California Girl (2 page)

Gazing up a long trousered leg as the visitor righted
himself, Alys saw the difficulty of balancing all that masculine length against
a spindly aluminum pole. From her position on the floor, she thought surely his
head brushed the ceiling.

Or maybe that was just the effect of the intruder’s badly
rumpled curls. If his barber had meant to style that hair, he’d failed badly.
Or else the wearer hadn’t combed it in days.

“Elliot!” Mame called cheerfully. “You really didn’t have to
come. I’m fine. I was just asking Alys to drive me home.”

“Which is why she’s staging a sit-down strike in the middle
of the floor?” he asked, eyeing her with dubious interest.

It wasn’t as if he were bulky, Alys decided, studying him in
the dim light from the bed as he dropped his bag behind a chair. If this was
Mame’s nephew, she’d always wondered what the man behind the voice looked like.
Magazine photos couldn’t begin to do justice to his air of confidence.

Like Mame, her nephew possessed a lean elegance, but unlike
Mame, his height seemed to go on forever. Of course, it might help if she stood
up. She hadn’t decided if she was capable of it yet.

Despite the dryness of his words, the newcomer’s rich voice
conveyed reassurance. He’d carried in a breath of fresh fall air that drove out
the smell of hospital disinfectant, creating a safety zone around him that let
her breathe freely for the first time since Mame’s accident.

In the light of the bed lamp, his dark, compassionate eyes
could hypnotize. She had to concentrate on the subtle hook at the end of his
narrow nose and his long Jeff Goldblum face with the curl hanging in the middle
of his forehead to keep from falling under the spell of his gaze.

“Alys, this is my nephew Elliot, the one the radio calls Doc
Nice. Elliot, this is Alys Seagraves. Turn on the light and then find a nurse
to check me out. I want to get dressed.”

“Miss Seagraves.” The heartthrob nodded acknowledgment of
Mame’s introduction before picking up his aunt’s wrist to test her pulse.

Alys hesitated, brushing her bangs out of her face to study
the situation. For some inexplicable reason, Mame hadn’t wanted her famous
nephew here. Should she stay for Mame’s sake? Did the nephew exude positive or
negative energy? With those eyes, how could she doubt he exuded anything but
kindness?

“I’m perfectly well, Elliot,” Mame said. “I have too much to
do to lie here trussed up like a helpless babe. It was simply a little spell.” Mame
attempted to jerk her arm away, but Elliot held her firmly.

“You crashed your car,” he retorted. “It was not a little
spell. You had a heart attack.”

“A spell,” she insisted. “And Beulah only has a little dent
in her bumper. It’s Alys’s car that’s wrecked.”

“Mame, you have a personal and genetic history of congestive
heart failure. We have to run tests to check for damage and adjust your
medication to prevent further impairment and relieve the fluids. You know
that.”

Alys eased to her feet and backed toward the door. Her heart
still beat irregularly and her palms were sweating. Mame seemed to be in better
hands than hers. Her nephew was a doctor who wrote books all about diet and
exercise and had a radio show more renowned than Dr. Laura’s. She supposed he
specialized in nutrition and not heart medicine, but surely he knew what was
best for Mame. She could flee the confines of the hospital in all good
conscience.

“Alys, you can’t leave,” Mame shouted. “She’s having a panic
attack, Elliot. Calm her!”

“Mame won’t ‘shuffle off this mortal coil’ anytime soon,”
Elliot said with dry reassurance. “And I don’t bite. Your leaving is raising
her pulse rate. Stay.”

Alys blinked, feeling as if a warm, rich blanket had been
thrown over her, shutting out the deathly cold of the air-conditioning. He had
the most amazing voice. It resonated deep down inside of her. No wonder he had
a radio show.

He could quote Shakespeare. When was the last time anyone
quoted Shakespeare to her? And he’d done it without a script in front of him.

“I know you hate being in here, hon,” Mame interrupted
Alys’s stunned reverie, “but we need to make plans. Elliot, Alys and I have our
trip all worked out, and there’s no time to waste.”

“Aunt Mame, you’ve just had a heart attack. You’re not going
anywhere.” Elliot picked up Mame’s chart and fished his reading glasses out of
his pocket. “Thank you for looking after my aunt, Miss Seagraves. I’m sorry
about your travel plans, but you’ll have to go on without her.”

“Mrs.,” she corrected, watching him with fascination. He
must be giving off positive energy. Her panic was lessening without her having
to concentrate on lotus blossoms. She’d much rather concentrate on Doc Nice.

Ever since she’d met Mame, she’d heard all about her
wonderful nephew, seen his pictures, heard the stories Mame loved to tell about
his dedication and hard work. She’d even listened to his radio show. His
reputation was well deserved, because on the air he was
funny
. And understanding. He didn’t talk politics or personal
accountability, but
listened
to his
callers, thus earning him the appellation of Doc Nice.

She didn’t see that side of him now. He behaved like every
impersonal scary doctor she’d ever known.

He perched his black-rimmed reading glasses on the end of
his nose and scanned the chart, angling it under the bed lamp. “The stress of
planning this trip was evidently too much for you, Mame. We have to find the
extent of the damage.” He glanced at Alys. “Tell her that her life is more
important than gallivanting about the countryside.”

“Maybe to Mame, life
is
gallivanting about the countryside.” Alys didn’t know where those rebellious
words had come from, but Mame looked at her with approval, so she stuck to
them.

Elliot set his mouth in a stern reprimand that had probably
sent interns fleeing. “Life is about responsibility, and mine is to see to my
aunt’s health. Her heart muscles are weak. She needs rest and medication.”

“Stuff it, Elliot. You sound just like your late, lamented
father.” Mame sat up higher to peer around him. “Alys, take Beulah and go on
without me. This is something you really must do, and I will be miserable if I
think I’m the one preventing it.”

“Mame, I can’t go without you,” Alys protested her friend’s
generosity, although the gleam in Mame’s eye caused her to hesitate. She
recognized Mame’s mischief when she saw it, but couldn’t imagine what she was
up to. “Maybe we can do it next year. I can cancel the reservations.”

“Nonsense. I have a copy of the itinerary. I’ll catch up
with you. I wouldn’t miss this vacation for the world.” Sitting almost straight
up, as if she weren’t attached to half a dozen tubes and wires, Mame waved her
thin hand in dismissal.

“Miss Seagraves, please go on without my aunt,” Elliot said
patiently. “I doubt she’ll be able to join you, but there is no reason you
shouldn’t go. I’ll see to Mame. She’ll be fine, although that Cadillac has to
be a hundred years old,” he warned. “I recommend renting a car.”

“Beulah has only sixty thousand on her,” Mame protested.
“You have the keys, Alys. Go. Enjoy.”

Gulping, trying to read Mame’s expression, Alys nodded.
“I’ll think about it. Mame has my number, Dr . . . ?” Alys
stammered, backing toward the door. She knew his name; she just couldn’t seem
to grasp anything except “Doc Nice” at the moment.

“Roth, Elliot Roth,” he finished for her. “I’ll call you if
there’s any change. You have a cell phone, don’t you?”

“I’ll find you!” Mame called cheerfully.

Watching the fey creature edging toward the door, Elliot
recalled reading to his younger brothers from books containing pictures of
fairies poised for flight. With her overlong bangs curving into short, dark
hair that framed her pointed chin and wide eyes, Alys Seagraves only needed a
mushroom to perch on. He had the ridiculous urge to capture her in the palm of
his hand and tell her not to go. “You’ll need a cell phone if you’re driving,
Miss Seagraves.”

“Mrs.,” she murmured. “I’ll think about it.”

She fled. Probably on butterfly wings, Elliot decided.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” Mame asked with all the innocence of a
child with her hand in the cookie jar.

“Married,” Elliot replied, feeling inexplicably depressed at
the thought. It wasn’t as if he had time for a life, much less a wife, so he
didn’t know why it mattered. He hadn’t noticed the ring on her finger until her
insistence on “Mrs.” had forced
him to look.

“Widowed,” Mame countered with triumph. “Husband died of
cancer over a year ago. She’s been grieving too long. She needs this vacation.”

Widowed? She didn’t look older than Eric, and his youngest
brother was still in grad school.

“She has a thing about doctors and medicines,” Mame continued,
waving away his offer of a water glass. “Doesn’t believe in them,” she finished
gleefully, watching his reaction.

Elliot refused to fall for his aunt’s incessant meddling.
“Watching the suffering of someone you love can be traumatic,” he said with the
dispassion he’d learned to use in med school. “That’s no reason for you to
agree with her fears, or to encourage them.”

“I’m not ill, Elliot,” Mame warned. Her long, thin face
resembled his in many ways, but hers could go from laughter to sternness in a
blink of an eye, while he’d trained his to composure. “I bet I feel better than
you do. Heartburn plaguing you again?”

“Plaguing” was too mild a word. The burning pain had started
with the phone call informing him of Mame’s hospitalization, and her argument
now raised the flames to furnace proportions. If he’d been alone, he would have
doubled over and groaned. He had regular checkups, so he suspected it was just
good old-fashioned stress trying to give birth to an ulcer.

A good chug of Mylanta would relieve him, but he’d hastily
ended his book tour to fly home to St. Louis and broken speed records driving
over from the airport rather than hunt down a bottle. “If you’d just behave,
I’d be fine,” he gently chided. “Now lie down and rest. I want to talk to your
doctor.”

“Ask the nurse for some Pepto-Bismol,” Mame urged as he
lowered the bed. “You ought to carry a bottle.”

“In my back pocket,” he agreed without cracking a smile.

She slapped at him the way she always did when he was being
smart-mouthed, never hurting but merely warning him that she understood his
sarcasm.

“I love you, Elliot, but you’re a pain in the ass
sometimes.”

“I love you, too, and you’re a pain all the time,” he said
with a smile. He didn’t know where he would be without his aunt. He owed her so
much, he couldn’t hope to repay her in a thousand lifetimes. Taking care of her
was the least he could do.

She studied him with a stern look that always meant a
lecture. “I’ve had a full life to show for my years. What do you have to show
for yours?”

“Three books and a radio program?” he asked teasingly,
attempting to defuse the gloom Mame’s topic cast. They’d had this argument
before, mostly when he told her that his research might save people from dying,
and that’s why he didn’t have time to come to dinner. Or for a visit.

“Which shows how very little you know about life,” she
complained pertly. “If you would quit running away from it, you might find an
existence beyond the material.”

Stubbornly, Elliot refused to discuss life philosophies.
“Close your eyes and rest, Mame, and I’ll be right back.”

“No, you won’t,” she said with more pride than irritation.
“They’ll all want to talk with Doc Nice. Go, enjoy, relax a little. You’re too
thin. Eat. Have some nice warm milk.”

Laughing silently at the idea of his rattlebrained aunt
telling her health-conscious nephew how to eat, Elliot tucked her in and headed
for the nurses’ station.

He wasn’t running away from anything. Quite the contrary. He
fought death every minute of the day. He jogged regularly, followed his own
diet advice, and was far healthier than most thirty-five-year old men.

His father had died at thirty-five. Of a heart attack. While
driving with his entire family in the car.

The pain in Elliot’s chest burned hotter.

“Mame!” Staring through the early autumn twilight at the
empty space in the parking lot where his Range Rover had been, Elliot groaned
in dismay. Until a minute ago, he’d been grateful his car had been parked at
the airport in St. Louis when he ran off the plane to rush down to Springfield
to look after Mame.

He should never have believed even for an instant that his
aunt had defiantly gone to visit friends on another floor as he’d assumed when
he’d discovered her absence. As the eldest of three orphaned brothers, he’d been
the responsible one, the one who’d had to learn and counteract Mame’s
unpredictable, often rebellious habits. He just hadn’t thought she’d ever go so
far as to risk her
life.
What in hell
was she up to?

Mame had not only escaped the hospital—she’d stolen his car.

Resisting pounding his head against a lamppost, he called
himself three kinds of fool. Exhaustion was his only excuse. He knew Mame was
knowledgeable enough to pull out all her monitor connections without help. He’d
been delusional to think she wouldn’t want to worry him by running away—just as
she’d accused
him
of doing, dammit.

If Mame didn’t want to be found, even the police would have
difficulty tracking her. She might be on the flaky side, but she was wilier
than a coyote.

Remembering Mame’s earlier arguments about her travel plans,
he kicked himself for not asking for the sprite’s number. He knew why he hadn’t
done that. Asking a woman for her number meant interest, and he didn’t have
time to keep up his end of even the most meaningless of relationships.