him a good friend; his openness would make him a good lover. A friendly person, he’d come across the hall the day before he saw his first patient in the new eye clinic to introduce himself. He’d waited patiently, being a good but not intrusive friend, until Erika had shared the news of her separation from Brock. Two months later, he’d made his attraction known. Another month passed before Erika’s lonely heart told her it was all right to start dating. After keeping their relationship discreet for four months, Mark was getting anxious.

“It sounds like he knows,” Mark agreed. “Is that all he said?”

She nodded.

“What are you going to do? He has to give you a divorce,” he added as an afterthought. “Once the shock wears off, he’ll come around.”

Shock was not what she’d seen on Brock’s face when she handed him the divorce papers. She couldn’t quite name what emotion had caused the fiery storm in his eyes, but she would. She would have to. She needed to know what he was thinking—feeling, because whatever was moving through his heart and mind was keeping him from giving her her freedom. His sudden public display of affection outside the ICU only helped to muddy the waters. She didn’t know what was going on with him, but maybe it was the answer to this whole strange situation.

“That’s your cell,” Mark said, jostling her.

“Dr. Johnson,” she answered.

“Erika, I’ve been called to see one of your patients in the ER,” Brock said without formalities. “I just finished the consult. I’m going to admit him. Meet you in the ER?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes?” Brock questioned. “Where are you?”

“Out of the hospital having dinner. I’ll be right there.” She hung up before he could question her further.

“Let me guess,” Mark said. “You’re meeting Brock. It wouldn’t be about the divorce papers, would it?”

She shook her head, already putting on her jacket. “One of my patients is in the emergency room.”

Mark grunted, downing his drink.

“What? If something’s on your mind, say it.”

“Is there some reason Brock can’t handle the admission?”

“I like to evaluate my patients when they’re admitted to the hospital. I’ve always done it this way. The receiving doctor calls to notify me, and I go in to check on my patient.”

“You can consult over the phone like all the other doctors do.”

“Too impersonal. My patients count on me being there.”

Mark nodded, his expression saying he wasn’t convinced.

“What do you think this is about?”

“I think your husband has said he won’t divorce you, and now he’s tightening the reigns. You said yourself he’s suspicious about us. He’s going to do everything he can to keep you close to him until he’s ready to make his move.”

“Brock will get over my asking for a divorce, and then he’ll sign the papers. Remember, he left me. It was just a shock to him. That’s all.”

Mark shook his head, not convinced.

“Believe me, he wants this as much as I do.”

“And how much do you want it, Erika?”

She angled toward him. “What does that mean?”

“Take him to court and force him to divorce you. He can’t stop it, really.”

“Make it as ugly as possible? No, I won’t do it. Brock will come around. If he doesn’t soon, I’ll nudge him.”

“And in the meantime, what about us?”

“I’m not quite sure what you’re asking.”

“We started dating four months ago.” He ran the rough pad of his thumb over her cheek, across her lips, and down her neck, stopping in the cleavage underneath the dainty fabric of her blouse. “Do we stay at a standstill while we wait for Brock to ‘come around’?” Another finger flicked at the button above his thumb. “Or do we get to know each other better?”

Mark had been patient about advancing their physical relationship, always knowing it would happen when she’d settled her marriage. With Brock’s refusal came Mark’s insistence.

“With everything so fragile right now, and Brock probably aware we’re dating, I don’t want to do anything to push him the other way.”

Mark searched her expression, daring the truth to be other than what she’d stated. She was physically attracted to Mark, but she was a married woman. Her morals won out over her libido every time. Finding no deception, he pulled his hand away. He leaned in and gently kissed her cheek. “Call me when you’re done seeing your patient.”

In the emergency department, Brock had returned to his old stoic self, discussing Erika’s patient’s case with cold formality. She watched him, jotting down his orders in the chart, careful not to look at her directly. They concluded their business without any discussion of their personal lives. She stopped in to go over the plan of care with her patient, promised she’d see him during her rounds, and left the hospital saddened and confused.

She didn’t know what she had wanted to happen. She told herself she hoped only for some explanation of why he had left her in the prime of their marriage when she was still discovering new things to love about him. If she admitted the truth, she wanted more. She wanted him to tell her he’d made a mistake—not about refusing to sign the divorce papers, but to driving her to even consider dissolving their three-year marriage.

She got nothing from Brock. He gave her no hint as to how he was feeling about her, about their marriage, about her request for a divorce. His focus never wavered from giving the patient his best, and she wondered when he had stopped wanting to give her his best.

Erika arrived in the Oakland County, Michigan, suburb to a beautiful 3,000-square-foot luxury home—the home Brock had left for a tiny apartment in the residents’ high-rise overlooking Mission Hospital. He traded a half-million-dollar home for a two-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment—another jagged piece of the mysterious puzzle, because they had worked so hard to buy their dream home.

She pulled the red Navigator into the attached two-car garage, next to the empty space where Brock’s black Lincoln Zephyr should be parked. She’d long gotten over the void left by the missing car, and admonished herself for sitting in the SUV for twenty minutes reliving the day they went to the Ford dealership and brought the matching vehicles.

She entered the house that should have been a home, hanging up her jacket and leaving her melancholy at the door. She was immediately greeted by the aroma of homemade jambalaya. Not only had Brock left her the house, he’d left her his mother.

“You’re right on time.” Virginia Johnson scurried around the kitchen, the only hint of her 65 years being the slight limp caused by a prematurely needed hip replacement last year. She had survived the birth of three boys at home without anesthesia or a doctor. Her husband had passed of testicular cancer almost four years ago, and she’d managed to gather her inner strength and keep going. It had been a tumble down the stairs of the Memphis courthouse that physically crippled her and made her dependent on her youngest son.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Virginia said, moving into the nook of the kitchen where they shared most of their meals.

Erika didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d eaten earlier. “We didn’t bring you here to cook, Mom. I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

“I can’t putz around this big house all day doing nothing. You kids work all day. I like keeping house. It’s a perfect match. Go wash up.”

“How did physical therapy go today?” Erika asked as she headed to the nearest powder room. She would have to ignore her full belly and eat at least one bowl of jambalaya. She’d done a good job of keeping her relationship away from Brock’s mother. She didn’t want to explain she’d already eaten dinner this evening.

“I made it through.” Virginia hated her therapy sessions, but she went because Brock made a big fuss when she didn’t.

Erika washed up and joined Virginia for dinner.

“Is Brock far behind you?”

She almost dropped the basket of fresh bread. “What?”

Virginia tended to forget minor details. Like the fact her son had left her daughter-in-law seven months ago.

“Brock called earlier. He said he was coming for dinner tonight.” She beamed. “I fixed his favorite meal. I’m wondering if we should start without him.”

“He didn’t say anything about coming over when I saw him at the hospital.”

“Well, you know he doesn’t like to put his personal business on display at work. Maybe we can start on the bread, but wait for Brock for the jambalaya.”

Erika sat speechless as Virginia prattled on about something cute her youngest grandson had told her over the phone. Maybe Brock had changed his mind and now he was ready to sign the divorce papers. She pictured the glossy black packet tucked away in her top dresser drawer. Maybe Brock was coming by so they could sit down and tell Virginia together they would not be reconciling. Maybe he simply wanted to have dinner with his mother—he did at least once a week, but usually out of the house. Maybe he’d forgotten some important papers in the upstairs office they’d once shared. Maybe…maybe…maybe. Hadn’t she promised herself there would be no more maybes? No more tearful hours spent trying to understand why Brock had done what he’d done.

“Sorry I’m late.” The throaty tone of Brock’s voice dripped over her like sweet honey.

She didn’t need to turn around to know he filled the doorway behind her. He went to his mother and kissed her cheek before taking the seat between them at the head of the table. She hated he felt comfortable enough to sit there. She hated she didn’t want to tell him to move.

He’d changed the aesthetic white lab coat for a gray jacket to match his slacks. The man knew how to wear a suit. The fabric melded against his biceps, his pants legs perched atop expensive slip-ons. Deceptively large, he appeared wiry until he took you into his arms and embraced you in his muscular protection.

“Hi, Erika,” he said, his voice not betraying how the uncomfortable situation affected him.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming by.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here…since you already ate dinner.”

Virginia piped in, happy to have a miniature version of her family together, no matter the circumstances. “We’re all here now. Let’s eat. Say the blessing, Brock.”

After dinner came peach cobbler. Brock and Virginia chatted away about nieces and uncles and cousins, reliving their time in Memphis. Erika picked over her bowl of cobbler, smiling politely when Virginia looked her way. She didn’t have much appetite, and it had nothing to do with the fact that this was her second dinner of the evening. They had an agreement—Brock had walked out, his open invitation to visit the house had been rescinded. He had to call and clear it with her if he wanted to stop by. Dropping in without warning and eating diner together as a family was no longer on the menu.

“I’ll clean up the dishes, Ma,” Brock said, speaking to his mother adoringly.

He never offered to do anything concerning the kitchen.

“I am a little tired,” Virginia said, pushing away from the table. “I think I’ll go to bed early.”

“Take the elevator up,” Erika called after her, noticing the increase in her limp.

“Good night,” Virginia called, heading for the stairs. The elevator had been installed specifically for her use, but she rarely took the tiny car upstairs. Taking the elevator meant admitting she was handicapped, and she’d never accept the label.

As soon as she was out of sight, Erika turned to Brock.

“Thank you for letting my mother stay here.”

“I’d never ask her to leave. This is her home.”

Brock nodded, spooning another helping of cobbler into his bowl.

“What’s going on?”

He leveled a look at her.

“Brock? What’s going on with you? You’ve been so up and down lately. You showed up here tonight for some reason. Are you going to tell me?” The more questions she asked, the more she wanted to know, and needed to say. “What you’re doing isn’t right. You’re mom doesn’t understand what’s going on between us. Just when I think I know what you want, you tell me I’m wrong. I don’t know what to expect from you. I can’t explain what’s happening, and it’s making me very uncomfortable.”

“Erika,” he whispered, stopping her rambling.

“What?” she asked too harshly.

“I’m moving back in.”