Crisis (6 page)

"Hey, come on!" Lou urged. "What the hell is it? Open it up."

"Yeah, come on, Laurie," Warren urged.

"Am I supposed to open it now?" Laurie questioned. Her eyes were still locked onto Jack's.

"That was the general idea," Jack said. "Of course, if you prefer, you can wait a couple more years. I don't mean to put any pressure on you."

Laurie smiled. Occasionally, she found Jack's sarcasm humorous. With trembling fingers, she removed first the tie and then the wrapping from the package. Everyone but Jack leaned forward with anticipation. The underlying box was covered with black crushed velvet. With the trepidation that Jack might be playing an elaborate and inappropriate trick on her, she snapped open the box. Gleaming back at her was a Tiffany solitaire diamond. It sparkled with what appeared to be an inner light.

She turned the box around so the others could see while she shut her eyes and fought against tears. Such emotionalism was a personality trait she despised in herself, although under the present circumstances, even she could understand it. She and Jack had been dating for almost a decade and living with each other on and off for years. She'd wanted to marry, and she had been convinced he felt similarly.

There were a series of oohs and ahhs from Lou, Warren, and Natalie.

"Well?" Jack questioned Laurie.

Laurie struggled to get herself under control. She used a knuckle to wipe away a tear from each eye. She looked up at Jack and made an instantaneous decision to turn the tables on him and pretend she didn't know what he was implying. It was something Jack could very well have done. After all these years, she wanted to hear him actually say what the engagement ring implied. "Well what?" she questioned.

"It's an engagement ring!" Jack said with a short, self-conscious laugh.

"I know what it is," Laurie responded. "But what does it mean?" She was pleased. Putting pressure on Jack had the benefit of keeping her own emotions in check. A slight smile even appeared at the corners of her mouth as she watched him squirm.

"Be specific, you ass!" Lou barked at Jack. "Pop the question!"

Jack realized what Laurie had done, and a smile came to his face as well. "All right, all right!" he said, quieting Lou. "Laurie, my love, despite the danger in the past that has befallen those I love and hold dear and my fear such danger could extend to you, would you marry me?"

"That's more like it!" Lou said, holding his glass again in the air. "I propose a toast to Jack's proposal."

This time everyone drank.

"Well?" Jack repeated, redirecting attention to Laurie.

Laurie thought for a moment before answering. "I know your fears and understand their origin. I just don't share them. Be that as it may, I fully accept the risk, whether real or imagined. If something is to happen to me, it will be my fault entirely. With that caveat, yes, I would love to marry you."

Everyone cheered as Jack and Laurie exchanged a self-conscious kiss and awkward hug. Laurie then took the ring from the box and tried it on. She extended her hand to look at it. "It fits perfectly. It's exquisite!"

"I borrowed one of your rings for a day to be sure of the size," Jack admitted.

"Not the biggest rock in the world," Lou said. "Did it come with a magnifying glass?"

Jack threw his napkin at Lou, who caught it before it wrapped around his face.

"Your best friends are always honest." Lou laughed. He handed the napkin back.

"It's a perfect size," Laurie said. "I don't like jewelry to be gaudy."

"You got your wish," Lou added. "No one is going to call it gaudy."

"When will the big day be?" Natalie asked.

Jack looked at Laurie. "Obviously, we haven't talked about it, but I think I'll leave it up to Laurie."

"Really?" Laurie questioned.

"Really," Jack answered.

"Then I'd like to talk to my mom about the timing. She's let me know on many an occasion in the past that she'd like me to have my wedding at the Riverside Church. I know that was where she had wanted to be married herself, but it didn't happen. If it's all right, I'd like her to have a say as to the timing and the place."

"Fine by me," Jack said. "Now where's that waiter? I need some more champagne."

Boston, Massachusetts October 9, 2005 4:45 p.m.

(one month later)

It had been a great workout. Craig Bowman had used the weight room for a half-hour to tone up and stretch. Then he'd gotten into a series of competitive, pickup, three-on-three basketball games. By pure luck, he'd managed to be teamed up with two talented players. For well over an hour, he and his teammates had not lost and had given up the court only from sheer exhaustion. After the basketball, Craig had indulged himself with a massage followed by a steam and shower.

Now, as Craig stood in front of the mirror in the VIP section of the Sports Club/LA men's locker room and regarded himself critically, he had to admit he looked better than he had in years. He'd lost twenty-two pounds and an inch from his waist since he'd joined the club six months ago. Perhaps even more apparent was the disappearance of the pudgy sallowness of his cheeks. In its place was a healthy, rosy glow. As an attempt to appear more contemporary, he'd let his sandy-colored hair grow out a bit, and then had it styled at a salon such that he now brushed it back on both sides rather than parting it on the left as he'd done for as long as he could remember. From his perspective, the overall change was so remarkable that had he seen himself a year ago he wouldn't have recognized himself. He surely was no longer the stodgy, bromidic doctor.

Craig's current routine was to come to the club three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Of the three days, Friday was the best, since it was the least crowded and afforded the psychological stimulus of the weekend stretching out in front of him with all its promise. As a standing policy, he'd decided to close the office at noon on Fridays and take calls with his cell phone. That way, Leona could come with him to work out. As a present for her as well as himself, he'd sprung for a second membership.

Several weeks previously, Leona had moved in with him at his Beacon Hill home. She'd decided on her own that it was ridiculous for her to pay for an apartment in Somerville when she was staying with him every night. Craig initially had been miffed about the move, because there had been no discussion and it had been presented as a fait accompli. To him it seemed coercive just when he was reveling in his new freedom. But, after a few days, he had adjusted. He had forgotten the power of eroticism. Also, he rationalized that the living arrangement could be reversed with ease if the need arose.

Craig's final preparation was to slip on his new Brioni jacket. After shrugging his shoulders a few times to settle it into place, he glanced back into the mirror. Turning his head from side to side to view himself from slightly different angles, he briefly entertained the idea of studying acting instead of art. The notion brought a smile to his face. He knew his imagination was running wild yet the thought was not completely preposterous. As well as things were going, he couldn't help feel that the world was his oyster.

When Craig was fully dressed, he checked his cell phone for messages. He was in the clear. The plan was to head back to the apartment, relax with a glass of wine and the newest
New England Journal of Medicine
for an hour or so, then on to the Museum of Fine Arts to check out the current exhibition, and finally go to dinner at a new, trendy restaurant in the Back Bay.

Whistling under his breath, Craig walked from the locker room out into the main lobby of the club. To his left was the sign-in desk, while to his right down a corridor past the bank of elevators were the bar and restaurant. Muted music could be heard from the general area. Although the athletic facilities were generally not crowded on Friday afternoons, happy hour at the bar was another story and was just beginning to gear up.

Craig checked his watch. He'd timed things perfectly. It was quarter to five: the exact time he'd agreed to meet Leona. Although they came to the club and left together, while they were there, they each did their own thing. Leona was currently into the stair machine, Pilates, and yoga, none of which thrilled Craig.

A quick visual sweep of the sitting area confirmed that Leona had yet to emerge from the women's side. Craig wasn't surprised. Along with a relative lack of reserve, punctuality was not one of her strong points. He took a seat, perfectly content to watch the parade of attractive people coming and going. Six months ago, in a similar circumstance he would have felt like the odd man out. Now he felt entirely at ease, but no sooner had he gotten comfortable than Leona appeared, coming through the women's locker room door.

Just as he had critically regarded himself a few minutes earlier, Craig gave Leona a quick once-over. The workouts were benefiting her as well, though, due to her comparative youth, she'd been firm, rosy-cheeked, and shapely from the start. As she drew near, he could appreciate that she was an attractive as well as a high-spirited and headstrong young woman. Her main handicap from Craig's perspective was her Revere, Massachusetts, accent and syntax. Particularly grating was her tendency to pronounce every word ending in an "er" as if it ended in a short but harsh "a." Believing he had her interests at heart, Craig had tried to call her attention to her habit with the hope of getting her to change, but she'd reacted angrily, venomously accusing him of being an Ivy League elitist. So Craig had wisely given up. Over time, his ear had acclimated to a degree, and in the heat of the night he really didn't care whether she had an accent.

"How was your workout?" Craig asked, getting to his feet.

"Terrific," Leona responded. "Better than usual."

Craig winced. The accent on
terrific
was on the first syllable instead of the second, and
better
came out as "beddah." As they walked to the elevator, he resisted the urge to comment by tuning her out. While she carried on about her workout and why he should try both Pilates and yoga, he contentedly mused about the upcoming evening and what a pleasant day it had been so far. That morning at the office he'd seen twelve patients: not too many and not too few. There had been no rushing frantically from one exam room to another, which was the usual course of events at his old practice.

Over the months he and Marlene, his matronly main secretary and receptionist, had developed a system of scheduling patients according to each patient's need, based on the diagnosis and the individual's personality. The shortest visits were fifteen minutes for rapid, return-visit checkups with compliant and knowledgeable patients, and the longest was one and a half hours. The hour-plus visits were generally for new patients with known and serious medical problems. Healthy new patients were scheduled from forty-five minutes to one hour, depending on age and seriousness of the complaints. If an unexpected problem developed during the course of the day, such as an unscheduled patient needing to be seen or Craig having to go over to the hospital, which hadn't happened that day, Marlene would call the upcoming patients to reschedule if possible and appropriate.

As a consequence, it was rare for people to wait in Craig's office, and equally rare for him to suffer the anxiety of being behind and trying to catch up. It was a civilized way to practice medicine and far better for everyone. Nowadays, Craig actually liked going to the office. It was the kind of medicine he'd imagined when he'd dreamed of becoming a doctor. The only slight bugaboo in what was otherwise a near-perfect situation was that it had not been possible to keep all aspects of his relationship with Leona a secret. Suspicions were rampant and made worse by Leona's youth and willfulness. Consequently Craig had to weather an undercurrent of disapproval from Marlene and his nurse, Darlene, as well as observe their resentful and passive-aggressive behavior toward Leona.

"You're not listening to me!" Leona complained irritably. She leaned forward to glare at Craig. Both had been facing the elevator doors as they descended to the parking garage.

"Of course I am," Craig lied. He smiled, but Leona's mercurial petulance wasn't assuaged.

The elevator doors opened on the valet-parking floor, and Leona stalked out to join a half-dozen people waiting for their vehicles. Craig followed a few steps behind. Relatively wide swings of emotion were a trait of Leona's that Craig was not fond of, but they were generally quick if he just ignored them. Had he slipped a few minutes earlier up in the lobby and called attention to her accent, it would have been a different story. The previous and only time he'd made such a comment had caused a two-day snit.

Craig gave his parking stub to one of the attendants.

"Red Porsche coming right up, Dr. Bowman," the attendant said while touching the peak of his cap with his index finger in a form of salute. He sprinted away.

Craig smiled inwardly. He was proud that he had what he considered the sexiest car in the garage and the antithesis of the Volvo station wagon he'd had in his previous life. Craig imagined that those waiting around him for their cars would be duly impressed. The parking attendants obviously were impressed, as evidenced by their always parking his vehicle close to the valet stand.

"If I seem a little distant," Craig whispered to Leona, "it's because I'm looking forward to our evening: all of it." He winked suggestively.