A Heartbeat Away (16 page)

21

Stacy Williams lifted another forkful of flaky flounder to her lips. “Oh my,” she groaned. “I'll follow you anywhere.”

Wes Harris clapped Christian on his back. “Oh, you'll never compete with Chris's ideal woman.” He closed his fist over his heart and pined, “Oh, Emily.”

“Shut up,” Christian responded. “I should have never told you that story.”

Wes smiled. “It's good you did. We were all starting to think you're gay.”

Christian ignored him.

“Seriously,” Stacy said, lifting another bite to her mouth. “What's the secret? This is amazing.”

“I picked out the fish this afternoon at the Inner Harbor market. Use rye flour, just a light coating before you fry it. Most people use too much and it blackens and makes a mess when you fry it.”

“What's this topping?”

“Just lemon and a touch of dill.”

She poked at a small green ball. “And this?”

“They're called capers.”

“It's magical.” Stacy lifted her wine glass. “I do have someone I'd like you to meet.”

Christian groaned. “Not again.”

“She loves fancy foods.”

Wes mumbled under his breath. “‘Loves food.' Code word for fat.”

“She's not fat. She's very sweet. But you have to promise not to overanalyze her in the first five minutes.”

“I don't do that.”

“Oh, yes you do. Every time I introduce you to another girl, it's like you read their innermost thoughts after one conversation.” She laughed. “With Claire, I think you had her figured out before she opened her mouth.”

“Anyone could have done that. I knew she was a skeptic, a vegan liberal, just by the way she dressed. One look as she stepped out of her hybrid, and I knew she wouldn't like me.”

Stacy frowned. “Come on, say you'll give me another chance. My friend would love your stories of Africa. Say you'll meet her.”

Christian groaned. “Maybe after I get done with this ICU rotation. You guys are lucky I make time to cook at all.”

She mumbled, “Medical students.”

Wes nodded. “It's all about the priorities. Books, carbohydrates, and sex.”

Christian sipped his Pinot Noir. “Maybe for you.”

Stacy clinked her glass against his. “Two out of three ain't bad.”

On the way home, Phin's thoughts ping-ponged between opposite poles.

What was I thinking?

Oh God, she's beautiful.

But so off-limits. She's not a believer.

Her kiss.
Phin put his hand to his face and tugged on his lower lip, thinking of how Tori had done the same.

She's successful. Smart. Pretty.

Pretty scary to the nurses.

Scary how quickly she could wrap up my soul.

After a few minutes, he slowed as he passed a familiar place, a place where he had poured out what seemed to be a lifetime's worth of tears.

Guilt hit him full in the face.

He walked through the rows of headstones, memorials to the beloved dead. His feet took him straight to her. Fourteen rows in, second one on the right.

He glanced at an awning in the distance, a family gathering beneath the approaching night. He smelled the flowers placed at nearby sites. How long had it been since he had left flowers in her memory?

He looked down at his wife's gravesite.

I've met someone—

His cell phone rang.

He looked at the readout. Pastor Randy. Great timing.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Phin. I saw your car. I figured you were heading to the cemetery. You okay?”

Phin sighed. “Yeah.”

Randy let the silence hang. Unwelcome, prodding silence.

“I kissed her.”

“Uh-huh. The surgeon?”

“That's the one.”

“Is this a confession?”

“Maybe. She's a great girl.”

“So you're sharing a blessing?”

“Yes. Both.” Another sigh. “I don't know.”

“You telling Missy about her?”

“Startin'.”

“You need to talk?” Phin listened to Randy tapping his finger against the phone.

“I know I have to watch my step.” He paused. “But she has so much going for her.”

“What about the doctor-client relationship thing?”

“We're done with that.”

“Just in time, huh?”

“I've got it under control.”

“Really?”

Phin was irritated. Randy had a knack for going right for the sore spot.

“A threefold cord, bro,” Randy said.

“I know, I know.” Phin sighed again. He knew what Randy referred to. It was a verse in Ecclesiastes commonly used to describe the strength of a marriage that was made up of man, wife, and God. At best, a life with Tori would be a twofold cord.

“Okay, Phin, I'll be praying.”

Phin nodded. Randy would be praying for him. Unlike many Christians, Randy didn't promise to pray with no intention of following through.

“Thanks, bro.”

He closed the phone, not wanting to face the truth Randy had pointed out. More than anything, he wanted to share a deeper relationship with Tori.

But eventually, he knew that her absence of faith would create a chasm between them.

I've got to tell her good-bye.

Tori moved from room to room on cat feet. For some reason, the noise, even of her shoes against the hardwood, seemed to echo against the stillness and set her soul on edge. Her day had been crazy. Her meetings with Mike and his mother, Kesha. Her encounter with the police. Kissing Phin. Moving back home. All of it filled her with emotion, a guaranteed moat that would keep sleep away at least for the next few hours. She opened a bottle of wine and decided that a late supper didn't sound so bad.

She prepared a spinach salad, topping it with microwaved bacon, blue cheese crumbles, and a hard-boiled egg. She sipped her wine and sautéed the salmon, pouring a little of the Pinot Noir into the pan along with butter and a clove of garlic. Steam rose to greet her.

Satisfied, she covered the pan with a glass lid.

Somewhere, her cell phone sounded.

Who would call at this hour?
Her heart responded with hope.
Phin?

She followed the sound to the bedroom where her phone lay on the dresser. As she entered, the call ended. She looked at the readout. One missed call. Number restricted.

She carried it with her to the kitchen.

She needed to eat. She felt the wine hitting her without a food buffer. Her forehead felt fuzzy, her lips thick. She kissed her fingers to feel her lips tingle.

In a few minutes, as she was sitting before a plate of fish and salad, her phone sounded again.

She flipped open the phone. “Hello.”

She didn't recognize the voice. A man. “I think it's time for you to stop,” he said.

“Who is this? Stop what?” She looked quickly at her windows. No one could be watching. The drapes were drawn.

“Just stop,” he said. “You know what, Dr. Taylor. Or should I call you Dakota?” He laughed with a booming voice. “Stop before you get hurt.”

The call ended abruptly.

She felt a chill. She slid away her plate.

Had she ever heard that voice before?

She still held a wine glass in her hand. The surface of the liquid quivered. She set the glass on the table and clutched her trembling hand. She slid from her barstool, noticing a sharp pain in her ankle when her foot reached the floor. She pushed aside the feeling of pain.

Who was that?

And what do I need to stop?

Who knows about Dakota?

She lifted her phone again, dialing a number by memory.

“Hello.” His voice was thick from sleep.

“Phin, it's me. I'm scared.”

“What's wrong?”

“Really scared.”

He sighed.

“Can you come over?”

Twenty minutes later, Tori opened the door. Phin was dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt with a Nike logo. He carried a small gym bag.

Good
, she thought.
Ready for an overnight.

He sat opposite the couch in a recliner. “Tell me what this is about.”

“It was a phone call on my cell. A man warning me to stop. I asked what he was talking about, and he said I knew. Then he called me Dakota and told me to stop before I got hurt.”

Phin rubbed the back of his neck. “Wow.”

“Someone doesn't want me looking into Dakota's death.”

“But he didn't say that.”

“What else could it mean?”

Phin shrugged. “I guess you're right.” He tapped his knee. “Who knows about your donor?”

“It has to be a short list.” She held up a finger. “The transplant team. Charlotte. The Baltimore police. Kesha.”

“Let's assume for a moment that your theory is correct, that someone wanted to harm Dakota Jones. If that's true, whoever tried to hurt her would naturally be the one who wouldn't want someone discovering the truth.”

“Makes sense.”

“You should talk to the police in Baltimore. It might convince them that this is legit.”

“What if he calls again?”

“Try to talk to him. Find out as much as you can.” Phin yawned. It was past midnight.

“Can you stay?”

He nodded.

“Come next to me,” she said, patting the couch cushion.

Phin sat next to her. She rested her head against his chest.

That lasted all of thirty seconds before Tori lifted her face to his. She kissed him, and she felt him respond in kind. His kisses became searching, warm. After a moment, he tried to untangle his hand from her hair. “Tori, we can't—I can't—”

She searched his face. She knew he wanted her. His kisses said as much.
So why the ambivalence, cowboy?

“It's late,” he said.

She nodded and stood, trying to hide her hurt. “I'll get you a blanket. You can stay on the couch.”

22

When Tori rose the next morning, she heard Phin stirring in the kitchen. He was already dressed for work and the coffee was brewed. She trudged past him straight for the pot.

“Wow. You make coffee,” she mumbled. “You can stay.”

The morning after. Only without the before.

After nothing
, Tori thought.

Phin cleared his throat and rinsed out the cereal dish he had used. “Good morning.” He seemed uncomfortable. He didn't meet her gaze. “I take it your caller let you sleep.”

She nodded. “All night.”

“I, uh, I need to get going.” He picked up his gym bag.

She walked to his side. She hadn't bothered to change out of her PJs. She kept her old robe pulled tight up around her neck. She could imagine how unflattering it looked, but she didn't care. That too was new. Before, she would have at least spent time with eyeliner, lipstick, and a chic outfit before walking in front of someone she cared about. But with Phin, there were no pretentious airs. “Thanks for staying over. I was a little freaked out.”

She kissed his cheek.

Their eyes quickly met, and then he looked away again.

It wasn't the promising good-bye she wanted.

Phin seemed out of his element, on a wire, afraid of falling. He cleared his throat again.

“Go,” she said. “I'll be okay.”

He nodded and let himself out.

She watched through the front window. Her across-the-street neighbor, Evelyn Barkley, was at her paper box, her eyes following Phin to his car.

Tori sighed.
Let 'em talk.

She clutched her coffee mug up under her chin.
Okay, I'm back home. I'm recovering. I've got a new chance at life.

She looked around, unable to fight the sadness that came from not needing to go anywhere. No job demanding her presence. No patient waiting for her skills. No medical students to lecture or rounds to make. She felt … adrift.

Now what?

She picked up the blanket that Phin had folded and left on the couch. Beneath it, a small leather book had slipped between the armrest and the cushion.

Phin's Bible. He must have been reading it this morning.
The cover was worn, the edges of the pages dog-eared and dull.

She held it in her hand, weighing it. Thinking.

She sat, intrigued.
Why would a smart guy like Phin need a crutch?

She opened the cover, feeling a bit like she was peering into someone's private life, but wanting to continue just the same. She paged through, letting the book fall to the natural creases, the places Phin had turned to over and over again. Her eyes fell on the verses highlighted in yellow.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.”

Why would I trust God if he took my mom and dad from me?

She flipped a few sections to the next natural opening.

“And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good.…”

She lifted her gaze to the photographs of her parents.
No. How can my mother's death work for good?

She thought about Phin, how he had lost his wife, yet in his suffering he seemed to be moving in the opposite direction from Tori. She had become angry and blamed God; Phin had nestled in closer, clinging to the words he'd highlighted.

What was it that Phin had said?

“God doesn't always deliver us from pain. God joined us in human suffering by coming as a man and experiencing pain and death for himself.”

Why can't I feel the same way about God that Phin does?

Tori took inventory, something that seemed to come more naturally now too. She did feel something. Not belief. More of a desire to believe.

That was new. Before her surgery, she prided herself in her objective, scientific approach. She excused the belief she saw in others as an evolutionary biologist would: beliefs were simply chemical reactions that in some way conferred a survival advantage to the carriers. It didn't necessarily mean that the belief was true, only that the belief made it more likely that the person would survive, and therefore the tendency toward that belief would be passed to the next generation.

But if it's true that a belief does not have to be true in order to provide a survival advantage, my belief in evolutionary biology must not necessarily be true either. I have to apply the scalpel equally … both to a theory about other people's beliefs and my own.

God, I wish I could believe in you.
She looked from the book in her hand to the ceiling.
I want to know the truth.

Her cell phone sounded. She rose and found it on the island in the kitchen. “Hello.”

“Tori Taylor? My name is Dr. Mary Jaworski. Captain Ellis asked me to call. It seems he has put a rather high priority on getting some information from you.”

“You work as a consultant on police matters?”

“Yes. I also have a small university practice at Johns Hopkins. The captain tells me you're a physician.”

“Yes. I work as a surgical oncologist at the VCU Medical Center.” She didn't feel like telling the psychiatrist about her official leave status.

“Ohhh. So I'm going to have to work around your schedule.”

Tori stayed quiet.
Okay, I'll let you assume that.

“Listen, I'm not sure why the captain wants this done so quickly, but I guess he's a little concerned that a crime doesn't go unrecognized. He told me a little background.”

Again, Tori just listened, not sure exactly how to launch in or whether it was appropriate to start the discussion over the phone.

Fortunately, the psychiatrist was chatty and filled the silence. “I understand you've had a heart transplant. Of course I've heard about cellular-memory transplantation, but I've never actually interviewed someone who is experiencing it.”

Great, so now I'm a fascinating case.

“Listen,” Dr. Jaworski continued, “I need to be in Richmond later this week to visit some family. Can I stop in to see you on Thursday?”

“Thursday is fine.”
Every day is fine. I'm unemployed.

“Would it be okay to conduct the interview in your home? I find that a familiar setting is conducive to these sorts of interviews.”

“These sorts of interviews?”

“Induction of trance states.”

“You mean hypnosis.”

“Yes.” She laughed. It sounded like something nervous and forced, not a joyous giggle. “But I avoid that term. It's so misunderstood.”

“Are you calling me from a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” Tori said. “I'll text you my address. How about two in the afternoon?”

Tori listened to flipping pages. “Okay, two is fine. Oh, this is just fascinating! I look forward to talking to you.”

“See you Thursday.” Tori closed her phone. The psychiatrist seemed a bit too enthusiastic. “Fascinating,” Tori muttered.

I hope she's as interested in finding the truth as she is in exploring an interesting medical phenomenon. I'll probably end up as the subject in a journal article.

She walked around the house sipping the coffee Phin had made, feeling a bit uneasy, wishing she had an agenda.

Now that she was sufficiently recovered and felt good enough to work, she missed it with an ache the size of Texas. Surgery was her life, her identity. It had given her purpose, but more than that, surgery had been her platform, an excuse to allow others to orbit around
her
.

But now, she wasn't the center of anyone's orbit.

And she wanted to be.

She waited until noon to call Phin, hoping to catch him on a lunch break.

He picked up after two rings. “Hello.”

“Hey. It's me.”

He didn't respond right away. “Oh, hey.”

Not so enthusiastic.
Tori frowned and clutched at the edge of her shirt at the collar. “I found your Bible. It was on the couch.”

“Oh, sorry about that. Can I stop by after work to pick it up?”

“Sure. Why don't I fix dinner? I owe you for helping me out.”

“You don't have to—”

“I know, silly. I want to.”

“Uh, okay, sure.” He cleared his throat. “I finished my report about your counseling. I've sent it to your chairman.”

“Thanks.” She paused, then added, “I think.”

“No, it's all good.”

“Are you sure you're not biased?”

He chuckled, but it didn't sound natural. “Biased? Me?”

She didn't know how to respond.

Phin added, “I wouldn't ask him about it until at least the end of the week. I recommended they let you start whenever Dr. Parrish releases you.”

“Good. Maybe he'll let me start soon. I could go stir-crazy around here. I—”

“Tori, there's something you ought to know.”

His voice was somber. She felt a shortening in her breath as if someone tightened a lasso over her chest. “What is it?”

“I heard Steve Brown was offered the surgical oncology chair.”

She huffed. “That was my job! I've been standing in line for that job for six years.” She paced around the island. “Evans didn't even interview me for the job after I asked for an interview.”

“You fainted in his office.”

“Yeah, well, that should have impressed him.”

Phin sighed into the phone. “Listen, I just don't want you to get hurt. Evans doesn't really need you back right now.”

“So what? You think I should give up?”

“I didn't say that.”

Tori paused after taking another lap around the island. “You didn't give me an answer. About dinner.”

“Wow, Tori, you don't need to—”

“Phin, what's going on? I thought something good was happening between us. Then last night, you acted like I had something contagious.”

“Something good is happening. It's just …” His voice trailed off.

“I'll tell you what. I'll make it easier on you. I'm making dinner. You're welcome. Or not. Six-thirty.”

She snapped her phone closed with more force than she'd intended.

She felt the tears beginning to well up. This was so unfair! Her life seemed to pack trouble on trouble like a snowball rolling downhill. First her health, then her job, then the mystery and terror of new memories, and now the news that she wasn't even needed back at the hospital.

She wandered into the foyer where she stared into a full-length mirror. She loved that mirror. She'd found it at an antique shop, so the glass had minor irregularities, but nothing that distorted the image. She'd painted the bulky frame a rich gold-leaf satin. In her old life, she stopped for a final inspection before leaving the house each morning at six.

She'd hoped that Phin would help her make sense of all her misery, or at least slow the rolling snowball. At first, she'd thought he might be bringing a little healing to her heart. Instead, she felt like he'd just given the snowball a shove.
Attaboy, Phin, just pack on more snow.

She frowned at her reflection. No makeup. She lifted her hair and let it fall again. Flat.

No wonder Phin put on the brakes last night.

She thought about dinner.
Candlelight?

No, that would be too much.

She unbuttoned the upper buttons on her pajama top. Her sternal scar was far from mature, slightly raised and pink, like a kindergarten child had smashed a worm of Silly Putty to accentuate her cleavage.
Oh, that's sexy. No wonder my social worker didn't want to steal second base.

She gathered her robe up under her chin and tried to remember if she had anything remotely sexy that wasn't cut so low it would reveal her scar.

She pouched her lips toward the mirror, remembering how Phin had kissed her in the car.

You acted like you wanted me.

Until last night.

She sighed.
I'm calling my hairdresser. If he runs from me tonight, it won't be because I scared him away with my appearance.