Courting the Doctor's Daughter (16 page)

“Oh, Daddy, thank you.”

“Your mother would be popping buttons.”

Elation surged through Mary, making her feel almost buoyant. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so. A few weeks before she died, your mom told me that no matter what happened with Sam, she knew you’d be all right because, and I’m quoting her, ‘Our girl is heaven-sent. The Good Lord will see her through.’”

And He had. God had walked with her through her mother’s death, through the difficult years with Sam and his passing. And He would help her now.

Fannie Whitehall, her curly auburn hair tucked into a scarf, arrived with menus. “You two playing hooky?”

“Indeed we are. We’re celebrating.” Henry nodded toward Mary. “Mary’s been accepted into medical school. She’s going to follow in her old man’s footsteps.”

“Congratulations!” Fannie sighed. “Wish I had something to celebrate…like James’s proposal.”

Her father chuckled. “Give it time. You and James are still wet behind the ears.”

They ordered coffee and cherry cobbler with ice cream. Fannie left to fetch it. From the crestfallen look on her face, her father hadn’t said what Fannie wanted to hear.

Mary leaned toward her father. “What if I don’t make it? Luke said the work is grueling.”

“I don’t doubt for a minute that you’ll graduate. Once you decide to do something, you’re unstoppable.”

Her father announced her news to everyone who entered. The congratulations and encouragement Mary received filled her heart to overflowing. Odd her father hadn’t told Luke. Maybe he sensed her reluctance. Not that Luke’s opinion mattered.

The afternoon flew by as they savored the pie and the camaraderie of having time together, just the two of them, with no patients or children requiring their attention.

“I’ve never tasted anything more delicious,” Mary said, finishing off her slice. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh, my. Michael and Philip will be home soon.”

“Best get a move on.” Her father opened his wallet. “Since you’re running late, I’ll pick up Ben at the Foleys’. I could use the exercise.”

Outside the café, Mary and her father parted. She’d gotten as far as the kitchen and laid her handbag on the table when the door opened and banged close. Her sons plodded into the room, heads drooping, mouths turned down, looking like they’d lost their best friend.

“Hi,” Philip said.

Mary caught a glimpse of Michael’s face. She gasped at the cut above her son’s left eye, fast turning purple underneath, and the red bruise on his cheek. “What happened?”

His gaze shifted away. “I’m okay. I tripped playing Red Rover.”

“Come over to the sink.” Mary soaped a dishcloth and gently cleaned then rinsed the cut. On her tiptoes, she retrieved the iodine she kept on the top shelf of the cabinet, then dabbed it on Michael’s injury. He sucked in his breath but didn’t whimper.

Philip tugged at her skirt. “He didn’t cry, Mom.”

“You saw what happened?”

Philip shook his head. “Michael told me he didn’t cry. I would’ve.”

“It’s okay to cry,” Mary said, studying her older son.

Michael’s eyes flooded. “Men don’t cry.”

“You’re a boy, not a man.” Recalling holding her weeping husband in her arms the night he told her about his childhood of abuse, Mary’s throat tightened. “And men do cry.”

Something about Michael’s injuries didn’t add up to a simple fall in the school yard.

“Grandpa should be bringing Ben home soon. Philip, why don’t you go outside to play? Wear a coat. The temperature is dropping.”

Glad for the opportunity to talk to Michael alone, Mary waited until the door closed, and then put an arm around her son’s shoulders. “I’m surprised your teacher didn’t clean this.”

“I guess she didn’t notice.”

“Didn’t notice?” Mary returned the iodine to its place then knelt in front of her son, taking his hands in hers. “Something tells me this cut didn’t come from a fall. Maybe didn’t even occur at school.” She peered into his green eyes, so like her own. “What really happened?”

A sob tore from his throat. “I got into a fight.”

The news thudded to Mary’s stomach. “With who?”

“Jimmy Augsburger.”

“Jimmy’s one of your best friends.”

Michael’s eyes sparked. “Not anymore.”

“What did you fight about?”

Pulling his hands away, Michael focused on a spot on the floor. “Nothing.”

“You’re telling me you and your best friend got into a fight
for no reason.
That doesn’t make sense.”

He shrugged.

“I want an answer.”

“He made me mad.”

“
You
started the fight?”

Nodding, his gaze once again sought the floorboards. What was he hiding?

“Oh, Michael, you’re not a fighter. Tell me what made you angry enough to pick a fight with your best friend.”

“I can’t.”

“Well, you’d better, young man, because if you don’t, you’ll be spending the rest of the day in your room.”

“That’s fair.” Her firstborn shuffled away, his slender shoulders drooping as if he carried the weight of their entire family on his back.

Michael always argued about punishments, and now he took this one without a quarrel? Something was terribly wrong. Should she talk to Mrs. Augsburger? Would she be so angry with Michael that a discussion might escalate the trouble between their sons?

Mary found fighting repulsive. Perhaps she made too much of this. Michael wasn’t violent, not even rough-and-tumble like Philip, who loved to run and romp like an overgrown puppy. Her older, studious son enjoyed reading, playing checkers, and fishing. Quiet pastimes.

Why would he attack his best friend?

Oh, if only Sam were here. Her shoulders sagged. If he were, Sam would either be working at the factory or drunk. No help at all.

God, give me wisdom. Help me know what to do.

Luke’s words ricocheted through her mind: Michael is trying to be the man of the house, too big a job for a ten-year-old boy. Did this fight have something to do with protecting his family? Had Jimmy said something to wound Michael, something about his family, compelling him to uphold their reputation? Or his father’s good name? Her stomach clenched.

Sam died when Michael was eight. She’d taken every precaution to ensure the boys saw their father sober. Not all that hard to do. By the time Sam came home from the saloon, his sons had been asleep for hours. Amazingly, most mornings Sam dressed and headed to work with no sign of a hangover.

She’d hidden Sam’s drinking, making excuses for his absences from the boys’ activities at school or church. Except for her parents, no one caught on—or so she believed.

The door opened, and Ben and Philip raced in ahead of her father. “Philip said Michael was in a fight,” Henry said.

“Yes, he’s in his room. I tried talking to him. He’s not telling me everything.”

“Why don’t I take the boys to the café for a snack and drop them back here afterward?”

“Oh, Daddy, that would be a big help.”

Mary gave Ben and Philip a kiss, then stood in the doorway, watching them turn the corner and head uptown. The sun lowered in the west, matching the sinking in her heart. Whatever had happened this afternoon, she couldn’t ignore the situation.

Please, God, give me the words so I can help Michael handle whatever transpired between him and Jimmy.

She rapped on the boys’ bedroom door and then opened it. Michael lay curled on the bed with his back to her. She sat on the edge of the mattress and ran her fingers through his thick, wavy hair, but her son didn’t acknowledge her presence.

“I’m sorry, Michael. I shouldn’t have sent you to your room. I know you’d never pick a fight unless you felt you had a very good reason.”

Her son didn’t move a muscle, didn’t indicate he’d heard her. The scent of the outdoors clung to his rumpled clothes. The rigid set of his shoulders kept her from pulling him to her, encircling him in the comfort of her arms.

“We need to talk. Please, sit up and look at me.”

Michael hesitated but did as she’d asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed. The bruises on his face tore at her. She had to get to the bottom of this, but the look on his face told her Michael wouldn’t confide in her.

“I think you’re protecting me from something.” She glimpsed the tiniest crack of affirmation in her son’s
stony face. “We’re a family, Michael. Families discuss their problems.”

Her throat closed at her self-deceit. As the years passed, she and Sam stopped talking about his drinking, about the distance it put between them, as if they feared where that conversation might lead…to the dissolution of the sham of their marriage.

Michael looked away. “You can’t do anything.”

Years ago, on the school playground, kids had dubbed her “Mary, the basket baby,” teasing her for being a throwaway child. She hadn’t told her parents. Not because they couldn’t have done anything but because they would’ve tried, and somehow she’d reasoned in the way of a child they’d have made the situation worse.

“Perhaps not, but I’ll feel better once I understand why you’d pick a fight. That worries me.”

“I had a reason, Mom, a good reason.” He folded his arms across his belly.

“The Bible teaches us to turn the other cheek.” Mary tilted his face to hers. “Unless you share what happened, it’ll eat away at you, Michael. I know. When I was a little girl, children called me a hurtful name, but I didn’t tell my parents. Keeping that secret kept me from their comfort. Comfort I want to give you.” Then she bent and kissed his forehead.

His face contorted. “Jimmy told a lie. A big fat lie!”

Bracing herself, Mary asked, “About what?”

His lips trembled. “He wouldn’t take it back.”

Her heart breaking for her son, Mary tugged him close, wrapping his narrow frame in the circle of her arms.

But Michael pulled away, his gaze troubled. Tears welled in his eyes. “Sometimes…Daddy smelled…bad. His eyes were…fuzzy.” Michael took hold of her arm. “Was Daddy a…a drunk like Jimmy said?” he asked softly, his voice laced with sorrow.

Mary gazed into her precious son’s eyes. Innocence and trust in her rested there. Remembering the pain of learning her real parents hadn’t wanted her, had left her on the Lawrence doorstep like a basket of discarded kittens, she couldn’t tell Michael the truth.

Confirming Sam was a drunk would voice the reality Mary had tried to hide from the children all those years—Sam had not wanted them. Not as much as a bottle. She never ever wanted her boys to feel that anguish.

“Your father didn’t always feel well. He had problems that had nothing to do with you or me or Philip.” She took in a sharp breath.
Forgive me, Lord, for this lie.
“Drunk is such an ugly word. It doesn’t describe your father. He loved you and Philip. Never forget that.”

A knot tightened in her stomach. Once again she hid behind the facade of her fictional perfect life. She should’ve faced the question head-on, but how could she hurt her son that way? How could she tell him that his family’s love and their need for him hadn’t been able to stop Sam from derailing like a runaway train?

The knot in her stomach swelled, creeping up her throat, choking her. She’d asked God for the words, the wisdom to help her son, but then she’d lied. No matter what she did these days, she failed to live up to her expectations, but now to fail God…

Unable to look her son in the eyes, she smoothed his collar. “You need to apologize to Jimmy. But I know one thing for sure, Michael. You’re a kind boy, a good boy.”

Tears ran down her son’s cheeks and he sniffed. “I bloodied Jimmy’s nose.”

Mary wiped away his tears and then kissed the top of his head, holding him tight. “We all make mistakes. When we do, we need to say we’re sorry. God understands, and He’ll forgive.”
Please forgive me, Lord.
“So
will Jimmy. It’ll be all right, Michael. Everything will be all right.”

Wasn’t that what she’d said a hundred times over the years of her marriage? Everything would be all right tomorrow, or the next day, or next week.

But it never had been.

Just when she thought she had control over her life, a strong plan for the future, something happened to dredge up the past. Her breath caught. Would covering the truth of that past with a lie make more trouble for her son?

L
uke left the carriage house, heading around the block toward Mary’s place. Doc had told him about Michael’s fight. Luke couldn’t get it out of his mind. For whatever reason, this childhood scuffle gnawed at him. Luke had to see the boy. To see if he could help in some way.

The youngster hadn’t had a good day. Luke’s hadn’t been much better. Sloan was a good doctor, carried his share of the load and got along well with the patients. Mary had to notice his blond good looks and boyish charm. Not that she’d said as much, but Luke had eyes.

And so did Sloan. He lit up like a firecracker when Mary entered the room. Other than his dream of working at Johns Hopkins, Sloan was perfect. Not only as his replacement in the practice but as a husband for Mary, a woman who deserved the best. And as a father for her sons. One in particular. His.

So why did he want to punch the good doctor in the nose?

If only he were free to court Mary. But a secret the size of Gibraltar stood between them. A secret he couldn’t confess. How had he gotten himself into this mess? Hadn’t he learned anything from the lengths his parents had gone to to hide their treachery?

They’d put on the appearance of a perfect, well-dressed, well-mannered family, complete with drawn-on smiles. Those smiles hid their wretchedness—his parents’ rejection of Joseph, whose seizures embarrassed them, and of Luke who’d dared to question their actions.

The result—he’d grown up with a perpetual knot of distaste in his stomach for deceit. And now he kept his fatherhood from Mary. Caught in a deception he had no idea how to extricate himself from. If he told her, he’d lose her good opinion.

He grimaced. Talk about deceiving himself. The fact was he’d never had Mary’s approval. Not since the day they’d met. But for some unexplainable reason, he wanted her respect—and wanted it badly. Badly enough he couldn’t move on. Something undone lay between them, drawing him to her again and again.

But more than his duplicity plagued him. He hadn’t received a response to the wire he’d sent his parents. How like his father to ignore him. Thomas Jacobs loved to be in charge. And keep Luke off balance. They had nothing in common, and whatever meager affection they’d once felt for each other had shriveled and died.

He rounded the corner and approached Mary’s house. The boys played in the backyard. Perhaps he could have a private word with her, try to ease the conflict between them.

Mary opened the door to his knock. His lungs caught on a breath and held. “Hello.”

One glimpse of Mary, this petite woman who’d built a fortress around her heart as high as his, made him yearn to pull her into his arms. If only he could scale those walls…but he made no move toward her, would say none of what filled his mind. “Doc told me about Michael’s fight. I thought I’d check on him…if that’s okay.”

Mary moved to close the door. “We’re fine.”

“Have we gone back to acting like strangers?”

“Isn’t that what we are? Why put on a charade, Luke? Pretending our relationship might go somewhere.”

Had she caught on to his pretense? The thought shook him, but as much as he wanted to deny her claim, he couldn’t. They both played that game. He took a step closer, preventing her from shutting him out. “Might it? Go somewhere?”

Mary heaved a sigh. “Why bother? You’ve made it clear you’re leaving. What’s the point?”

This woman believed in everything he did not—home, hearth. He
should
turn around. Return to his apartment over the carriage house. Pack his belongings and head for New York.

But his feet stayed planted on her doorstep, everything attuned to her, a lure he couldn’t resist. She intrigued him, partly because of her commitment to the things he ran from. All things that, underneath his hard shell, he craved but didn’t have. Logic took flight, and he found himself lost in her emerald eyes, inhaling the scent of her, thinking about staying—

“What are you doing to me?” he said, voice husky, even frenzied.

“Nothing,” she said on a whisper.

“You have no idea how you affect me.” He wanted to kiss her, to pull her into his arms and push everything between them aside. “Let me in.”

He didn’t mean into the house. By the look in her eyes, she grasped that as much as he did. Everything within Luke coiled tight. A heartbeat passed between them. She opened the door and Luke stepped inside, hoping somehow to find middle ground, a way to combine this blend of vinegar and bicarbonate, without an explosion that hurt them both.

Mary disappeared into her kitchen. Luke followed her to the doorway, taking in the table set for four and the aroma of a chicken. Her comfy kitchen filled him with longing for a real home.

“May I get you something to drink? Coffee?” she said, darting about like a robin in search of a worm.

“No, thanks.”

Obviously, his presence made her nervous. Instead of pushing them under her table, he forced his feet back to the living room and sat on the sofa, a cozy spot, even with Mary pacing in the next room like a caged lioness.

She returned with a cup of coffee and sat across from him, on the edge of her seat, ignoring him by making a production of smoothing her skirt. A vision in blue and white, starched and proper, she was the epitome of a lady. His pulse galloped in his chest. Maybe if he got the focus off them, she’d stop being jittery and he’d stop reacting like a schoolboy at his first party. “Is Michael all right?”

“Yes. The fight was merely a school yard dispute. One boy saying something mean.”

“I remember those days.” Luke chuckled. “Boys get into scrapes now and again.”

But Mary dipped her head, studying the dark brew between her palms. “I suppose.”

Don’t get involved, Jacobs. Don’t wrap yourself in this family any more than you already have. A doctor didn’t care about what led to the punch, merely the result. But something about the way Mary avoided his gaze triggered an instinct in Luke. “This fight wasn’t merely a childish scuffle, was it?”

Her head snapped up. “I can handle it.”

“Letting me help shoulder the burden isn’t a crime.”

Shifting in her seat, she avoided his gaze. “I don’t need your—”

“I know you don’t,” he interrupted. “But I’m here, so let me help.”

She worried her lip, clearly debating the wisdom of telling him anything. And he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t earned the right to be her confidante. But in those boys, he’d seen part of himself. Michael and Philip had lived without much of a father, tried hard to be brave, keeping their feelings tucked inside. Luke suspected that led to Philip’s stomachaches and Michael’s attempt to play the role of an adult. He understood these boys because he’d shared the same wobbly foundation. For as long as he stayed, he wanted to help, if he could.

At the same time, a voice inside him marveled at the irony of a man who never got involved sitting on Mary’s sofa pressing to get drawn in. “Tell me,” he said, gentler this time.

She put the cup and saucer on a nearby table and glanced through the kitchen to the backyard, checking on her sons. “One of Michael’s friends accused his father of…” She swallowed. “…being a drunk.”

What a painful thing for a boy to hear, especially from someone he trusted. No wonder Michael had lashed out. “I’m sorry. That had to upset him. Is he all right?”

“Physically, yes, but…” She rose, wrapping her arms around herself. “What his friend did to Michael isn’t the worst,” she said, her gaze filling with misery.

Luke crossed to her side, not touching her, simply offering his presence. “What do you mean?”

“When Michael asked for the truth, I lied.” She looked away. “I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t destroy that boy’s feelings for his father.”

Mary?
Lied?
The idea of her lying churned through him. She’d done it to protect her son. Would she perhaps understand why he’d kept silent about his relationship to Ben? No, he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t budge the lie, a
barrier of stone. “If one boy knows, the subject may not be dead.”

Her gaze flew to him. “It’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

“You’re not doing Michael a favor by covering up the truth.” How did he dare to give such advice when he did the same?

“This is my life, not yours. My life and my sons. I can’t, I
won’t,
tell them about Sam’s drinking.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Right or wrong, the decision is mine. I expect you to honor it.”

“Your secrets are safe with me.”

“I expect they will be,” she shot back, “all the way to New York.”

Her words stung, but then the truth often did. As she’d said, he would leave. And she’d be the one to remain, the one who’d raise her sons, the one who’d deal with the consequences of her choices. Not him.

“I’ll go.” He rose, turning on his heel, and strode toward the door. A sheet of paper fluttered from the tabletop to the floor. Luke reached for it, and noticed the words, Central College of Physicians and Surgeons and below that, Mary’s name. And the first word in the letter.
Congratulations.

Mixed emotions warred inside him. A surge of pride at her accomplishment crashed against a wave of concern for her sons, who’d soon have less of their mother’s time. One of those sons was his.

Mary snatched the paper from his hands.

“They accepted you,” he said.

Her mouth thinned, the mouth he’d kissed and wanted to kiss again, but he knew he never would. In a year, maybe two, Mary would join the practice and carry on the legacy her father began. Frank Sloan would remain while Mary attended school. Luke wasn’t needed in the practice. He wasn’t needed here. “That’s quite an achievement.”

She blinked, and her gaze softened. “Thank you. I, ah, expected disapproval.”

How could he explain how proud he was? He hardly understood his reaction himself. “You’ll be a wonderful doctor. I’ve seen how closely you watch procedures at the office, how often I find you reading a medical journal.”

A blush rose to her cheeks. “I have a lot to learn.”

“And a lot to experience. I’ll never forget my first glimpse of a cadaver.” He gave a lopsided grin. “I lost my lunch.”

She laughed, not a robust laugh, but one telling Luke she’d handle whatever came. “I dread that.”

“You’ll get used to it and learn so much from examining the human body.”

She leaned toward him, her eyes shining, sharing his love of medicine, bridging the gap between them. “I’ve been studying the vascular system. The muscles, learning everything I can.”

“The work is exciting.”

“And challenging.”

“In the beginning, I found classes overwhelming. Your life is busy now but nothing compared to the pressure of medical school. Why not wait until the boys are older? When they’re more independent, less apt to feel abandoned?”

“Abandoned?” She took a step back. “You’re not a parent.”

His heart skipped a beat, hoping his face didn’t reveal the truth.

She pointed a finger at him. “How do you know what my sons will feel?”

Luke wanted to shout that he’d felt abandoned as a child—that’s how he knew, but then it occurred to him that his classmates hadn’t reacted the same. The difference
between them and him—their parents showed an interest in their sons’ lives. They wrote, came to visit. His had not.

Perhaps Mary could handle medical school and parenting. She’d never hurt her sons on purpose, as his parents surely had.

She paced in front of him, clearly gathering up steam. “I love my sons. I’d never neglect them. You think I haven’t thought this out and planned every step? While you, Luke Jacobs, don’t stick to anything. So don’t lecture me.”

Even from two feet away, Luke could feel her tension. She was right. He hadn’t stuck to one thing, to one place, to one person. For years he’d had no ties, no one in his life who truly mattered. Until now. “I know you wouldn’t harm them. I keep putting the feelings I had as a child onto your sons. I’m the one with the problem. Not you.”

The people he cared most about lived in this house, in this town. No matter how hard he’d tried to stay detached, he’d failed. The admission shook him. But caring didn’t fix the brokenness separating him and Mary.

The back door opened, and Michael and Philip raced inside with Ben tagging along behind.

“Did you come to play with us?” Ben asked, giving Luke a hug around his legs and beaming up at him.

At Ben’s sweet, innocent face, Luke’s breath caught in his throat. If only he could lay claim to his son. He trailed a hand through the boy’s hair. He wanted to say yes but didn’t have the right. “I’m not staying.”

Philip touched Luke’s sleeve. “Hi.”

Overcome by strong feelings of tenderness and protectiveness toward all three of these children, Luke could barely speak. “Hi, guys,” he said, including Michael in his gaze.

Michael smiled. Luke took in the bruises on his face, nothing to be concerned about medically. Had the need to
defend his father’s reputation driven this gentle boy to fight? “You’ve got yourself the king of all shiners, there, Michael.”

The boy nodded and then looked away, evidently unwilling to discuss the fight.

“Are you here for supper?” Philip asked.

At her outspoken son’s hospitality, Mary’s jaw dropped.

Luke thrust out a hand. “Oh, no. Your mother wasn’t expecting me. The table’s set for four.”

“Can I put one more plate on the table? Please, Mom?” Philip said, pleading.

Mary looked trapped, caught between her son’s eager invitation and him—a man she wanted gone. Sighing, she nodded toward Luke, then turned and walked into the kitchen.

Face shining, the boy bounced along after his mother. Luke heard the sound of a plate and glass being laid out. Michael joined his brother, and from the clang of metal, Mary’s elder son added flatware.

Mary’s nod hadn’t been much of a summons, yet spending another evening alone held the appeal of Chinese torture. He couldn’t resist the chance to be near Mary, near her sons.

Except the family wasn’t his and never would be.

While Mary mashed the potatoes, he and the boys tromped outside. He tossed the baseball, and the boys took turns at bat, the four of them having a great time.