AFTERGLOW (2 page)

"Croutons?" George asked. "What's that?"

Elliot laughed, tweaked his wife's perfect nose and said, "That's those little fried pieces of day-old French bread, love. Sorry, Chelsea, but you gotta eat it the way I serve it. What are you worried about? You're a skinny little twit."

"With computer derriere," Chelsea said.

"Oh, bother," George said. "Here I am looking like the proverbial spider and you're worried about having a rounded butt!"

"Exactly," Elliot said.

"If I could manage to heave myself out of this chair, you jerk, I'd make you eat your words!"

"You'd make me eat
exactly?"
Elliot asked, looking innocently bewildered.

"I think I will have a wine spritzer now, servant," George said.

"Don't get huffy, wife, or I won't Ben-Gay you tonight."

Elliot turned in the doorway. "A spider, huh? Maybe that's why I like to rub your back. My vision is limited."

George fell back in her chair, groaning. "Are you sure you want to get married, Chels? Just look at what I have to put up with."

But Chelsea was gazing wistfully after Elliot. "You're so lucky, George," she said with a sigh.

"Yes, I know, but it took the dratted man long enough to realize it. Ah, there's the doorbell, Chelsea. Would you get it? By the time I get myself out of this chair the poor man will think he's got the wrong house and leave."

"You're not George," the man said when Chelsea opened the front door.

"No," she said. "Neither are you." And thank God you're not a gnome.

He looked a bit taken aback, then smiled. "No, I'm David Winter. And you, I take it, are Chelsea Lattimer."

Chelsea nodded and stepped aside. Goodness, she thought, he's not bad-looking. No, not at all. She felt like a shrimp standing beside him, armpit height, she thought. He looked like a reasonable facsimile of a hero. His hair was a lovely chestnut color and his eyes a real hazel, nothing wishy-washy and in between.

"Good grief, George," she heard his deep voice boom from the living room, "I'm not a gynecologist! Please, don't do anything we'll regret this evening."

"Such a sweet-talking man," George said. "Hello, David. You've met Chelsea?"

"Yeah," Chelsea said. "He determined that I'm not you."

"Dear me, if you were, you'd be in deep trouble!"

George beamed at the two of them. A very nice couple, she thought, though David did look very proper in his three-piece suit, complete with white shirt and tie. And Chelsea, marvelous, of course, but very Marin casual in her dark blue corduroy jeans and white knit sweater. She cleared her throat. "I think I'll help Elliot in the kitchen."

To Chelsea's surprise David laughed deeply. "Please, George, don't! Just stay where you are. Trust Elliot, please."

Elliot emerged from the kitchen and greeted David. "A white wine?"

"Fine with me."

"I'll be with you guys in just a minute." He called over his shoulder, "Don't worry, Chelsea. I bought two bottles of Chablis just for you."

"Well," David said after a moment. "It's a pleasure to meet a friend of the Mallorys'. Do you live here in the city?"

"No, in Sausalito."

David's eyes brightened with interest. "It's a beautiful town. I've been looking around there for a house. What part?"

"On Bridgeway. In a condominium complex called Whiskey Springs."

"I've got my sailboat docked just across from you," David said. "We're practically neighbors. But I'm not interested in a condo."

"No, of course not," Chelsea agreed. Perfectly innocuous conversation, idiot. But he made a condo sound like something from the slums. Your turn. Men love to talk about themselves. "You're a doctor?"

"Yes. I've been out here less than a year, actually. I hail from Boston."

"I went to school in Boston," Chelsea said.

"There are so many. Which one?"

"The best one," Chelsea said, tilting her chin up just a bit. "Boston College."

"Oh. An excellent school."

"Did you go to school in Boston?"

"Just medical school. Harvard."

"Oh." A stuffed-shirt former preppie. She should have guessed. "And you were on staff at Mass General?"

"Why, yes. How did you know?"

It fits.
"Just a guess. You did undergraduate at Princeton? Yale?"

"Princeton."

"Where did you go to prep school?"

"Andover."

Lord, did it all fit! Well, keep him talking. He was a joy to look at. "Why did you come West?"

"A great offer."

"It must have been a big change."

"Yes, a very big one," he said. He continued to George, "When's the baby due?"

"In four weeks exactly, thank God."

"Is Elliot driving you nuts?"

"No," George said in some disgust, "at least, not in the way you mean. I think he wonders why I'm not still jogging."

Elliot, who had just come into the living room bearing a tray with drinks on it, grinned and said, "I was thinking that I could build her something like a skateboard and she could make her way around on her stomach. She'd certainly be high enough off the sidewalk."

"That boggles the imagination, Elliot." Chelsea laughed.

David became quiet, his thoughts on the very happy couple. And Elliot won't be just a father, he was thinking, he'll be a parent. David had just realized in the past ten months how much he didn't know about his own two children. Sure, he thought, I'm a great father. Haven't I provided them with everything? He shook away his depressing thoughts and looked at Chelsea Lattimer. He felt as if she'd given him the third degree and he'd flunked. Well, he had a long evening ahead of him, and after all, didn't women like to talk about themselves?

"Well," George said brightly, taking away his chance to speak, "how's the beans, doc?"

"Actually, French green beans, George, with pearl onions and slivered almonds," Elliot said.

"Here I was hoping for hot dogs and chips."

There was a brief pause, and Chelsea blurted out, "What kind of a doctor are you?"

"Now I'm chief of the trauma section at the university. I hang out mostly in the emergency room when I'm not in the OR."

"It means," Elliot said, "that he's a damned fine surgeon and has an uncanny and much needed flair for organization."

"Oh," Chelsea said. She'd heard that surgeons, or blades, were normally an obnoxious breed, full of themselves and their great talent. Oh, well, it was just for one evening. Let him keep talking; it would make the time go more quickly. He sent her a smile at that moment that looked anything but obnoxious, and Chelsea found herself smiling back.

"Are you from California, Miss Lattimer?" David asked.

"Chelsea, and yes, from Santa Barbara. My folks still live there."

Aha, David thought. A native Californian and probably so laid back she'd sneer at anything or anyone from the pseudointellectual East Coast.

"Chelsea's dad is a dentist," George said.

"You've got brothers and sisters?"

"Nope, I'm their one and only. I think they gave me one look and decided not to press their luck."

"I'm an only child, too," David said. "My parents couldn't have more children, though I understand they wanted to."

It still fits, Chelsea thought. Produce a son whose first words were probably "conservative" and "rich," and of course they'd want to produce a veritable battalion.

"Naturally," Chelsea said aloud.

That earned her a raised, questioning eyebrow from David Winter. Elliot called them to order then, and they trooped to the table.

"I still can't figure out," George said after everyone was served, "how Elliot can time everything so it's all hot when it hits the table."

"Natural male superiority," Elliot said. "Don't you agree, David?"

"With the dirty look I just got from Chelsea, I think I'll keep my opinions to myself."

"I thought," Chelsea said, annoyed, "that surgeons especially, always gave their opinions, asked for or not."

"Surgeons are just men," David said.

"And women," Chelsea added quickly.

Elliot shot David a rueful look. "We're surrounded by career women, David. Guess we'd better watch our step."

"There are more and more women doctors," David said stiffly. "Most of them, however, still don't go into surgery."

"And why do you think that's the case?" Chelsea asked.

Never in his life had he been asked such a question by another person, much less by a woman he'd just met. Just who the hell did she think she was, anyway? A flaky California rich girl, probably. Sausalito wasn't a cheap place to live, after all. Still, it wouldn't be polite to put her soundly in her place. And his Boston Brahmin parents had taught him manners. He said easily, "Perhaps women don't like such a demanding schedule."

"Or perhaps," Chelsea said, "they aren't given the opportunity. I read an article last year that gave the appalling rate of suicide among women residents in surgery."

"It's a very difficult pace to maintain," David said, proud of himself for his display of patience. "And training takes a long time. I venture to say that most women would prefer doing other things than training for five years or so."

"You mean like having babies?"

"That, yes."

"Would you like some more Caesar salad, David?" George asked, shooting a look at her friend. Chelsea should realize that there would be time enough to infuriate him after she got to know him better.

He shook his head, even as Chelsea said, "Don't you see a place for a bit of compromise, doctor?"

"In medicine? There's been quite a bit already." His tone implied to Chelsea that there'd been far too much.

"But if women didn't compromise enough, men wouldn't be born and have the chance not to compromise."

Elliot laughed and rolled his eyes at his wife. "Your point is well taken, Chelsea, if I understand it."

"I'm certain that an intelligent, open-minded male of the species could," she said.

"Perhaps," David said, wanting to smooth things over, "women have different priorities. A family, children…"

"Men don't count family and children as a priority?"

"That isn't what I meant!" Damned pushy female! He thought with some fondness of drinking with the two boring colleagues. Both male. Neither with a big mouth.

Chelsea, receiving an agonized look from George, forced herself to retrench. But she didn't want to. She wanted to smack the righteous look off his handsome face. "Delicious dinner, Elliot," she said, sending him a dazzling smile.

Outrageous female! David thought. Probably never worked a day in her pampered life. What the hell did she know about priorities, responsibility and achievement?

Chelsea polished off another glass of white wine. She was inevitably feeling more mellow, and a bit guilty. David Winter still appeared as good-looking as he had when she first laid eyes on him, but he was a stuffed shirt, damn it. But, her thinking continued, she had antagonized him, challenged him, made things a bit uncomfortable. I'll back off a bit, she decided.

After the delicious meal George excused both herself and Chelsea and hauled her friend upstairs. George whirled on her friend the moment she'd closed the bedroom door. "You're being obnoxious, Chelsea, and you know it. You probably took a dislike to David on your drive over here, didn't you?"

"He's a stuffed shirt and a preppie," Chelsea said defensively.

"A bit, maybe, but you've been attacking him as if he were Hitler himself! For goodness' sake, give the poor fellow a chance!"

"You think I should change my stripes, huh?"

"You have so many to choose from!"