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He slowly lifted his eyes, sending her another warning glance.
“Did you know there’s a huge need for the underserved and minimally insured population in this area?” she said, undeterred. “And also, on the brighter side, you could chip away at some of the required hours for your month-long clinic rotation.”
He didn’t give a damn how good a saleswoman she was, he just wanted her to shut up so he could finish his report and get back to the hospital. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give you one whole day to see your clinic walk-in patients. There. You happy now?” May as well take up her suggestion and get this volunteer time out of the way as quickly as possible. Now maybe she’d be quiet.
She tossed him a don’t-do-us-any-favors look before she commenced rushed clicking and clacking on the keyboard.
Yeah, he’d said the words, and they had seriously lacked enthusiasm, but he’d already gathered she was a smart cookie and wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this slip by. Now maybe he could finish this consult and head out.
“I’ll print up a flyer and hire some of the local boys to distribute them to the houses and on cars in the area.”
“Great. Whatever. Now, could you let me finish my report?” That got a rise in her brows, and more speedy typing, as he’d hopelessly lost his train of thought about the wording in the report.
His concentration thrown out of the window, he recalled on his drive through the neighborhood that the boulevard was lined with red-brick and mortar storefronts, and had an eclectic assortment of businesses. Many looked rundown. The place probably could use a day-long walk-in surgery clinic, and the sooner he got his volunteer hours done the sooner he could get back to focusing fully on plastic surgery.
“Maybe you should post flyers in the local business windows, too,” he said. “Though you may want to skip all the mortuaries—don’t want to send the wrong message.”
Quick to forgive, she laughed, and it sounded nice, low and husky. Almost made him smile.
“What’s up with that anyway?”
“The overabundance of mortuaries?” she said. “I think it must have something to do with having a hospital in the area since the late eighteen hundreds and the odds of folks making it out alive.” Unlike him, she could multitask, and never missed a beat typing and staring at the computer screen. “I guess the morticians went where they were guaranteed business. Though it does seem like overkill these days, pardon the pun.”
He nodded, stretching his lips into a straight line rather than a smile, and grudgingly admitted he liked her dry wit and Boston accent. Pah-din. “Yeah, so I figure if I’m volunteering time for the month, like you said, I may as well make it worth everyone’s while.” Code for get it over with ASAP. That’s what he was all about these days—meet his obligations as quickly as possible and move on. In another year he’d get his life back and begin his own private practice back home in California. Besides, he hated it when he ran out of things to do, preferring to work until he could pass out and sleep. Then work more. Anything to keep his mind occupied.
He scratched his jaw. “So I’ll come at nine and work until seven—that way folks can stop by after they get off work,” he said.
“Then why not make it eight p.m.? Would that work? With long commutes, some people don’t get home from work until after seven.”
Sure, squeeze an extra hour out of me, lady. “Fine,” he said, staring at the last dangling sentence in his report.
Truth was, unless he moonlighted, he had nothing better to do with his time most nights. He sublet a basement bachelor apartment near Beacon Hill, with rented furniture and noisy pipes, paid through his nose for the privilege to live there, and after a year had yet to meet a single neighbor.
“That way you’d get half of your required volunteer hours out of the way in one day,” she said.
He wanted to protest, say that wasn’t the reason he’d agreed to do the all-day clinic, but she’d seen right through his tidy little plan. He cleared his throat. “Good point.”
Her fingers clacked over the keyboard again. His concentration shot, he stood, crossed the room and looked over her shoulder at the screen. Within a couple of minutes she’d produced a first-rate flyer, complete with clip art of a stethoscope and all the pertinent information, clear and concise.
“What do you think?” She glanced up, their gazes connected. Up close he was struck by how green her eyes were, and that she was a natural blonde, and he wondered why it registered.
“Looks great,” he said, leaning away while she pressed “Print” and stood.
She walked across the small and cluttered office to the antiquated printer to snag the first flyer. Holding the goldenrod paper like a picture for him to see, she smiled. “Not bad.”
He looked her up and down before looking at the flyer. Yeah, not bad. “Guess I can’t weasel out of it now.”
She rewarded his honesty with a smile, a very nice smile. “Nope. I’m going to hold you to your word. We’ll put one of these by the receptionist’s window right now and start handing them out after lunch.”
As she breezed across the room toward the connecting front office in her oversized lab coat and scrubs, he caught a scent of no frills soap and enjoyed the clean smell, then discovered there was something else he favored about her. Unlike so many of his patients—size four with forty-inch chests—she wasn’t skinny trim. She was sturdy and healthy looking, not like the lettuce-and-cilantro-eating women he saw in the plastic surgery clinics.
“Look,” he said, needing to get away before he discovered anything else he liked about her, or before she bamboozled him into working there the entire month. “I’ve got to run back to the hospital. I’ll see you next Tuesday.”
Kasey hopped off the bus on her street, the rich smell of fresh pizza from the corner ma and pa shop making her instantly hungry. She strode briskly against the chill and drizzle toward her house, eager to take off her shoes and relax. In a neighborhood lined with hundred-year-old two-story houses, most divided into two units, she lived amongst an interesting mix of people: the working class; families and seniors; immigrants; and Bostonians who could trace their American heritage back for centuries. She loved her converted first-floor apartment with hardwood floors and mustard-colored walls, and appreciated her quiet neighbors, except for that constantly squawking cockatiel next door. Skipping up her front steps to get out of the drizzle, which had now progressed to rain, she wondered if spring would ever break through the dreary weather.
After grabbing the mail from the box on the porch, she used her key to open the front door, immediately disabling the alarm system. Sadly, living alone in the city, it was a necessary expense, and one that gave her peace of mind. Well worth the cost.
She tossed her mail on the dining table on her way to the kitchen, and the corner of another letter left opened from yesterday caught her eye and brought back a wave of dread. Try as she may to put it out of her head all day, she’d failed. She needed a cool glass of water before she dared read it again. Maybe the words had changed. Maybe she’d misunderstood.
A quiet mew and furry brush against her ankle made her smile. She bent to pick up Daisy, her calico cat, who’d come out of hiding to greet her.
“What’s up, Miss Daisy? Did you watch the birds today?” She thought how her cat sat perched on the back bedroom window-sill, twitching her tail for hours on end, most likely imagining leaping into the air to catch a chickadee busy with nest-building. “You want your dinner?”
After she’d fed the cat and drunk a whole glass of water, she went back to the table and picked up the letter from the Department of Health and Welfare.
“It is with great sadness we inform you that your birth father, Jeffrey Morgan McAfee, has passed away from Huntington’s disease …”
She tossed the letter on the table, closing her eyes and taking a seat. She hadn’t misread it. With elbows planted firmly on the worn walnut surface, she dropped her head into her hands and did something she rarely allowed: she felt sorry for herself.
“We recommend you meet with a genetic counselor and set up a blood test …”
She’d never known her father, her mother had never spoken of him, and this had been one hell of an introduction. She’d called her mother to verify her father’s name last night, but had only got her message machine. Then later, Mom had called back to break the bad news. He was, in fact, her father. That’s all she’d said, but Kasey intended to get the whole story one day soon.
“Did he leave you anything in his will?” So like Mom. Always looking for a free ride and never coming close to finding one.
“Yeah, Mom, one doozy of an inheritance …”
Kasey wouldn’t wish the progressive, degenerative disease on anyone, yet with her birth father having and dying from it, she had a fifty percent chance of developing Huntington’s. And once the symptoms began, if they began, which was a mind-wrenching thought in itself, there would be a tortured journey of wasting nerve cells, decreased cognition, Parkinson’s-type rigidity and myriad other health issues until it took her life.
At least Mom had apologized, but how could a person make up for sleeping with the wrong guy, getting pregnant, and never seeing him again? Actions and consequences had never really figured into her mother’s style of living.
She couldn’t dwell on the disease. There was no point. While removing her head from her hands, her stomach protested, reminding her it had been hours since she’d eaten. She either carried the marker or she didn’t, the ticking clock had already been set or it hadn’t. Thinking how her ignorance had been bliss all these years, she had no control over anything, and now her life must go on just as it had before the letter had arrived.
She stood, losing her footing and having to grab the table for balance. Could it be an early symptom? Her throat went dry. Hadn’t she been bumping into things more recently? She shook her head, scolding herself. She’d always been clumsy, especially when she rushed, and she rushed all the time at work. There was no need to second-guess every misstep. She needed to eat, that was all.
And if she wanted peace of mind, all she needed to do was make an appointment and have a blood test and find out, once and for all, if she carried the defective gene. Be done with it or face it head on.
She’d been drawing blood from patients for years, never thought twice about having her own lab work done. Not since a kid had the thought of a laboratory test sent an icy chill of fear down her spine. Until today. What would she do if she had Huntington’s? She tightened her jaw and stood straighter. If she had the disease, she’d just have to make the most of each day … until the symptoms began, and even then, she promised to live life to the fullest for as long as she was physically able.
Though her stomach growled a second time, she’d just lost her appetite.
CHAPTER TWO
FRIDAY night, hidden in a booth and lost in the noise of the local Pub, Kasey took another sip of her beer. She’d asked Vincent to join her for dinner, her treat, hoping to work up the nerve to tell him her troubles. So far they’d each had a deli sandwich, hers the chicken breast, his the beef dip, and they’d shared a Caesar salad. Vincent had just ordered a second round of beer, yet she still hadn’t broached the subject etched in her genes and squeezing her heart.
“O. M. G., look!” Vincent pointed to the bar with the neck of his low-calorie beer bottle. “It’s him, Dr. Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous.”
Kasey almost choked on her drink when her eyes focused on the broad shoulders covered in a well-cut jacket, and the trim hips and jeans-clad legs. Though from Vincent’s perspective Dr. Finch might be, she wouldn’t go so far as to call him tall, but somewhere more in the vicinity of five eleven or so. Why split hairs, when the conclusion was the same? The man was a hunk.
Speaking of hair, and since she was now officially living her life for the moment, waves like those gave her the urge to run her fingers through them, just to see how they felt. She glanced at Vincent and realized he was probably thinking the same thing, and it made her blurt out a laugh. They shared the same taste in men. Where Jared Finch might possess superb physical traits, he sorely lacked both personality and charm, going from the short encounter she’d had with him. Looks could only take a man so far in her opinion. Maybe she wasn’t the only person in the world with problems? Kasey continued to glance toward the bar, intrigued.
“I wonder what he’s doing here,” she said.
“Well, duh, drinking!” Vincent reached across the booth table and patted her hands. “He must be human, just like us. Isn’t that sweet?”
Vincent had been teased mercilessly all his life about his carrot-top hair, which he now kept meticulously combed and perfectly spiked, resembling a torch on top. If the red hair didn’t set him apart, his alabaster-white skin dotted with free-flowing freckles sealed the deal when combined with his fastidious style of dress and precise mannerisms. He’d survived a tough childhood and now lived life exactly as he pleased. As a result he owned the sweetest content smile on the planet. Right now he shared that smile with Kasey. Sparkles beamed from his eyes—even in the darkened pub Kasey could see them—as he watched Jared standing at the bar, hoisting a mug, taking a swig and watching the Red Sox on the big screen.
“I don’t think he’s with anyone,” Vincent said. “I’m going to invite him over.” He shot out of the booth and zigzagged through the crowd before Kasey had a chance to stop him.
“Don’t do that!” she said, her voice overpowered by piped-in Irish rock music as he was halfway across the bar. “I need to talk to you … tell you my horrible news. And that guy’s a real pill.”
Biting her lips, she refused to watch Vincent. Instead, she cringed, took another drink of her beer and hoped Dr. Finch had a short memory. Or that he thought Vincent was too forward and invading his privacy and refused to associate with subordinates. That would suit his attitude.
Unable to stand the suspense, she glanced from the corner of her eye toward the bar. Damn, the men were both headed for the booth. She sat straighter and fussed with her bangs, then wished she hadn’t left her hair in the French braid tucked under at her nape. They’d come here straight from work, and a whole lot of hair had escaped since that morning, judging by the tendrils tickling her neck. She must look a mess, and what had been completely acceptable for spending time with Vincent would now fail miserably for making an impression on Vincent’s Dr. Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous. Why should she care?
Catching an errant strand of hair and tucking it behind her ear, another pang of anxiety got her attention. What the heck was she supposed to talk about? The plan had been to wine and dine Vincent, then tell him her woes, not have a social encounter with an aloof plastic surgeon. She hated it when her plans didn’t work out.
When Jared arrived at the booth, his tentative smile made her suspicious he’d had a drink or two already, since friendliness hadn’t been his strong suit at the clinic. “Hi,” he said. “I was just on my way out when Vinnie caught me.”
Vincent preened in the background over his job well done.
“Hi, Dr. Finch, what are you doing here?” she said, ignoring her gloating friend and cringing over the lame question.
“Having a drink—what else?” He pinched his brows together and glanced around the pub just as a group of three waiters broke into song at the booth next to theirs. They sang “Happy birthday” to a young woman who didn’t look a day over sixteen, though they served her a fancy umbrella drink with a flaming candle in it, so she had to be at least twenty-one. Yep, by the end of the song they’d sung, “Happy twenty-first birthday to Shauna”.
“I feel so old,” Jared said, after watching the celebration. “Is there an upper age limit at this bar? No one over thirty allowed?”
“Oh, no. That’s not what I meant when I asked what you were doing here. What I meant was I’m just surprised to see you here, that’s all.” This was more of a locals bar, not a place for doctors, especially future plastic surgeons.
He sat next to her, and she scooted several inches in the other direction, though there wasn’t far to go, her hands clutching the glass of pale ale. “And, besides, if the age limit is thirty, I’d be too old, too.”
“You’re not over thirty, are you?” He sat with a hand on each knee, back to looking stiff and out of his element.
“Thirty-two last January.” She didn’t care if he knew her age—she wasn’t looking for his approval.
“I would have pegged you around twenty-six or-seven.”
Well, then. She sat a little straighter. Yes, he was being nice, she knew it, but nevertheless he’d scored a few plus points over the unintentional compliment. His attempt to be kind was a far cry from the standoffish guy she’d met the other day.
“Now I know you’ve had a couple of pints.” She felt the blush from his compliment as deeply as when she’d been twelve and regularly embarrassed. How silly was that?
He stopped just before he finished off his dark brew. “From these thirty-nine-year-old eyes, you look twenty-six. Trust me.”
“How old do I look?” Vincent asked, looking a little desperate to get into the game.
“Vinnie, I’m thinking twenty-four.”
Vincent giggled, actually giggled. “Oh, Doctor, you’re so funny, I’m thirty. And could you call me Vincent, please?”
“Apologies, Vincent. Then we’re all over the hill. Good. I don’t relate to the younger generation, anyway. All the face piercings and tattoos, fake boobs.”
Kasey took another swallow of beer to help the dry patch in her throat as she thought about the four silver hoops in various sizes in both of her ears, the silver ball in her left tragus, the small rose tattoo hidden on her right hip, and the hummingbird on her left shoulder. Her breasts were her own, though. She sat a little straighter, thinking about it. “But you’re going to be a plastic surgeon, so won’t you be augmenting a lot of those ‘boobs’?”
“I’m depending on it. Lots of cash in breast augmentation. And lipo. Ah, and we can’t forget Brazilian butt lifts. Big bucks there, too.”
He seemed too caught up with the money side of the job, and it made her subtract some of those points she’d just awarded him. Her thoughts must have shown on her face.
“There’s nothing wrong with helping people look the way they want,” Vincent said, practically shushing her as if she’d been rude to their guest.
“Within reason.” For some crazy reason—maybe the second half of the pale ale—she wasn’t ready to back down. “You wouldn’t give anyone cat eyes if they asked, would you? Or a doll’s nose, or pull someone’s face so tight they looked like they’d just hit G-force?”
Surprising her, Jared gave a good-hearted laugh—a deep, really nice-sounding laugh, which suited his urbane appearance and classy charm. “I’ve often wondered if some plastic surgeons forget their oaths to do no harm.” He touched her forearm, sending her focus away from his mesmerizing eyes. “You’d probably think less of me if I said, ‘If the price was right’, so I won’t answer that question.”
His dodge disappointed her, and he looked less handsome for it. Then she mentally kicked herself, wondering who was shallower, him for doing what his patients asked or her for getting all caught up in a man with an intriguing face before knowing a single thing about him.
Everyone around the table stared at their drinks. The silence had gone on long enough.
“You’re not from Massachusetts, are you?” she said.
He shook his head. “California.”
“What brings you out this way?” Vincent asked.
“My kids.” He got a distant, almost pained look in his eyes, but quickly snapped out of it. “They go to school out here.” He took a long swig of his drink. “My ex-wife insisted on sending them to an exclusive boarding school back east, which meant moving across country and driving two hours in order to see them every other weekend.”
“So does your ex live here too?” Vincent asked.
“Nope. Patrice is still back in California.”
This earnest dad who’d do anything, including move across the country, to be near his kids, took her by surprise. If she had been keeping tally, he’d moved back up the plus column. “I’ve heard it’s a great school.” Meaning it was expensive.
“Oh, yeah, the best.” He finished another long drink. “Which is the main reason I chose plastic surgery this time around.” He gave an I-don’t-give-a-damn-what-you-think glance, meant only for Kasey.
Yes, he came off gruff and uncaring, and maybe a little drunk to be talking about this with near strangers, but Kasey saw through the façade and did the math. He had an ex-wife who got alimony and kids in a private school. The man was upgrading his pay scale by going into plastic surgery. A perfectly respectable specialty in this day and age so she wasn’t going to come down hard on him for that.
Her father had never even tried to find her. This guy had moved across the country to be near his kids.
He took a long draw on the last of his beer. Vincent waved his hand to the passing waitress and ordered another round. “You’re not driving, are you, Dr. Finch?”
“Call me Jared. Actually, I’m within walking distance of here. What about you guys?”
“The T,” Kasey and Vincent answered in unison, then locked pinky fingers. “Jinx, one, two, three, you owe me a beer,” they also said in unison.
Jared cocked his head, glancing at Kasey and Vincent. “I keep forgetting I’m not in California any more. We can’t live without our cars.” Ignoring the pinky locking, he pinned Kasey with an inquisitive look. “Do you feel safe riding the T at night?”
“As a woman, I’m never completely comfortable commuting after dark, but as long as I’m home before midnight, I’m okay with it. Anyway, after the T there’s a bus that takes me right to my street corner. It works out pretty well.”
Jared glanced across at Vincent. “You’re not seeing her home?”
“She’s my best friend, but also a big girl, and I’m a big boy in the big city. Besides, I live in Jamaica Plains at the other end of the Orange line, and she lives in Everette. We’re okay with that, aren’t we, Kase?”
“Yeah.” She nodded, just as the waitress delivered their next round of beers. “I’m fine with that. If you can’t handle the transportation, get out of the city, I always say.”
From across the booth Vincent reached for a high five and she joined him, grateful she wasn’t drinking on an empty stomach and wondering what the heck Dr. TD&G thought about their childish antics. Ah, what did she care? After next Tuesday he’d only have another eight to ten hours left to volunteer at the clinic and then she’d never see him again anyway.
By the end of the next beer even Jared had loosened up and the conversation had run the gamut from surviving while going to school to favorite pubs in the area to bad break-ups. And Kasey’s head had started to spin with all the details.
“This certain person, who shall rename mainless,” Vincent said, and giggled. “I mean shall remain nameless, took all my favorite CDs and DVDs before we broke up. Should’ve seen it coming, I guess.”
“No, no, no.” Jared said. “You have no idea what a real break-up is. California style. I’ve been a doctor for thirteen years and I’m living in a basement apartment with rented furniture, thanks to my ex.”
“So that’s why you’re going into plastic surgery,” Vincent said, with a poor-baby gaze in his eyes.
“Absolutely. Plus the fact I believe people should be able to look the way they want. If I can help make them happy with their appearance, I’ll be glad to do it.”
The man was definitely toeing the line on plastic surgery, and she was beginning to believe his sincerity.