Dr. Dad (9 page)

“If I minded, I wouldn't be here.”

“Well, you didn't have to rush over and do it tonight,” she said, ushering him down the hall to the stairs. “I bet Lindsey badgered you into doing it.”

“Not really. Although I think she wanted me out of the house. When I'm not home, she pigs out on ice cream in front of the TV.”

“When you're home you don't let her do that?”

“I tell her to take less ice cream,” he explained.

“Ice cream is nature's perfect food,” Susannah declared. “Telling someone to take less is a crime against nature. In fact, if you decided to hang the mirror tomorrow, I could have gone out to the store and stocked
up on ice cream, so I could reward you with a bowl of it afterward. A huge bowl of it. A pig-out bowl.”

“I'd put half of it back,” he admitted. Ice cream didn't mean as much to him as it did to Lindsey or, apparently, Susannah.

He'd been in the Robinson house a few times, but never upstairs. Following Susannah up, he tried not to focus on the sway of her hips, the fall of her hair, the tangy fragrance she wore. She glanced over her shoulder at him, and he wondered if she knew he'd been admiring her from behind. “In any case,” he said, “I couldn't hang the mirror tomorrow night. I've got a class to go to.”

“Really? What kind of class?”

He almost regretted having opened his mouth. Admitting that he needed to take a class in how to be a father would make her think he was inept. Which would be a good way for him to keep anything remotely romantic from stirring to life between them, but still…He didn't like announcing to the world that he felt inadequate when it came to raising his daughter.

Susannah glanced over her shoulder again, obviously awaiting his reply. “Daddy School,” he told her, suppressing the urge to cringe.

She halted and turned to him. “Daddy School?”

He really wished he hadn't mentioned it. He gave a slight nod, then asked, “Where's the mirror?”

She accepted his change of subject. “Right here,” she said, pushing open a door and leading him into a room. A bedroom.
Her
bedroom.

The bed was broad and inviting, with a simple brass headboard. The mattress was covered in teal-colored sheets and a puffy beige comforter, and teal and beige pillows of various shapes lay scattered against the arch
of brass. It was a bed big enough for two, a bed big enough for sex.

Annoyed that the idea had even occurred to him, he turned away. A low teak dresser occupied one wall, and a small brass-trimmed vanity table stood near the window, its mirrored surface covered with crystal bottles filled with colored fluids. Perfumes? Body oils?

He felt a curse take shape on his tongue. Why the hell did the mirror have to be in her bedroom? Why did he have to be in this room with her?

Not that anything would happen. She already knew he was incompetent enough to need a class in fathering skills. If anything could turn off a woman, that was it.

“I was thinking it should go on the back of the closet door,” she said, sauntering to the closet as if his presence in her bedroom signified nothing.

He trailed her across the room. She opened a door and flicked on an interior light, exposing a spacious walk-in closet less than half-filled with clothes. Didn't showbiz stars maintain huge wardrobes? Susannah had clearly left showbiz behind.

The mirror was propped up against a wall inside the closet. “It's really heavy,” she warned, stepping deeper into the closet so Toby could reach the mirror.

The closet had a pleasant scent, fresh laundry blended with Susannah's spicy fragrance. The walls felt close, the rack of her clothes hanging along one side, the empty shelves and as yet unpacked cartons shoved against the other and the single overhead light illuminating her as she stood in the tiny room. It would take so little effort to shut the door, enclosing them both in the snug space.

Swallowing, he turned from her and hoisted the mirror away from the wall. When he swung it toward the
door, her reflection flashed across the glass. Her poise and stance were elegant. As an actor, she'd had to use her body as a creative instrument of her craft, and it showed.

He heaved the mirror up against the door to get an idea of how it would fit. “Like this?”

“That would be perfect.”

He lowered it back to the floor. “Have you got a tape measure? And a pencil. I need to get it centered and mark where the screws are going in.”

“Sure.” She brushed past him while exiting the closet. He felt her warmth against his back, a tickle where a strand of her hair floated against the side of his neck as she moved back into the bedroom.

He took a deep, calming breath. He felt like a teenager, as hormonal and erratic as Lindsey sometimes behaved. Susannah seemed utterly unaffected by his nearness, however. To her, apparently, hanging a mirror was the only thing going on.

She returned to his side carrying a pencil, a tape measure and a straight ruler. “Now, tell me about this Daddy School,” she said as he measured the length of the door. “What is it? A school for daddies?”

All right. He had doomed himself, and it was just as well. As long as she thought of him as a blundering father in need of tutoring, hanging a mirror would define the limits of the evening. He should be glad. He'd already decided that getting involved with her would be a mistake.

“Yes,” he said as he marked the door with small pencil dots where the brackets would be screwed into place. “It's a school for daddies.”

“What do they teach you?”

“How to be better daddies, I hope.”

He felt her smile before he saw its reflection in the mirror. “I don't think you need this school, Toby. You're a wonderful daddy.”

“I wish,” he muttered, hunkering down to mark the bottom of the door. At least he didn't have to look at her while he confessed his failings.

“Of course you are. Look at what a sweetheart Lindsey is. A bad father couldn't raise such a fine daughter.”

“Lindsey idolizes you,” he told her, measuring the width a second time. “If you told her to stand on her head and blow bubbles out her ears, she'd do it. With me, it's a whole different situation.”

“I doubt that. Mac, go away—we're busy here.” She turned to shoo her cat out of the bedroom, then returned to Toby's side, settling onto the carpeted floor next to him, crossing her legs and resting her elbows on her knees. “I don't think Lindsey idolizes me. I hope she doesn't, anyway. I don't want to be idolized.”

“It's not just because you're a famous actress,” he said. He wasn't sure that was true, but he thought it would make Susannah feel better. “It's because you're a woman. And you're not her father. Those are two big pluses.”

“I bet she idolizes you, too. You're a doctor. You save people's lives.”

“Not always.” He fussed with the tape measure, unable to look at her. This conversation had grown too intimate too quickly. And intimate in the wrong way. He'd barely confessed his shortcomings as a father and she had deftly located his even worse failing.

“Well, of course you can't save
every
life,” she said gently.

“My wife died of cancer.” He didn't want to talk about this, but he couldn't see a way out of it. He was kneeling on Susannah's bedroom floor, pretending to be absorbed in the screws and brackets stored in an envelope taped to the mirror, and somehow he and she had ventured into treacherous waters. He couldn't see a way back to safety other than sticking his oars in the water and rowing hard.

He peeled the envelope from the mirror and set it carefully on the floor, then turned to Susannah. “My wife had ovarian cancer. From the day they diagnosed her to the day she died was less than six months. I'm a doctor. I work with other doctors. I'm affiliated with a hospital. And all this brainpower, all this medical expertise, all the years of research and study—none of it saved her life. Lindsey knows this. She was there. She lost her mother. She knows doctors aren't worth idolizing.”

Susannah didn't look shocked or cowed. She gave him a crooked smile. “Maybe someday she'll appreciate how hard the doctors tried. Maybe she'll understand that they did their best. She'll realize that what doctors do is a hell of a lot more important than what actors playing doctors do.”

“You're an optimist.”

Her smile expanded. “It beats the alternative. So, what do you think they'll teach you at this Daddy School? How to win your daughter's respect?”

She seemed so forthright, so unruffled by what he'd revealed. That she could smile, not recoil from him for sharing his scars and insecurities, not dismiss him as the floundering fool he often felt he was, moved him even more than her grace and beauty.

“I'm not sure what they'll teach me,” he said. “I guess I'll find out when I get there.”

“They'll probably teach you that you're doing everything right,” she said. “But it'll be worth it for you to hear that from the experts.” She eyed the door. “Do you want me to get on the other side so I can hold it steady for you?”

“Yeah.” Having the door between them would help. He felt uneasy. He wasn't used to talking about his inadequacies to anyone, let alone a near stranger. He wasn't sure why he'd opened up to her.

She stood and circled the door. “I'm ready,” she called out. He positioned the first bracket and screwed it to the wall. She held the door firm against the pressure.

Other than the faint creak of the wood as the screw bit into it, the room was silent. The cat hadn't returned. Susannah didn't speak. The door stood solidly between them.

Should he say something? Find an upbeat subject to discuss? He couldn't think of anything. His mind was overwhelmed by the realization that spending a few minutes with Susannah in her bedroom was nothing like he would have imagined.

He bent over and picked up another bracket. Once he'd positioned it, he twisted the screw into place. He tried to picture Susannah on the other side, strong despite her slender build, holding the door still. “Am I pushing too hard?” he asked, hoping she wasn't straining herself.

“No,” her voice came to him. “Am I?”

Not now,
he wanted to say.
Before, when you asked me questions I didn't want to answer…

Yet she hadn't really asked. And he could have
avoided answering. Perhaps, on some subliminal level, he'd wanted to tell her these things. Perhaps he needed a woman to talk to even more than Lindsey did.

No. Susannah was Lindsey's friend first. Lindsey was the one who mattered, the one he loved, the one he worried about.

“I appreciate your spending the afternoon with Lindsey,” he said.

She didn't respond immediately. “We had fun,” she said.

He screwed in another bracket. “Lindsey more than you, I'm sure.” He fastened another bracket, then warned, “The last two are going into the bottom of the door, so there's going to be more pressure down there.”

“Okay.”

He knelt on the thick blue carpet and worked the last two brackets into the wall. She said nothing. Yet the tension seemed to leave him. The silence had grown comfortable, almost companionable. “Done,” he called to her. “I'm going to put the mirror on now.”

Susannah emerged from behind the door. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just hold the door steady from the side,” he requested, lifting the heavy silver glass and fitting it into the brackets. He adjusted them, wedging their lips against the mirror to pin it to the door, and then stepped back. His image filled the mirror, and then Susannah's as she came to stand beside him.

“I had fun, too,” she said quietly, addressing his reflection. “I like Lindsey.”

He watched her reflection as she watched his. Her eyes were so clear he felt as if he could see straight through them to something inside her, something soft
and sweet and questioning. Something that told him she was trying to communicate much more than what her words expressed.

He was afraid to find out what. So he didn't ask. He simply returned her reflected smile, pocketed his screwdrivers and said, “All done.”

S
USANNAH HADN'T EXPECTED
to fall asleep easily that night, so it didn't shock her to find herself at two-thirty in the morning, seated at her computer in the room she'd set up as an office. A cup of herbal tea stood near her elbow, its minty fragrance soothing.

She'd been writing. Rewriting. Revising. The story line she'd come up with for the scripts she'd been commissioned to do for
Mercy Hospital
was fine, but the character she'd created, the handsome young pediatrician, needed work.

Actually, he would have served as a fine character the way she'd first written him: reserved but friendly, exuding a quiet confidence that drew women to him. But tonight, as Arlington slept, Susannah remained awake, altering him, giving him added texture, added dimension. His quiet confidence would mask deep vulnerabilities. His sexy smile would disguise a wounded heart. He would not be just some handsome dude introduced into the plot to excite the female staff of Mercy Hospital—and the female audience tuning in to the show. He would be much more complex.

Leaning back in her chair, she rubbed her eyes, which were beginning to burn from the strain of staring at the monitor. She took a sip of tea, then glanced toward the window.

Toby's house was dark.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected when he'd come to her house, but she'd sensed that more would happen than merely the mirror hanging. Maybe she'd hoped he would suggest that they get together, just the two of them, some evening. Dinner, a movie, nothing elaborate, but…just some time together, assuming he found her even remotely as attractive as she found him.

Several times that evening, she'd felt a spark. When the mirror had been hung and she'd moved beside him to judge whether it was straight and properly centered on the door, she'd seen something in his eyes, a flash of longing.

Or maybe it was just her own longing she'd seen. Mirrors could be tricky that way.

He'd left almost immediately after that moment when they'd stood side by side, gazing at each other through the medium of the mirror. She'd felt bad about his abrupt departure, wondering whether she'd made him uncomfortable. When he'd talked about his wife, she'd sensed that it was a difficult subject for him. If she were more reckless, she would have taken him in her arms and given him a hug.

The computer hummed. The tea grew tepid in her ceramic mug. She scrolled up the screen and reread what she'd written, altering a word here, adjusting a phrase there.

The regular writers on the show would have finished this scene by now. But one of them had decided not to renew his contract, and Bill Rowan, the head writer, had been worried that the scripts were getting a little stale after five years. Susannah had written two episodes in the past two years, and when she'd approached Bill with a story line that would give her character a graceful exit out of the show, he'd surprised
her by saying, “You've got a knack for this, Susannah. Why don't you write me a few scripts for next season? You know these characters better than anyone. You could do it—and you could even do it long-distance, if you're really sure you want to clear out of town.”

She could do it. She'd been working from scripts for so much of her life that she often found herself thinking in television rhythms, visualizing the world in scenes and camera angles and strings of dialogue. Some actors liked to stretch their creative muscles by directing television shows. She hadn't given much thought to stretching any creative muscles, but she wasn't going to slam a door on potential income. If she hadn't been supporting her parents all these years, she would be rich. But she had been, and she wasn't.

She couldn't say she loved writing, but she didn't mind it. And she could do it far from the people who'd made her miserable.

One final glance at the Cole house, and she turned back to her computer. She knew the casting department wouldn't pay much attention to her description, but she made sure she'd mentioned that the new pediatrician at Mercy Hospital was tall, with a wistful smile and thick brown hair and eyes so dark and haunted that a woman couldn't help but sigh and shiver a little inside when she gazed into them.

 

“R
EALLY
? You were inside her house?” Amanda squealed. She always squealed when she got excited.

Lindsey motioned for her to lower her voice. The cafeteria was pretty noisy, anyway—the fourth-graders they had to share lunch with were so obnoxious—but she didn't want a teacher's aide showing up at their
table to find out what was so exciting that Amanda had to squeal about it.

“Yes, I was inside her house,” Lindsey reported. “I was in there a million times when Cathy lived there, don't forget.”

“It's not the same thing,” Meredith pointed out.

“Cathy wasn't a TV star.”

“So what was it like?” Amanda asked, bouncing in her chair. “I mean, did she have jewels lying around? Or all that gourmet stuff in the kitchen like they use in California? I've heard they cook way different in California, like with herbs and raw octopus and stuff like that.”

“She's not a very good cook,” Lindsey said, feeling a bit smug because she'd had such extensive personal contact with Susannah Dawson. “I've eaten her homemade brownies, and they were kind of dry.”

“Yeah, but
she
baked them. I mean, that must have been so cool, eating something
she
baked, even if it tasted bad.”

“She probably had a personal chef back in Hollywood,” Meredith said.

“Exactly.” In truth, Lindsey didn't know if Susannah had had a personal chef, but she'd made the same assumption as Meredith. Meredith was a bit smarter than Amanda, but Amanda was okay, too. Now that Cathy was living in Atlanta, Lindsey understood how important it was to stay close to her other friends. It was hard, since they didn't live next door to her, and neither of them was in her class, but at least they could spend time together during lunch.

“Is she really thin?” Amanda asked. She was really thin herself. She was always picking at her lunch, peeling the crusts from her bread and then crumbling her
sandwich and throwing it out. Lindsey knew about eating disorders, and she sometimes worried about Amanda. If Amanda hadn't been her friend, Lindsey might have discussed her concerns with her father and gotten his input, being that he was a doctor and all. But they were friends, and Lindsey would never betray a friend.

“Susannah is beautiful,” Lindsey said, then added.

“Really thin isn't beautiful,” because she thought Amanda needed to hear that. “And she eats like a regular person. She ate spaghetti at our house.”

“She was at your house?” Amanda squealed.

“Last Friday. She came for dinner.”

Meredith gave her a gentle poke in the arm. “Why didn't you tell us?”

Lindsey hadn't told them because she'd acted like a jerk that night, and she didn't want to have to admit to her friends she'd stomped out of the room when Susannah implied that being a TV star was a drag. “Well, she's our next-door neighbor,” Lindsey explained, giving a blasé shrug. “It's not like such a major thing if she comes over for dinner.”

Meredith sank back in her chair and sighed. “I can't believe this. Nothing ever happens in Arlington. I can't believe we've got someone this famous living here—right next door to you.”

“She's really just like a normal person when you meet her,” Lindsey said, hearing the smugness in her voice.

“I know your dad doesn't like you making plans after school, but do you think maybe we could just come over and look at the house?” Meredith asked.

“It's Cathy Robinson's house,” Lindsey said. “You
know what Cathy's house looks like. You were there when Cathy lived there.”

“Cathy doesn't live there now. It's not her house anymore,” Meredith argued.

“And besides, maybe Susannah Dawson would stand in front of the window and we'd catch a glimpse of her,” Amanda chimed in.

“Or,” Meredith added hopefully, “she might even come outside, and we'd see her in person.”

“She might even talk to us.”

“I think we should form a fan club,” Lindsey declared. She wanted to stay on top of the situation, and if she was the one who organized the club, she could be in charge. “Not a big national fan club, but our own secret club. The Susannah Dawson Admirers Club.”

“That's a great idea,” Meredith said.

“But it's got to be kind of a secret,” Lindsey emphasized, “because I don't think Susannah likes being idolized. You know what I mean?”

“Secret clubs are more fun,” Amanda said.

“So it'll be just us three, unless we decide to invite someone else in—but we all have to agree to any other members,” Lindsey said. The club was her idea, so it was up to her to establish the rules.

“And we'll have to have meetings,” Meredith added, then bit down on a carrot stick from her lunch.

“We should have the meetings at your house, Lindsey. You're the one who lives next door to her.”

Lindsey considered the risks. Not only was she supposed to go straight home after school, but her father didn't like her having friends over when he wasn't home and didn't know in advance. He claimed he
trusted her, but he said he didn't always trust her friends.

He could trust Meredith and Amanda, though—if Lindsey even bothered to tell him they were over. If they came over right after school and the Susannah Dawson Admirers Club met for an hour or even two, they'd still be gone before he got home. If the club was a secret, it would have to be a secret from him, too.

Of course it would have to be a secret from him. If he knew about it, he'd probably tell Susannah, and she'd be pissed. They'd both be pissed—Susannah because she didn't seem to want people to make a big deal over her being a TV star and her father for sneaking her friends into the house after school. Lindsey would be in serious trouble all around.

“Okay,” she said, gesturing for her friends to huddle across the table. “Let's meet at my house today after school. But you can't tell anyone about the club, and we can't let Susannah see us. Okay?”

“Okay,” Amanda and Meredith chorused.

Grinning, Lindsey leaned back and took a crunchy bite out of her apple. She might have lost her best friend, but ironically, it was because Cathy had moved away that Lindsey was going to wind up more popular than ever. And why shouldn't she be? She was like this close to the world-famous Susannah Dawson.

She had too much energy to sit still for the rest of the school day. Ms. Hathaway gave a really boring lesson on decimals, which were so obvious to Lindsey, she didn't see why she had to pay attention. While Ms. Hathaway droned on and on about how the more digits you had to the right of the decimal point, the smaller the fraction actually was in multitudes of ten, Lindsey
doodled a trademark for the club. S.D.A.C. seemed like pretty good initials. But maybe it should be the Susannah Dawson Admiration Society. That sounded so much classier—societies were superior to clubs. She'd have to discuss it with Amanda and Meredith at the first meeting.

It was drizzling outside. Probably for the best. If Susannah was outside when Meredith and Amanda arrived, she'd see them go into the house and tell Dr. Dad. Lindsey was glad he'd gone to Susannah's house last night and hung her mirror for her. She wanted her father and Susannah to be friends. But not too close friends—not close enough that they might be talking about Lindsey behind her back.

After what felt like three years, Ms. Hathaway finished with decimals and moved on to the International Fair. That was another big class event where Lindsey would be the only kid without a mother attending. Everyone in the class had drawn the name of a foreign country out of a shoe box and had to make a presentation on that country. Lindsey had picked Finland, and there really wasn't much to say, except that it was very cold and the Finns ate lots of cheese.

Ms. Hathaway discussed the posters the students were going to have to make for their countries. She discussed researching the countries' flags and their major crops and industries. Lindsey drew a wedge of cheese on the margin of her math worksheet, then drew holes in it like Swiss cheese. She was pretty sure she'd once had cheese from Finland with holes in it.

“Your oral presentation should last between five and ten minutes,” Ms. Hathaway was saying. “I'll expect to see your note cards with all your research on Monday.”

Great. That was just what Lindsey wanted to do for the rest of the week: research Finland and write down everything she learned on note cards.

At last the bell rang and Ms. Hathaway had to shut up and send everyone out to the buses. Kids jammed papers and books into their backpacks, two boys played catch with a pencil and four kids bolted out the door before Ms. Hathaway could stop them.

She could stop Lindsey, though—and she did. “Lindsey Cole?” she hollered across the room as Lindsey tried to sneak out the door. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”