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“Dr. Connaughton. Mrs. Edwards, Parking Enforcement. I understand you failed to affix a sticker to your car. All cars parked in the physicians’ lot must have a parking sticker affixed to the left side of the rear bumper. It’s hospital policy, Dr. Connaughton. After tomorrow, security is instructed to tow away cars without stickers.”
Martin gave her a blank look.
“Your parking sticker, Dr. Connaughton. Where is it?”
“I think I’ve lost it.” Aware of the double meaning, he couldn’t suppress a grin. With a what-the-hell abandon, he added, “The dog ate it.”
“Dr. Connaughton, you might find this amusing—” the woman’s tone made it clear she didn’t “—but we have these rules for a reason. It makes it very difficult when people don’t take them seriously.”
“I’ll go and have a look for the sticker.” Martin wanted only to terminate the exchange. “If I can’t find it, I’ll come and get another one. Don’t tow my car though, okay?”
Her pert little smile suggested the triumph that comes with having the last word. “As long as it has a sticker, Dr. Connaughton.” She started to walk away, then called his name. “You know, I just thought of something.” Her eyes narrowed. “Weren’t you the doctor who delivered those babies on the freeway today?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Different doctor.”
“I’M WONDERING if you were aggressive enough with Connaughton.” Derek gave Catherine an appraising look. “You’ve got to be tough with these doctors. Insistent. They’ll sniff out any weakness, just like a dog, and then they’ll walk all over you.”
“He didn’t walk all over me.” Catherine pictured Connaughton’s eyes as he’d refused her entreaties—eyes exactly the color of the cobalt blue in Julie’s box of Crayola—and wondered whether he had, but then dismissed the thought as nonproductive. “Short of bodily dragging him down there, I don’t know what else I could have done. He just plain doesn’t want to talk to reporters.”
After he’d eluded her for the second time, she’d achieved a temporary save by having one of the other neonatologists deliver a medical update. That, and an interview with the triplets’ parents, had mollified Selena Bliss and the rest of the press corps. Derek, to her relief, also seemed satisfied—at least he’d dropped no more hints that her job was in peril. The problem was that everyone still wanted to talk to Connaughton about his role in the rescue.
“So.” Derek slumped down in the chair in front of her desk. “What we need to do now is rethink our strategy. Regardless of what he says, Connaughton wants to be on TV. They all do. It’s an ego thing. Sooner or later they all succumb.”
“I honestly don’t think he will,” Catherine said. “He made it pretty clear what he thinks of talking to the press.”
Derek shook his head. “He’s no exception. Trust me. You just didn’t go about it in the right way. Here’s what I want you to do. Call a news conference for tomorrow morning around ten. Alert everyone that Connaughton will be there ready to spill his heart out about his heroic deeds.”
Catherine frowned. “I don’t understand. He’s already said—”
Derek held his hand up. “But you didn’t offer him an incentive, did you?”
“An incentive?”
“Of course. Something he wants very badly and for which he’ll willingly pay the price.”
“Talk to the press, you mean?”
“Exactly.” Derek beamed. “Your learning curve is impressive.”
“But, Derek…” She watched him amble out of the office. By the end of the day, especially when she was tired, Derek’s theatricality got on her nerves. “Come back here. How am I supposed to know what he wants?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Well, that’s what you have to find out, isn’t it?” A few minutes later, he stuck his head around her office door. “By the way, the holiday party at the Harbor House tonight? Are you going?”
“Oh Jeez.” She ran her hand across her face, thought of the pepperoni pizza and the bubble bath. The two hours of quality time she’d actually penciled in on her calendar. “I wasn’t really planning to be there. I thought you were going.”
“I am, but, politically, it would be a good idea for you to attend as well. Jordan takes it rather personally when he holds these bashes and people don’t show up.” He dug into the glass jar of jelly beans she kept on her desk, popped a handful into his mouth. “Anyhoo, I’m splitting. See you later.”
Catherine looked at her watch—five-fifteen. On days that Gary didn’t collect the children from school, her mother picked them up and baby-sat until she got home, usually around six. Twice in the past week though, Derek had wanted her to attend evening meetings and she’d had to call and extend the baby-sitting hours, which inevitably prompted her mother to suggest that what she really needed to do was look for a husband so she could stay home full-time and be a proper mother.
With the tips of her fingers, Catherine massaged her forehead, tried to clear her brain enough to figure out what might get Connaughton to cooperate. And, while she worked that out, how to give her kids enough quality time that she could honestly believe they were better off with her than Gary. A moment later, as she picked up the phone to call, she noticed the pink message slip, half hidden under a stack of papers. Written in her secretary’s neat round handwriting, the note said:
(1) Your ex called to remind you he needs a decision pronto. He said you’d know what he meant. (2) Your daughter wants to remind you that you’re supposed to go shopping for her ballet-recital dress tonight. DON’T BE LATE!!!
IN THE CORRIDOR outside the NICU, Martin pushed some coins into the vending machine. Two Snickers bars, a package of cheese and crackers and an orange. Lunch and dinner. The day before, one of the dietitians had caught him having a similar meal and hinted that a more balanced diet might improve his disposition.
Doubtful. Although he’d made it in to see Van Dolan, he could have saved himself the trouble. Essentially, he’d been told the chances of WISH funding were slim to nonexistent, which pretty much resolved the Ethiopia question. Tomorrow he would tell the group to count him in. Why stick around?
He watched a young couple walk hand in hand past the nursery windows, the girl in a cotton hospital gown stretched tight over her extended belly. As though it were yesterday, he saw his wife’s heavy, late-pregnancy walk, the baggy blue cardigan of his that she’d worn because he’d still been in medical school and they couldn’t scrape up the cash for maternity clothes, the way she’d smiled when…a thought flashed into his consciousness.
Catherine Prentice reminded him of Sharon.
CHAPTER FOUR
STRUCK BY the realization, Martin leaned back against the wall, playing images of his wife’s face against those of Catherine’s. It explained why he’d reacted to her as he had. As Catherine had stood in his office smiling at him, the resemblance was strong enough that he’d been angry with her for not being Sharon. Which, he thought as he finished the orange, was as good a reason as any to leave Western.
The loud ping of the elevator interrupted his thoughts. Martin watched as the doors opened and a stocky man with closely cropped hair emerged, pushing a woman in a wheelchair.
“Dr. C.” The woman waved to him. “Just the person we were looking for.”
Martin stared blankly at the woman before he recognized Rita Hodges. With her hair brushed and caught up in a pink ribbon and her mouth outlined in matching color, she bore little resemblance to the bedraggled woman he’d assisted earlier in the day. The man with her grinned widely, revealing a mouthful of even white teeth.
“Eddie Hodges, Rita’s husband.” He pumped Martin’s hand. “The triplets’ dad. Nice to meet you, Dr. Connor.”
“Connaughton.” Martin felt his hand caught in the man’s vigorous grip. Short, but powerfully built, Eddie Hodges had blue eyes, so pale they seemed almost opaque. His tight black jeans were topped by an equally formfitting red polo shirt. The cream-color cowboy boots added a good two inches to the man’s height. Martin imagined Eddie Hodges selling time shares of dubious market value.
“Just took Rita here to see our girls,” Eddie said. “Now we’re going back to the room to catch the whole thing on the tube.”
“How come you weren’t on TV tonight, Dr. C.?” Rita asked. “You did all the work.”
“Publicity shy,” he said. “I couldn’t stand the thought of screaming mobs of fans chasing after me.” Rita gave him a look that suggested she half believed him. “Actually, I’m glad I caught the two of you without any press around.” He looked from Rita to Eddie. “I wanted to talk to you about the babies.”
Eddie consulted his watch. “The news is gonna be on in ten minutes.”
“I won’t take long.” Martin shoved his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, briefly described each baby’s condition. “I think two of them will do fine,” he said. “Frankly, though, I’m very concerned about the smallest one.”
“Her name’s Holly.” Eddie seemed undaunted by the medical news. “We got all their names picked out. The other two are Berry and Noelle.”
“Seeing as they’re practically Christmas babies,” Rita added with a wavering smile. “That reporter gal just had a baby herself, but it was a boy. She said if it’d been a girl, she was going to call it Holly Noelle.”
“So she said we could have the names,” Eddie grinned. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“About Holly though, Dr. C.” Rita looked up at him. “She’s going to make it, isn’t she? I mean, she’s not going to…”
“It’s too soon to tell.” Up close now, under the makeup, he saw the dark smudges beneath Rita’s eyes and wished he had more encouraging words for her. “We’ll know more in a day or two.”
“She’ll be fine,” Eddie Hodges looked again at his watch. “I feel great about all of them. They’ve got my genes, if you get what I’m saying. And they’re all going to make it. Holly, too.”
Martin rubbed his hand across his jaw, refrained from comment.
“See, Dr. C., I’m real big on positive thinking. Me and Rita’s been kind of down on our luck lately, but what I’m saying is, that’s all changing. Things are looking up. It’s going to be like those Siamese twins with agents and commercials and everything. What we don’t need is negative energy, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say nothing else about Holly not making it.” He smiled. “Okay?”
“Got it.” He decided that he wasn’t at all keen on Eddie Hodges. If the next few days went as he expected them to, Rita was going to need a lot of emotional support. It was doubtful that she’d receive much from her husband.
“So that’s dad, huh?” Tim Graham had come in at the end of the conversation. “I caught him on the news tonight. You’d have thought he pulled the whole thing off single-handedly.”
“He sees the triplets as a ticket to financial freedom, I think,” Martin said. “Doesn’t want reality to mess up his rosy picture.”
“Could be trouble.” Graham dropped onto one of the chairs that stood around the bank of desks at one end of the unit. “Speaking of which, I guess you missed your WISH meeting, huh?”
Martin nodded, then recapped the less-than-productive meeting with Van Dolan.
Graham removed his glasses and rubbed them on the pocket of his scrubs. “You know something?” he said after a minute. “As much as I understand the need for programs like WISH, you can kind of see why administration isn’t falling all over themselves to fund it.”
Martin just stared at him.
“Think about it. Western depends on services like intensive care for revenue. Administration considers NICU a cash cow, for God’s sake. Every time WISH succeeds in preventing an admission, Western loses another paying customer.” Yawning, he flipped the carousel where messages for staff were written on pink notes and filed under each individual’s name. “Let’s see if Christie Brinkley or Demi Moore have been trying to reach me. Nope. I guess they finally took no for an answer.” He gave the device another twirl. “Two love notes for you though.”
Martin glanced at the slips of paper. Both were from Catherine Prentice in Public Relations. The last, marked Urgent, was sent nearly two hours earlier at 5:00 p.m. He crumpled the slips into a ball, tossed them in the trash.
“Press still hot on your heels, huh?” Graham shook his head.
“You’d think it was the Second Coming, wouldn’t you? I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. I just stopped to help out.” Martin rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I should do a bait and switch,” he said in jest. “Tell Catherine Prentice I’ll talk to the press and then start yammering on about WISH and the need for prenatal care. That would thrill administration.”
Graham laughed. “Try it. What do you have to lose? Actually, you could probably catch her at the holiday party tonight.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Right as we speak, the Harbor House is full of milling, fun-loving Western employees and doctors. Just apologize profusely for ignoring all her messages and tell her you’ve seen the light.”
Martin pulled up a chair, swung the seat around and sat down, his arms around the backrest. “You think she’d be there?”
“Sure. She’s in PR. Those people always hang out at social functions,” Graham said. “They’re social animals. Party people. It’s their thing.”
“WHAT WAS THAT, sweetie?” Catherine stood in the lobby of the Harbor House Hotel, the receiver jammed up against one ear, her palm flattened against the other, straining to hear what her daughter was saying. Behind her, sounds of revelry poured out of the ballroom where Western’s holiday party was in full swing.
“Daddy called,” Julie announced in her child’s singsong voice. “Twice. He said if you don’t have time to get my ballet dress, he and Nadia would take me to get it. He said they saw a real pretty one in the Little Ballerina shop. And Nadia’s going to get me some new tights because mine have holes in them. And she’s going to get Peter a new jacket because his old one is yukky.”
Catherine’s fingers tightened around the receiver. A rush of adrenaline made her pulse race. So this was going to be Gary’s tactic. Keep the pressure on until she broke. “Listen, Julie.” She tried to keep her voice slow and steady. “If Daddy calls again, tell him I said not to worry about it.” Tell him to stay the hell away and stop trying to buy you. “We are going to get your dress, okay? Just you and me. I promise.”
“Tonight?”
“No. Not tonight.” Catherine closed her eyes. A band had struck up in the ballroom, the bass notes seemed to reverberate through her body. “I’m going to get away as soon as I can, but the stores will be closed by the time I get home. You’ll be in bed, but we’ll go tomorrow, okay?” Silence on the other end. “Julie, sweetie, I know you’re disappointed, I am, too. If there was any way I could have got out of this thing, I would have.” More silence. “Tell you what, kiddo. How about we make tomorrow really special? We’ll get your dress then go get a hot-fudge sundae? Brownie sprinkles, whipped cream, the whole works.” She heard Julie’s slightly mollified assent. “Good, now let me talk to Grandma, okay?”
She told her mother about the a tuna casserole in the freezer, tried not to snap as her mother launched into a rambling account of the dangerous things microwave rays could do to food, reminded her to be sure Peter took his asthma medication and, in a slightly wheedling voice, asked if she would mind very much just running an iron over the blue dress Julie wanted to wear for school tomorrow.
When her mother complained that stooping over an ironing board aggravated her back, Catherine urged her not to bother, she would do it herself in the morning. With a final reminder to be sure all the doors were locked, she hung up. Tomorrow night, she thought as she headed down the corridor to the rest room, she’d do the pot roast for dinner. Before she took Julie to Little Ballerina and thwarted Gary by spending money she didn’t have.
Inside the rest room, she squinted in the bright white light, frowned at her reflection in the mirrored walls. Pale, drained and a little disheveled. Definitely not a thing of beauty. With everything else there was to juggle, how the hell did single mothers manage to date? Some of them did, she’d overheard a couple of nurses in the cafeteria discussing how soon it was okay to let a boyfriend sleep over. One of them said she always had sex at his house, never at her own if the kids were there. The other said she didn’t bother about it, sex was a fact of life. Kids adjusted.
She leaned over the washbasin, splashed her face with cold water. Sex and dating were the last things on her mind, especially now that Gary had started this custody thing. A man in her bed would be all the ammunition he needed.
Swept by a stew of emotions—fatigue, anger, frustration, self-doubt, she grabbed a paper towel from a dispenser, held it tight against her face. Life felt like one huge compromise. Worrying about finding Connaughton while she scrambled eggs for the kids this morning, standing in some stupid hotel bathroom when she wanted to be home, reading a bedtime story to Julie, helping Peter with his homework.
For a moment, the disillusionment and anger seemed to engulf her. She took a few deep breaths and splashed more cold water on her face. Tomorrow, she’d do something really special for them. Exactly what, she didn’t know yet, but something. And then she would work on Dr. Martin Connaughton.
Five minutes later, she pushed her way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the ballroom looking for Derek. At one end, a small forest of bleached, tumbleweed Christmas trees twinkled with tiny white lights. In the middle of the room, dancing couples swayed and grooved to “Jingle Bell Rock.” Administration reportedly spent big bucks on the annual holiday party and this year was obviously no exception.
She spotted Derek at one of the buffet tables, paper plate in one hand, a plastic glass of wine in the other. He had changed into black linen slacks and shirt and his hair was combed straight back off his forehead.
“Gawd, what a day it’s been.” He speared a piece of bacon-wrapped shrimp. “One damn thing after another. D’you reach Connaughton yet? Selena Bliss paged me twice tonight. Says I owe her a favor and she has to talk to him, or she’ll never give us any decent coverage again. What are these things?” He gestured at a silver chafing dish. “Alpo balls?”
“Swedish meatballs, I think.” Catherine piled some celery and carrots on her plate, doused them with a scoop of diet ranch dressing. “No luck with Connaughton. I’ll go up to the unit first thing in the morning. The babies should have all stabilized by then, so maybe he’ll be more receptive.”
“Good.” He ladled meatballs on his plate then stopped to inspect a silver tray. “Keep trying. There’s been a new development, and we need to be sure Grossman and Connaughton are singing out of the same hymnbook.” He lowered his voice. “There’s no love lost between the two of them.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Grossman thinks he’s God and so does everyone else at Western, except for Connaughton. Now Grossman wants to try this new surgery that’s never been tried on a kid this size, but Connaughton thinks the kid’s too sick and he’s not making any secret of it.” He dug a toothpick into a meatball. “The problem is, I want to promote this teamwork concept and…what are these little numbers?”
“Rumaki.” Catherine dipped a carrot stick in dressing. “Teamwork concept?”
“Exactly.” Derek winked at a passing reveler in formfitting black leather pants. Face flushed with wine, he poked a toothpick into a wedge of cheese. “What was I saying?”
“Teamwork.”
“Right. The Freeway Triplets and Western’s team of miracle workers. Connaughton who delivers them, cares for them in our state-of-the-art NICU. Grossman who performs this miraculous, life-saving surgery. Fabulous PR. Jordan loves it.”
Catherine watched a conga line form a few feet away. A man she recognized as one of the lab techs, motioned her over to join him. She shook her head, then leaned closer to hear Derek’s voice over the noise. A wave of wine-scented breath forced her back.
“What makes this whole triplet thing particularly timely—” Derek brought his face closer “—is that Ned Bolton has been nosing around lately—”
“Ned Bolton?” Catherine frowned. “The medical writer with the Tribune?”
“The same.” Derek nibbled a piece of cheese. “Bolton’s specialty is striking fear into the hearts of public relations people. I suspect he secretly wants to bring every hospital in his circulation area crashing down in an avalanche of scandal. Anyway, last month we had a couple of, uh, surgical mishaps that Bolton thinks we’re trying to cover up. He hinted—not very subtly—that the incidents were a result of underlying management difficulties.” Derek drained his wine. “Jordan nearly hit the roof when he heard that one.”
She nodded. Although she hadn’t yet dealt with the chief of administration directly, she had attended executive meetings with Derek and, on occasion, had seen Jordan’s sudden bursts of temper. “Is there any truth to the allegations?”
Derek waggled his hand, palm down. “Yes and no. It’s a long story. The point though is to divert Bolton and the rest of the pack with this triplet thing. That’s why we need to milk it for all it’s worth.” He glanced at his watch. “Listen, I’ve had about all the holiday cheer I can handle for one night. Jordan gives his speech at eight. We need to get something in the newsletter. Stick around for it, will you?”
Catherine opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, silenced by the thought of how much she needed her job. Another half hour seemed like a life sentence, but she dragged up the phony smile she’d perfected during her marriage and sweetly agreed to stay. In need of a stimulant to keep her going, she started over for the coffee urn at the far end of room and collided with a tall blond man. He introduced himself and, in amazingly short time, regaled her with details of his stock portfolio, real estate and assorted collection of cars and boats.
“I ski Mammoth,” he rambled. “Got a condo up there, all exposed beams and glass, hot tub, wet bar. Ski all day, party all night.”
Catherine smiled politely and considered possible avenues of escape. Her head ached and the smell of overheated bodies and reheated food was making her feel slightly sick. Even if she had the time or inclination to date, she reflected, if this was an indication of what was out there, she’d go without.
He flashed dazzling white teeth and moved a little closer, his eyes appraising. “So, what do you do for fun?”
“Not a whole lot.” She inhaled a cloud of aftershave, took a step back to avoid nose-to-nose contact and searched her mind for a sufficiently unexciting activity. “Gardening,” She took another step backward. “Cooking.” In this way, she could eventually backstep her way out of the room. “Work.”
He shook his head and moved a step closer, continuing their little pas de deux. “Y’know what they say about all work and no play, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t care.”
“Hey, babe.” He looked into her eyes. “Want to split this place, go get a drink somewhere?”
As she formed the words of refusal, she heard a male voice behind her.
“Excuse me, I need to talk to Catherine.”
A male voice with an Irish accent. She knew without turning that it was Martin Connaughton.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MARKETING MAN, caught momentarily off guard by the intrusion, rallied quickly. “Hey, that’s cool. No sweat, I’ll just mosey over there and check out the munchies.” He shot Catherine a parting wink. “Catch you later.”
Catherine watched him disappear into the crowd, then turned to Connaughton. A beer bottle in one hand, he wore a battered tweed jacket, some sort of collarless shirt under it and jeans. His reddish-brown hair fell untidily over his forehead, and his eyes were lined with exhaustion. But as she looked at him, all she could think of at that moment was how attractive he was—not handsome, or conventionally good-looking, but attractive: sexy, slightly disheveled, more than a little weary and, she suspected, completely unconcerned about the way he looked.