Читать книгу Healing Dr. Alexander - Tracy Wolff, Tracy Wolff - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

EXACTLY FORTY-FIVE minutes later, Jack stood at Sophie’s door, a half gallon of ice cream in one hand and a bunch of regrets in the other. Why had he said yes? He really wasn’t up for socializing, no matter how casual it was. He was exhausted, in pain, and more than a little cranky—though he hated admitting that, as it made him feel like an overwrought toddler. And with a full day at the clinic ahead of him tomorrow, plus another damn physical-therapy appointment, he’d be better off going to bed early. Right now his job and recovery were taking all his energy. He didn’t need any more complications. This was the last thing he should be doing right now.

Yet, here he was. About to start a friendship he wasn’t the least bit certain he could keep up. He’d rung the doorbell twice, had waited more than long enough to be polite. If he wanted, he could take the melting container of ice cream and head home. After all, he’d lived up to his side of the bargain. He’d shown up, prepared to sit on a hard wooden chair and make uncomfortable small talk when all he really wanted was to be at home nursing his aching leg—the pain exacerbated by the water war.

He tried to tell himself he’d been seduced by the promise of homemade lasagna, but that wasn’t strictly true. After all, with his appetite the way it was, he probably wouldn’t be able to do the meal justice. Really, any company was better than his own. Pasting on a smile he was far from feeling, he knocked one more time to be thorough, and when there was no answer he was about to turn around and say to hell with it. But then the door flew open. This time, Sophie was the wet one, her bright purple tank top clinging to her in all the right places.

He might not be interested—in dating or in a relationship—but he’d have to be dead not to notice all those lush curves, especially when they were showcased so spectacularly. She had large, full breasts, a tiny waist and hips that his fingers itched to sink into. Her red-gold hair was piled in a messy bun and her green eyes had the same innate amusement he’d seen earlier in the yard. It was a good look on her.

“I’m sorry,” she said a little breathlessly, stepping back to let him into her home. “The boys were taking their bath and…” She trailed off with a laugh. “Let’s just say they got a little over-enthusiastic. Which, I’m sure you have no trouble imagining.”

“They were incredibly subdued when I saw them earlier,” he replied, tongue firmly in cheek. He stepped into the foyer.

“I noticed that.” She glanced down. “You brought ice cream?”

“I haven’t had a chance to pick up any wine. And I figured the boys would appreciate this more, anyway.”

“Chocolate-chip cookie dough is a particular favorite around here. You’ve already passed the cool test with your willingness to join the water fight this afternoon, but this will send you soaring through the stratosphere.”

“Thanks, I guess.” He didn’t know what else to say. He was a little wary of the way she spoke as if her kids had plans to keep him around for a while. He might be the new neighbor, but he had no intention of becoming part of the regular landscape around here. What was the point when he had less than no desire to stick around Atlanta at all?

Even more ill at ease than he’d been previously, Jack followed Sophie through a brightly colored living room filled with children’s toys into a friendly, well-lit kitchen. It was nice, not as fancy as the one at his house, but clearly used more often. The walls were a warm yellow and the counters were a dark gray granite. He liked it, especially the bay window above the sink. It was filled with colorful pots holding abundant herbs that filled the room with a rich earthy scent. It reminded him of the time he’d spent in South America.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked to be polite, though he prayed she’d say no. He wanted to help, but his hand hurt from overuse and the muscles were spasming and aching so much that he figured it’d be a miracle if he could hold a fork correctly. He figured it was payback for the three physical-therapy appointments he’d missed during the course of the move.

“Actually, you could put the salad on the table,” she told him, nodding to a large wooden bowl on the counter. “I tossed it with olive oil and vinegar before it registered that you might have preferred something else.” She flushed a little. “Sorry. We don’t get a lot of company, to be honest.”

“Oil and vinegar is fine.” He used his good hand to lift the bowl and carry it to the wide table at the end of the room. “Everything smells delicious.”

“Yeah, well, lasagna’s hard to screw up.”

He laughed, despite the pain shooting up one arm and down his leg. “You sound surprised.”

“No. Relieved,” she said with her own laugh. It was a larger than life sound, one that filled the room to the brim with joy. He liked it, too. “Sometimes my cooking can be a little sketchy,” she told him. “I have a tendency to get distracted in the middle of a recipe and sometimes things take a turn for the…well, let’s call the result interesting.”

He must have looked a little alarmed because she hastened to add, “But not with Italian food. I can make spaghetti, fettuccini and lasagna with the best of them. A leftover from my days at Mama Maria’s.”

“You learned to cook in an Italian restaurant?”

“I learned to cook in an Italian foster home.” As soon as the words escaped her mouth, her eyes widened. Like she couldn’t believe what she’d told him.

He didn’t want to make her feel more uncomfortable by responding. The fact of the matter was, people often told him things they would otherwise keep to themselves. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. For whatever reason, people trusted him and, more often than not, spilled their guts. It never used to bother him, but these days it made him uneasy. Not the confidences, but the trust implicit in them. He didn’t deserve that trust, hadn’t deserved it since he stood in a Somali clinic and let a bunch of monsters kill his patient and his nurse, both of whom had been under his care. Both of whom he’d been responsible for.

Silence stretched between them, and as guilt rode him hard, he thought about breaking it with a witty comment, a funny anecdote. He had any number of tricks in his slick and charming bag. Or he could say something sincere and comforting, but that might encourage some kind of bonding moment and that was the last thing he wanted. Terrible as it seemed, he didn’t have the will or energy for any of this.

Sophie cleared her throat as she fiddled with the necklace that nestled in the hollow of her throat. “Let me get the lasagna on the table and we can eat.”

He nodded cautiously. “Sounds good. Thank you.”

Before she could say anything else, Kyle came flying into the room, Noah at his heels. “I’m going to kill you!” Sophie’s oldest son shouted as he chased his brother around the center island. “Give it back!” he shouted. “It’s mine!”

“You lost it. Finders keepers, losers weepers.”

“I didn’t lose it—you stole it. Now give it to me!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sophie said, putting a hand on each boys’ head to stop them. “What is going on here?”

“Kyle stole Mr. X,” Noah whined. “He knew I was looking for it and he took it.”

“That’s not true. Noah left it in my room yesterday. I was playing with it and when he saw me, he hit me.”

“You want me to hit you?” Noah sneered as he lunged at his brother. “That wasn’t a hit. That was a love tap.”

Sophie slapped a hand on Noah’s chest and moved him away a good three paces. Then turned in time to see her youngest making faces behind her back.

Jack could tell it was the last straw. Relaxing in his chair, he waited for the fireworks to begin.

* * *

IF THE GROUND opened up and swallowed her now, she’d be totally okay with it. Seriously. An earthquake fracturing a random crack down the middle of her kitchen. It would be better than this. Like it wasn’t bad enough that her kids had soaked her wounded neighbor to the skin an hour ago, now they had to start World War Twenty-Seven while he was sitting here watching? Fan-freaking-tastic.

“Give it to me,” she said holding her hand out for the action figure. She had to work hard to keep her voice level. After a week of getting up before dawn to work on arguments for the three cases she had going to court in the next couple of weeks, she was running on caffeine and adrenaline and not much else.

“But, Mom,” Kyle whined. “He left it in my room. That makes it mine.”

“No! I left it there because you distracted me. You couldn’t read your stupid baby book so I helped you. Now give it back! It’s mine.”

“Actually, it’s mine!” she told him, wiggling her fingers in a way that the boys knew meant business. Seconds later she was holding the latest cartoon villain and releasing her grip on two sulky little boys. The joys of motherhood were myriad and many, she reminded herself as she herded them to the table. Myriad and many.

Settling herself at the table, she risked a glance at the neighbor. What had possessed her to invite him over for a home-cooked meal? Yes, he’d looked a little lonely and she’d felt bad for him, but now he looked shell-shocked, and she couldn’t blame him. In the space of a couple hours, he’d been attacked by water-gun-toting maniacs, blabbered at by her at about a million miles an hour, and now he’d witnessed her children acting like…well, she wasn’t going to go there. It was a wonder he hadn’t run out screaming into the night.

An awkward silence descended on the table as she dished out the lasagna and garlic bread. Her boys were busy glaring at each other and the neighbor was pursing his lips and looking at everything but her. At first, she thought it was because he was embarrassed or annoyed, but then she realized he was trying to keep from laughing. The knowledge relaxed her immediately, and she dished up the food with a grin instead of a grimace.

“So, Jack,” she said after everyone was served. “How are you settling into the house?”

“I’m managing. It’s bigger than my last place so I’m going to have to do some shopping to fill it up.”

Before she could respond, Noah butted in. “I’m glad you moved in. I like you a lot better than our last neighbor.”

Jack turned to him, a bemused look on his face. “You don’t know me.”

“Yeah, well, old prune face would never have a water fight with us!”

Jack looked at her, baffled, like he had no idea whether to laugh or wait for her to scold the boy. Sophie smiled. She knew she should admonish her son but Reece really had been an old prune face, despite being under thirty. “Tommy brought a frog to school today!” Kyle contributed. “He had it hidden in his backpack but it got loose when he went in to get his snack. It hopped around the room before landing right in the middle of Mrs. Erickson’s desk.”

“What did Mrs. Erickson do?” Sophie asked.

“She screamed. Then she grabbed the butterfly net from our science kit and chased it around the room. Which was working until Jackson decided he wanted to help. He knocked over the aquarium and Nessy got out.”

Nessy was the class pet—a brown and black python that most of the kids in the class adored. There were a few hold-outs however and Sophie burst out laughing as she imagined the chaos that had to have ensued when Kyle’s sweet, soft-spoken kindergarten teacher attempted to capture a wily snake and a frog hell-bent on escape.

“How’d she catch them?” Jack asked. Kyle responded with a vivid tale about the combined efforts of the entire kindergarten class. Everyone, even Noah, laughed. The ice had officially melted.

After dinner, Sophie excused the boys to go play their nightly half hour of video games while she cleaned up the kitchen. As she stood to collect the plates, Jack insisted on helping her carry them to the sink. She wanted to protest—from the way he’d carefully avoided using his right hand during dinner, she could tell it was bothering him. But she was afraid her refusal would hurt his pride.

“So, I can tell from your accent that you’re not from Atlanta,” she said as they worked together.

He cleared his throat. “No, I’m from Boston.”

“That’s the accent I’m hearing. I knew it wasn’t Southern, but I couldn’t quite place it. What brings you here?”

“Work. A friend of mine runs a clinic down here and she needed a hand. I wanted a change of scenery, so here I am.”

“A clinic? You’re a—”

“I’m a trauma surgeon.” He choked a little, then corrected himself. “I’m a doctor.”

She glanced at his injured hand, which clearly wouldn’t be much help in a delicate surgery. It was balled into a fist where it rested against his thigh, the scars a livid purple white against his tanned skin. She had an overwhelming urge to reach out and stroke them, but she withheld the urge. Which was a good thing because when she looked up again, he was scowling at her.

An apology trembled on the tip of her tongue. She was embarrassed to be caught staring and felt bad because it was obviously a new and touchy subject for him. But she found herself unable to say she was sorry. Maybe it was the way he was looking at her, like he was daring her to say something. Or maybe it was the way he was so obviously caught up in the pain and confusion of having to be something different than what he’d always been.

She could relate to that. She’d had to reinvent herself a couple times so far—once when she was eighteen and had finally escaped from the foster-care system and again after Jeff had died in Afghanistan and she’d been left to raise two little boys alone. Neither time had been easy, but she’d made it through just fine.

But it seemed ridiculous to ignore his injury when they were both so aware of it. She’d hated it when she’d run into people after Jeff had died and they’d either drown her in pity or ignore the subject like it had never happened, even though it was written all over their faces So she decided to simply be straightforward about his injury.

“What happened?” she asked. “If you don’t mind me asking, I mean.”

His face turned a mottled red and when he answered he was looking at a spot over her shoulder instead of directly at her face. “I was shot.”

Her knees shook a little, before she locked them in place. Jeff had died from gunshot wounds. “In Iraq?”

“No.” He looked at her strangely. “Why would you think that?”

“I’m sorry. With your injuries, I figured you were a veteran—”

“I already told you. I’m a doctor.”

“I know. It’s just…not many civilian doctors get themselves shot.”

“I didn’t get myself shot.” He spoke so softly and precisely that she could tell she’d touched another sore spot.

“I’m sorry. I seem to be putting my foot in it a lot today. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. We can talk about something else if it will make you feel better.” He’d tensed up so much that she really wished she’d never brought the subject up. Maybe he didn’t feel the same way she did, that it was better to get the elephant in the room out in the open rather than hide it behind a sheer curtain three sizes too small. She hoped she hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

He didn’t answer for a while. She was about to attempt to broach some other, much less harmful subject—although she didn’t have a clue what that might be—when he said, “I was operating on a patient when it happened.”

“In Boston?” She couldn’t imagine a gunman getting into the operating room of a major hospital.

“In Somalia. I ran a clinic for a charity organization there.”

“Really? Which one?”

“For the Children. We’re a non-profit organization that goes into war-torn and disaster-stricken nations to establish medical care for people who wouldn’t otherwise have access to it.”

“I know who they are. I contribute every year during their big fundraising drive.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “From someone who’s worked for more than a decade in clinics that have benefitted from those donations, thank you.”

“I really admire what your organization does. It’s amazing to me the way you put your whole life on hold to help others.”

“My life wasn’t on hold. Going to those countries, working with For the Children, that was my life.” As soon as the words came out he looked sick, like he wanted nothing more than to never have said them.

Sophie thought she knew what it was like to have your whole life taken away with one pull of the trigger. She’d thought, when Jeff died, that everything had changed. But in the months that followed, she realized that in fact little had changed. Yes, she’d lost her husband. Yes, the boys had lost their father. But the truth was, Jeff had been gone more than he’d been around during their entire married life. Three tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan had created a life at home, with the boys and with her career, that operated independently of him. And after he died, in a way, it simply continued that way.

Looking at Jack, hearing his story and seeing the small amount of pain he had exposed to her made her see that life had indeed changed irrevocably for Jack. With the injury to his operating hand and the trauma from being shot in the very clinic where he worked, there was probably no chance he could return to the life he loved.

Empathy pierced her and despite her feelings about apologies, she murmured, “I’m really—”

“Don’t say it.” His tone told her the conversation was closed.

Silence stretched taut between them as she continued to wash dishes and he continued to clear the table. When she could take it no longer, she asked. “So, where’s this clinic you’re working at now? Is it near here or—”

“It’s close to downtown.” He set the lasagna pan—the last thing to be brought over from the table—on the stove with an urgency that couldn’t be missed. “Thanks for dinner,” he continued. “But I should probably get going.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s late and I have work tomorrow.” Neither of them commented on the fact that it wasn’t yet eight o’clock. He made his way down the hallway, but she stopped him at the front door.

“At least stay for ice cream. I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.” It was an obvious lie. “Thank you again for the meal. I guess I’ll see you around.”

In other words, please don’t ever invite me over again. Nice job, Sophie, she told herself as she stepped back, watching as Jack fled. She’d invited him over to welcome him to the neighborhood and had, instead, managed to both hurt and embarrass him. Definitely not one of her better ideas.

Yet as she watched the lights come on in his house, she couldn’t help thinking that Jack needed someone to shake him up. Oh, he was doing a good job of coasting along, looking and acting normal. But below the surface lay a seething wound of anger and regret that was festering.

It was none of her business. She knew it wasn’t. And yet…and yet she kept seeing him in the yard with her sons. Happy, kind, engaged. A huge grin on his face as he forgot, for a moment, all the pain and rage he had inside.

That’s when she knew she wasn’t going to be able to leave well enough alone. It looked like she had a new project after all.