Читать книгу A Match for the Doctor / What the Single Dad Wants…: A Match for the Doctor - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 11

Even though he had traveled behind the woman’s vehicle for part of the way to Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton School and had subsequently called the principal, Sister Therese, to make sure that his daughters had arrived and each was in her proper classroom, the bottom line was that Simon was more than a little annoyed with himself for having actually relied on a woman he really didn’t know from Adam.

Well, maybe not Adam, he amended. Didn’t know from Eve would have been the more appropriate description, given that no one in their right mind would ever mistake Kennon Cassidy for anything but an exquisite example of womanhood.

His observation caught him off guard, completely surprising him. Where had that come from?

Ever since the tsunami had taken Nancy and swept away his life, he’d caught himself sleepwalking through his life on more than one occasion.

He needed to maintain a grip on his life.

If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be any good to anyone, least of all himself. And there were not just his patients—his future patients—to think of, but his daughters, as well.

He’d been an absentee father at best, but it had never preyed on his conscience because Nancy and especially Edna were there to take up the slack. Nancy’s death had changed all the ground rules. He had to ante up, despite the fact that he didn’t know how.

It was for Madelyn and Meghan’s sake that he had deliberately left everything behind and come here in an attempt to finally shake free of the malaise that Nancy’s death had created. And to some extent, he had succeeded. He’d applied for a position at the hospital, actually bought a home in an amazingly short amount of time and had gotten the girls enrolled in a top-ranked school, although the last was more Edna’s doing than his own.

But if someone were to ask him what color his shirt was, or to even hazard a guess as to what either of his daughters was wearing this morning, he’d have no answer. For the most part, he’d always been rather unaware of his surroundings, but it had only gotten worse in the last thirteen months.

So he was rather stunned he’d actually noticed what could politely be referred to as Kennon Cassidy’s “attributes.”

He supposed that just meant he wasn’t dead yet. Maybe that represented a sliver of hope that he would eventually be able to come around—in about a thousand years or so.

* * *

When he took the freeway off-ramp that would eventually lead him to his house, Simon glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It had taken him less time to drive back than it had to reach the hospital. The realization meant that his subconscious was apparently back online. He had always had the ability to commit things to memory after seeing them only once. This included driving directions. But even that had been less than fully operational these last thirteen months.

Pulling up into his driveway, Simon noted that the decorator—Kennon, was it?—had parked her pearl-blue sedan at the curb. She’d come back after dropping off the girls, just as she’d promised.

All right, so he’d lucked out. She’d kept her word. He still shouldn’t have trusted her so readily, he silently lectured himself. With his dry cleaning, maybe, but not his daughters. What had he been thinking?

That was the problem; he hadn’t been. All he knew was that he couldn’t cancel his meeting. First impressions were infinitely important. There were no “do overs.”

In his own defense, Simon thought, getting out of his car, the woman had come recommended and his back had been against the proverbial wall….

Simon cut himself a little slack.

The second he unlocked the front door and walked in, he became aware of it. It was impossible not to be. The aroma embraced him like a warm hug. For a moment, he stopped to inhale deeply and savor it. Then he began to walk briskly, following the enticing aroma to its source, the kitchen.

But to get to the kitchen, he had to walk through the living room. Edna, he found, was still there. But now her head rested on a pillow and a crisp, light blue fleece blanket was spread over two thirds of her torso.

She looked better, he thought. He was relieved to see color in her cheeks and that she appeared to be fully conscious and lucid. Edna smiled at him as he walked over to her.

“How are you feeling, Edna?” he wanted to know.

“Much better now, thank you, Doctor.” The color in her cheeks deepened as a touch of embarrassment passed over them. “I’m sorry I created such a fuss,” she apologized, then confided, “It’s the first time I’ve fainted since I was a young girl, and we all know how long ago that was.”

The woman didn’t have a vain bone in her body, but every woman needed to be reassured that she was attractive, he thought. Nancy had taught him that.

Simon took one of his housekeeper’s weathered, capable hands in his own. “Not that long ago,” he contradicted. Simon had examined Edna and satisfied himself that her fainting episode had been brought on by her cold, coupled with dehydration due to her failure to replenish the lost fluids. In other words, Edna was being typically Edna and neglecting to take the time to take care of herself. A little bed rest, as well as drinking plenty of liquids, and he was confident that she would be back to her old self in no time. “And I’m sorry I had to leave you alone like that—”

“It couldn’t be helped, sir. I quite understand. And you didn’t leave me alone,” Edna pointed out politely. “That very lovely young woman came back after taking the girls to school. Been fussing over me as if I was a blood relative of hers since she returned.” Edna shook her head in amazement. “She insisted on making me ‘comfortable,’ by bringing down some of my bedding.” She nodded toward the sheet. “And she’s in the kitchen right now, making some chicken soup for me to eat.” Edna smiled. It was obvious that she was enjoying this. “She’s a rare one, she is, sir.”

Simon glanced in the direction of the kitchen. The aroma grew stronger, more enticing. Or was that because he was hungry?

“You mean she’s heating up a can of soup.” Since he’d donated their microwave to charity and had yet to purchase a replacement down here, he assumed that the decorator had emptied the contents of a store-bought can of soup into a saucepan and was in the process of heating it up now, hence the aroma.

“No, I mean she’s making it,” Edna insisted, coughing at the end of her sentence. After a moment, Edna regrouped and continued, her words coming out in a more measured cadence, as if she was fearful of irritating her throat. “She came in with a whole bag of groceries stuffed with all the ingredients to make an old-fashioned bowl of chicken soup. Heard her chopping celery and carrots like a pro,” she related to him, approval wrapped around each word. “I thought all the girls her age just assumed that soup came from a can.” Edna told him. And then she smiled.

“I’m feeling better just smelling it. Reminds me of home when I was a little girl. Mother always made me chicken soup whenever I was sick. Claimed it had healing properties. Whether it did or not I wouldn’t be able to say, but everyone always felt better after Mother made chicken soup.”

“Except the chicken,” Simon speculated dryly. “Maybe I’d better see what this decorator’s up to,” he decided out loud.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for the woman’s efforts, especially for the way she had just pitched right in, doing whatever needed to be done for his daughters and for Edna, but he really just wanted to be alone, to feel that he had the house to himself. Granted, Edna was here, but Edna was always around and he regarded her much the way he did the air and the warmth of the sun, undemanding integrals of his life.

He had no desire to be put in a position where he had to carry on a conversation beyond a few necessary words. With the girls in school and Edna apparently feeling better, all he wanted to do was to entertain silence until such time that he had to go pick up the girls again.

With Kennon here that wasn’t possible.

Standing in the doorway, he observed this invading woman for a couple of beats. And came to the conclusion that she looked more at home here than he did.

“Why are you making chicken soup?” he asked her without any sort of preamble.

Lost in thought, Kennon felt her heart suddenly lunge and get all but stuck in her throat. He’d startled her. Kennon tried her best not to show it.

“Because it won’t make itself,” she answered glibly, then gave him the real reason. “I always find that sipping soup when I’m coming down with a cold makes me feel better. Turns out that Edna feels the same way.”

That still didn’t explain why she’d felt compelled to make the damn thing from scratch. “Supermarkets have whole aisles devoted to chicken soup.”

He saw her wrinkle her nose. It made her look intriguing—and rather cute.

“Chicken soup in cans,” she pronounced disdainfully. “Not the same thing.”

Coming closer, Simon glanced over her shoulder to see what she was actually stirring. He saw carrot shavings on the cutting board as well as an opened wrapper that told him she’d pressed a whole chicken into service for this undertaking. These ingredients didn’t just magically appear.

“We didn’t have any of this in the refrigerator,” he said, indicating the wrapper and the carrot shavings. He knew that for a fact. He’d opened the refrigerator this morning, looking for the tin of coffee in order to properly kick-start a day that had already promised to go badly. The only thing in the refrigerator besides coffee, and milk for the girls, was one leftover container of Chinese food from last night’s take-out dinner.

“Yes, I know,” she told him, opening a drawer as she searched for a spoon. It took her two more tries before she located any silverware. She needed to sample the results of her efforts. Salting the soup was always tricky. She didn’t want it to be bland, but she definitely didn’t want it to be oversalted, either.

“You bought all this?” It was a rhetorical question, but he was nonetheless surprised.

She nodded, stirring the contents a little more. “It seemed easier than waiting for the supermarket fairy to make a drop.”

He made no comment, other than to think that she obviously favored sarcasm. He took out his wallet and pulled out several bills. “How much do I owe you?”

The ingredients had cost her little. She could certainly afford to spring for the tab. She waved her hand at his question.

“Why don’t we see if Edna likes the soup first before we talk about owing anything,” she suggested.

Opening the cupboard to the right of the stove, she found it all but bare. There were four dinner plates, four cups and four bowls all huddled together like the weary survivors of a shipwreck. Beyond that, there was nothing in the cupboards, not even dust.

“How long ago did you move in?” she asked him as she took down a bowl.

“A week ago,” he told her, dispensing the information rather grudgingly.

“Well, that explains why the house is so barren.” She placed the bowl on the counter beside the pot she was using. “How long before the moving van is supposed to get here?”

This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted. A conversation. Other than being completely rude and ignoring her, he saw no option open to him but to answer her question.

“It isn’t.”

She looked at him, confused. She couldn’t have heard right. “Excuse me?”

“There’s no moving van,” he said stoically. “At least not in the sense you mean. Some of the girls’ things are being shipped out and Edna has some things coming, as well.”

When he had first mentioned leaving everything behind, putting a few things in storage while donating the rest of the things to charities, the girls had been so upset he’d given in. But if he’d had his way, everything that reminded him of Nancy would be gone, or at the very least, stored out of sight until he could handle the memories. And the sorrow.

“The furniture is all going to be brand-new,” he informed her. “Which is where you come in.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, did you have a fire?” Kennon asked.

His face appeared to close down. “No,” he replied flatly, “I didn’t.”

If she was going to be of any use to this man, she needed to have the avenue of communication open, not sealed. He needed to talk to her.

“Then why—”

“And I do mind your asking,” he told her, answering what she’d assumed was the rhetorical portion of her question.

It took Kennon a second to collect herself. “Okay. Then I won’t ask,” Kennon replied gamely, moving on. “When are you free?”

It was his turn to look at her blankly. Just what was the woman asking him? “For what?”

“To come shopping with me.” She held her breath, waiting. Nothing was going to be easy with this man, was it?

He looked at her as if she’d just suggested that he go out for a run over hot coals while barefoot. “I’m not going shopping.”

“All right, then I’m going to have to ask you some questions.” A lot of questions. She resigned herself to the fact that it would probably be like pulling teeth. “Not about what happened to your things,” she clarified quickly in response to the sharp look he sent her way. “But about your tastes, what you have in mind, how you see a particular room, like, let’s say the family room.”

“I see it as empty,” he told her flatly. “I want to see it filled.” That wasn’t strictly true, so he amended his statement. “Actually, the girls and Edna want to have the rooms furnished. As for me, I don’t care,” his tone was devoid of any emotion, any feeling. “All I require is a bed, a table and some illumination at night in case I have some reading to do.”

She stared at him for a moment, the spoon she was using to stir the soup suddenly frozen in midmovement. He was serious, wasn’t he? “And nothing else? No sixty-inch HDTV set? No entertainment unit?”

Things like that had never been important to him. “No.”

She laughed softly in disbelief. “I’m surprised some museum hasn’t snatched you up and placed you under glass for viewing by the public. I’ve known men who’ve had to have their remote control surgically removed from their hand.”

When Nancy and he had been dating, he could remember the two of them curling up on a sagging sofa, watching TV together. He’d done it mainly because Nancy enjoyed the programs. Since she was gone, he’d lost all interest in being vicariously entertained. Occasionally, one of the girls would drag him over to the set and attempt to get him to watch a show. He’d pretend to watch because it obviously meant something to his daughters, but usually his mind was far away. If anything, it was his work that grounded him. His work and his obligation to his daughters.

Pressing the dinner plate into service as a large saucer, Kennon placed the bowl onto it and then gingerly carried it out of the kitchen to the living room, where Edna sat, waiting.

“Are you going to give me any hints as to what you want?” she asked the doctor before she reached the older woman.

“For you to do your job,” he replied simply. He saw the skeptical look in her eyes. “I promise I won’t be difficult to please.”

Too late for that, though she decided that it was wiser to keep the comment to herself. She did, however, want to set him straight about the job that was before her.

“Without a hint as to what direction your tastes run—country, modern, French provincial, eclectic, et cetera—my job is going to be pretty difficult.”

“I thought this was what decorators dreamed of, a client who gives them free rein to do what they want.”

The homes she decorated were extensions of her clients, not of herself.

“I have nothing to prove, Doctor, no ego to feed. My main objective is to please the clients, to have them walk into their house and feel as if they’d entered not just their sanctuary but their dream home. I can’t succeed in creating that kind of feeling unless I know exactly what you’d like—and what you don’t like,” she emphasized.

He came to the only conclusion he could from her statement. “So you’re turning down the assignment?” he asked.

“I never turn down work,” she informed him. “But this is going to be a huge challenge.” Not that she wasn’t up to challenges. She would just have to pick up hints from his behavior. And hopefully from his daughters and the nanny. “It’s a little like being asked to paint something beautiful on a canvas and then someone blindfolds you just before you begin.”

Feeling as if she’d ignored the housekeeper long enough, Kennon stopped talking about work and smiled at the woman who appeared to be taking in every word that had just been said. “How are you feeling, Edna?”

“A little shaky,” she confessed.

“Well, this will help,” Kennon promised. Since there was no table for the bowl, Kennon volunteered her services instead. “Here, I’ll hold the bowl and plate up for you while you eat—unless you’d like me to feed you,” she offered.

“I haven’t had to be fed since I was in a high chair,” Edna told her, slowly pulling herself up into a sitting position and trying to get comfortable. “I’ll do this myself, thank you.” With that she took the spoon from Kennon.

The woman looked exceedingly weak to her. “I’ll still hold the bowl,” Kennon told her cheerfully. Anticipating Edna’s protest, she was quick to add, “It’s no problem.”

About to say something, Edna stopped and then shifted her eyes to Simon. Shaking her head, she said, “She’s a stubborn one.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Simon replied dryly. He looked at Edna, debating whether to remain down here with the woman or not. Right now, he felt like a fifth wheel—or, technically, a third one. “You’ll be all right if I leave you alone?”

Kennon cleared her throat. “In case you haven’t noticed, Doctor, she’s not alone. I’m here.”

“I’m assuming that you’ll be going home, or to your office, or wherever it is that you go to, soon,” he emphasized.

“Eventually.” Business was slow and if something came up, Nathan would either handle it, or call her. Either way, she was covered.

A smile began to curve the corners of Edna’s mouth. “It appears that I am in good hands, Doctor. Thank you for your concern, but I’m sure that I will be just fine.”

With a nod, and not wanting to get drawn into another conversation, Simon withdrew. His intention was to go up to his room. He had no plans beyond that. His days and nights were still comprised of a myriad of tiny, disjointed pieces, glittering, winking mosaics that made up patterns with no rhyme or reason.

But his intentions were abruptly arrested as he passed the kitchen once again. The strong aroma wafting from the large pot on the stove reminded him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. Nor could he really remember if he’d had dinner the night before. He’d ordered out for the girls and Edna, but hadn’t eaten with them. Or alone, either.

His stomach reminded him that it did need tribute occasionally.

He supposed there was nothing to be lost by sampling a little of what that decorator with the smart mouth had made.

Pausing, he put a little of the soup into one of the remaining bowls. It amounted to barely more than a couple of large spoonfuls. He sipped a small spoonful. It was followed by a second. And then a third. By then he decided that he should have a proper serving.

No sense in wasting her efforts, he told himself just before he set the filled bowl down on the counter and dug in.

He didn’t hear her come into the kitchen, but he saw her reflection in the black oven door, which was just above the stove and at eye level. He braced himself for another assault of rhetoric.

But she didn’t cross to him. Instead, she quietly withdrew from the room, leaving him in peace to eat her soup.

Maybe the woman was intuitive after all.

But he doubted it.