Could I Have This Dance? (65 page)

The father, a nervous man with a video camera, is sitting on the floor with his head between his knees. Better there than fainting onto my sterile field.

The patient is great, strong and cooperative, thanks to an epidural catheter anesthesia put in three hours ago. Her forehead beads with sweat as she bears down with the next contraction.

The nurse on my left counts it off. “Now push! One, two, three, four. Good. Five, six, seven. You’re almost done. Keep pushing.”

The baby is born. I clamp and cut the cord and hand her to the nurse. Normally, I’d let the dad cut the cord, but this wimp is still sniffing an ammonia capsule.

The patient looks at her new baby girl and starts to cry. A nurse asks, “How many does this make for you, Dr. Jenkins?”

The other nurse, a veteran named Sarah, answers for me. “He can’t count that high.”

I tilt my head to see my episiotomy incision and curse my need for trifocals. I ignore Sarah’s answer, but I know she is right. It seems like I’ve delivered every living person in Stoney Creek. Forever.

I finish my task and wash my hands.

“When’s the replacement coming, Dr. J?”

“July,” I sigh. “Not soon enough. My old buddy, Tom Rogers, is the chairman of surgery up at Lafayette University. He called and accused me of luring away his favorite resident. He said Dr. McCall’s the best doctor he’s worked with in years. He planned to give her a categorical surgery spot and finish her as chief resident someday.”

“Your replacement is a surgeon?”

“She wants to be. But she’s agreed to help out here until we can hire someone on a permanent basis. She wanted to come back home to Stoney Creek to help her father, so this job will be perfect.”

“Back to Stoney Creek?” Sarah twists her expression. “You’re talking about Claire?”

I drift, thinking about Stoney Creek’s first female physician. Della has told me what Claire discovered about Clay. Leave it to Claire to figure things out. But she hasn’t been brave enough, or bold enough, to confront me about my own blood type, to get a final answer.

She is quite a woman, that Claire McCall. If I’d had a daughter, I’d want her to be just like Claire. And all these years, as much as I was reluctant for the word to get out, I secretly hoped that she was mine. My blood type was AB positive. If Della was type O, and Wally was type B, and Claire was also type O, Claire had her answer. She couldn’t be my daughter and be type O. As much as I hated to admit it, I fathered Clay, Claire’s worthless twin. And Wally, the town drunk, fathered a wonderful woman named Claire.

Sarah touches my arm to bring me back to the present. “Dr. J., I asked you a question. You’re talking about Claire McCall? Wally’s girl?”

I nod. “Yep. She’s Wally’s girl.”

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Roy W. Ferguson Jr., a friend and attorney, for his advice on legal matters pertaining to the story.

About the Author

For the Rest of My Life

Harry Kraus, MD

The riveting, emotional sequel to the bestselling
Could I Have This Dance?

Claire McCall, MD, is haunted by the question: Does she have the gene for Huntington’s Disease, the disease that disabled her father? This exciting sequel picks up with Claire moving back to Stoney Creek to work as a family physician and help her mother care for her disabled father. She rekindles her relationship with John Cerelli and—just before she’s going to find out if she carries the HD gene—discovers an engagement ring hidden in his car. When John fails to “pop the question” before learning the results of the test, Claire believes he is only interested in marrying her if she does not have the HD gene. She runs away from him without learning the results of the test, or the strength of his love.

Claire copes with her romantic disappointment by plunging into her work. But a brutal rapist attacks three of Claire’s patients, just as each young woman is recovering from a recent accident or surgery. When Claire has surgery for appendicitis, she herself is attacked. Only her trust in God can keep Claire safe.

Softcover: 0-310-24978-3

Pick up a copy today at your favorite bookstore!

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Read an excerpt from the sequel to this book,
For the Rest of My Life

Chapter One

Claire McCall closed her hand around the pistol’s grip, snapped off the safety, and stared into the darkness. The room was midnight black except for the digital alarm clock that cast an eerie green glow across her pillow. Three a.m. The numbers mocked her inability to sleep. Her heart pounded as she tightened her grip and waited for another sound to break the silence.

She mouthed his name. “Tyler.” It had been six weeks since the assault, six weeks since the violent intrusion into her bedroom by Tyler Crutch-field, a former employee who had gone by the name of Cyrus Hensley. She stared at a dim slit of light beneath her door.

A creak from the old floorboards whispered a different message. She sat and listened, nodding her head in quiet resolution. She weighed the pistol in her hand and thought about the last time she’d used it. Right there, at the foot of her bed, she’d defended herself against him. Claire steadied the handgun, lifting it up and steeling herself for a shot toward the door.
I won’t just wound him this time.

Outside, a peaceful blanket of night cuddled Stoney Creek and the surrounding Apple Valley. Beyond her home sang the comforting noises of the country. The barking of the neighbor’s dog. The wind rustling pine branches against the roof of the small ranch house. A summer locust. The soprano chorus of the frogs seeking food or love or both.

But she’d heard something else. Inside. A noise in the hall and then in the kitchen. Footsteps. Willing the old box springs not to squeak, she rose and crossed to the door. She twisted off the deadbolt, lifted the locking chain, and turned the doorknob to unsnap the lock. Opening the door, she slipped into the hall with the gun lifted at arm’s length in front of her.

She paused at the end of the hallway and listened. A glass clinked against the counter. She stepped quickly into the kitchen with her arms extended, pointingthe gun in the direction of the sink.

After a few seconds, her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she could see a woman, facing away, looking through a window into the night. Claire lowered the pistol to her side and took a deep breath. Her mother turned around. “Oh,” she gasped, sloshing a glass of water on her nightgown. “Claire, you startled me.”

“Mom.” She followed her mother’s gaze to the gun. “I—” She halted. “I thought you were an intruder.”

“Put that thing down before you kill someone.”

Claire slowly uncurled her blanched fingers and laid the weapon on the counter.

“This isn’t rational.”

Claire knew that. She couldn’t dispute it. She shrugged. “Fear is irrational.”

“Tyler is in prison, honey. He can’t get you anymore.”

“I hear you. Just tell that to my gut.”

Della stepped toward her daughter and enveloped her in a hug. “Don’t you think you should talk to someone?”

“We’ve been through this.” Claire broke away, touched the pistol again. “I just feel safer if it’s near me, that’s all.”

Della lifted gray-streaked blonde hair behind her ear. “How did someone so stubborn come out of me?”

Claire squinted back at her mother, feeling the sting of her accusation.

Della laughed. “Don’t look so hurt,” she said, turning back to the sink. “Want some coffee?”

“I want some sleep.”

“It won’t kill you to get some help.”

“I just need some time.”

“Want to know what I think?”

Claire shook her head and sat at the kitchen table. “When have my desires ever stopped you from giving an opinion?”

“You’re not afraid of Tyler anymore.” Della snapped on a fluorescent light over the sink. “How many locks do you have on the bedroom door?”

Claire didn’t answer. They both knew the answer.

“Tyler is locked away. This is Stoney Creek, one of the safest towns around. It makes no sense for you to have to protect yourself this way.”

Claire sighed. “I told you fear wasn’t rational.”

“You’re trying to protect yourself against the future. Ever since you got the results of your Huntington’s disease gene status, you’ve grown more and more withdrawn. You’ve had locks installed on the doors, alarmed the house, have Mace under your pillow, and a gun on the nightstand.”

“He tried to rape me, mom. Forgive a girl for being afraid.”

“I know you. You’ve been through similar trouble before.” Della threw up her hands. “Brett Daniels,” she said, speaking the name of a troubled resident who stalked Claire during her internship. “He spray-painted threats on your door and tried to run you off the road.”

“So?”

“So?” Della shook her head. “You didn’t react this way then.”

“Maybe this is different. It was here. In my own bed. Maybe I should move.”

“Maybe you should admit that you’re trying to defend yourself against the future.”

“So now you’re a psychologist.”

“I’m your mother. That qualifies me to make a judgment.”

Claire huffed.

“Tyler is only an excuse. There is only one thing stalking you now.”

She looked at Della, silhouetted by the light behind her. “Huntington’s disease.” She spoke the name of the disease she’d inherited from Wally, her father. She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “And you think that I think that this gun is going to keep HD at bay?”

“Of course not. But your fear that HD will strike and spoil your future is manifested in your need for that gun.”

Claire felt like cursing. Was it anger over her mother’s insight?
Or has Huntington’s already started to affect me, altering my personality so that I’ll be less inhibited and more likely to …
She closed her fist and counted.
One, two, three, four, ten!
“And where did you get your psychiatry degree?”

Della stared at her daughter. To Claire, it was the look you give a stranger who has mayonnaise on his cheek and doesn’t know. Pity. Embarrassment.

“I need some sleep,” Claire muttered. She stood and walked toward the hallway, but not before picking up the pistol from the counter.

“Claire,” her mother said softly.

Claire looked back at Della without speaking.

“I saw a beautiful wedding dress in Brighton last week. I want to show you.

She smiled. That was Della. Always trying to get Claire to look at the bright side, reminding her that John had only recently popped the question after learning that Claire carried the HD gene. “Okay, Mom,” she whispered. She paused. “I’m supposed to see my genetics counselor today. Maybe I’ll see what she thinks of your theory.”

Claire walked back down the hall to her room, locked, dead-bolted, and chained her door, and set the pistol on her nightstand. She reached her hand beneath her pillow and closed it around a small canister of pepper spray.

She lay awake wondering about whether she’d ever be able to follow through and marry the man she loved.
Mom wants me to look at wedding dresses.
Her eyes flooded with tears.
Is it fair to doom his future just because mine is ruined?

By nine a.m., business at Medical Records Solutions raced forward at a hectic pace. Ami Grandle sipped her second cup of coffee and looked up as Bob Estes walked past her desk. “Valley Orthopedics called,” she said. “They want you to give a demo on our e-patient software.”

Bob poured himself a cup of coffee and slapped a newspaper on her desk. “Check this out. Give Cerelli time off for sick leave and look what he does.”

“Are you listening to me?” she said. “Dr. Smith said he—”

“I know, I know,” he groaned. “Look at this,” he said, pointing to the paper. “Cerelli must have really injured his head in that accident.”

Carol Dawson walked in, clicking her high heels against the floor. “That’s old news. Cerelli’s been dating that girl for years.”

Ami studied the small engagement announcement in the
Brighton Daily.
She felt her stomach tighten. She’d known of John’s on-again, off-again relationship with the Stoney Creek physician, but the last time John had talked with her before his accident, he’d said he’d given up hope on a future with Claire. “This can’t be right,” she muttered.

Carol tugged on the upper edge of the paper. “You’re blushing.”

Ami threw the paper in the trash.

Bob hooked a finger in his belt and leaned against her desk. “Another one bites the dust.”

Carol moved closer. Ami looked away, wishing the duo would leave her alone.

“What’s wrong, Ami?” Carol asked.

“John’s too sweet to be treated the way that woman jerks him around.”

Ami watched as Carol and Bob exchanged glances. She felt heat rise in her face. John had been so friendly since she’d started working in his office. She’d allowed her hopes to rise too high. She pretended to busy herself with a stack of files on her desk, avoiding the examining eyes of her coworkers.

Carol took Bob by the arm, nudging him from his perch on the desk. “Come on, big boy. Give a woman space to work.”

Ami waited until the others disappeared from her office, then turned her attention to the picture of the happy couple in the newspaper. Opening
the top drawer, she retrieved her scissors. As she cut out John’s picture, deftly separating him from the smiling blonde on his arm, she whispered, “I know how you feel about me, John.” She placed his photograph in the drawer and crumpled the rest of the page into a wad and tossed it into her waste can. “I’m not giving up that easily. Dr. McCall is no match for me.”

Later that morning, Claire sat in the genetics department at Brighton University across from her counselor, Ginny Byrd.

“Huntington’s disease changes everything.” Ginny’s statement hung in the air like the threat of rain.