The Baby Who Stole the Doctor's Heart (7 page)

With that, Mark shoved his chair back and stood. “I could just walk away, you know. Get in my truck, head down the road, never look back…”

“But you wouldn't,” Eric said. “Would you.” It was an emphatic statement, not a question. “Because, deep down, that's not who you are.”

Angela expected an outburst from Mark, braced herself for it.

Instead, he chuckled. “The best part of having good friends is that they know you. And the worst part of having good friends is that they know you.”

“Then you're good with this?” Eric asked. “Because here's the bottom line. If you don't want to do it, if you're totally opposed, we won't force you. We'll find someone else. All you have to do is say the word, and we won't bother you about it again.”

“It's a worthy program.” He turned, actually bent at the waist in a polite bow to Angela. “My compliments to the director. What you're going to do is a very good thing, and I would be honored to scowl at you every day for a week. And I'll try for a consistent seventy-five percent, Angela.” He crossed his heart. “I truly will.”

“But I want fifty,” she said, relenting into a smile.

Eric and Neil looked at each other, clearly confused.

“Scowling,” she explained. “He's only allowed to scowl fifty percent of the time. Oh, and that's around me. Around the children…” She looked pointedly at Mark. “You'll smile. No arguments, no exceptions. When my kids look at you, I want them to see a happy face.”

“It's going to your head, isn't it?” he asked. “This position's already going to your head. Or is this payback for you not getting into my class? You're going to torment me for the entire week, torture me into smiling.”

To prove his point, he smiled at her. Nice smile, very handsome. Maybe even a little genuine.

Her answer to him was a grin. A great big grin. Then she gathered her papers, stuffed them into her portfolio, and whooshed toward the door. On her way out she stopped, patted Mark on the back and said, “Job well done.” Then she went to revise Scotty Baxter's meal plan. It seemed he
was substituting cookies for broccoli and ice cream for fruit. A very stubborn little boy. And Mark's first assignment. Somehow she saw the two of them being good for each other.

 

“She's amazing,” Dinah whispered. They were standing over the crib, watching Sarah take a nap. Angela managed to sneak in at least once every hour to visit her daughter, and Dinah came almost as often. “I love my girls, but I've never had a baby, and…”

“And you're still thinking it's time?”

“We are. Eric and I have been talking about it. I think that once Mark gets his program under way, Eric's going to cut back a bit at work. At least, that's the plan.”

“But Mark's not going to stay. Won't that put Eric under stress, having to find someone to replace the hightailing Dr. Anderson?”

“Between us, I think Eric's hoping he'll stay. He thinks Mark is one of the most talented doctors he's ever known, and he'd like to have him take over Trauma entirely, which would let Eric get back into pediatric surgery, his first love. And another secret between sisters…I think he and Neil would like to open a separate children's hospital. Or actually turn this one into all pediatrics, and build another one for adult services. Gabby's got her women's hospital, and I think that's been giving them the urge.”

“That would be amazing,” Angela said.

“And a way off. Which is why we're talking baby sooner rather than later. Because Eric's going to commit himself in other directions, I think, and you know Eric. Once he's committed, he's committed all the way.”

“Except Mark isn't going to stay here. That's what he told me. I don't know why he's here in the first place as he seems pretty opposed to it. I don't know what kind of hold
Neil and Eric have on him, but he's made it clear to me that he's counting every one of those days during his eighteen months. And I have an idea that on his last day he'll be out of here like that proverbial shot.”

Dinah sighed. “So he says. But Eric and Neil aren't assuming that yet.”

“Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.” In the crib, Sarah opened her eyes, smiled up at her mother. Then extended her arms into the air to be picked up. “Who could resist that?” Angela said, taking her daughter into her arms. “Did you have a good nap, Sarah?” she asked her.

Sarah, barely a year old, babbled something that Angela took to be a yes.

“Well, Mama has a treat for you back in her office.” Her own special blend of natural yogurt, bananas and apricots. “And she has just enough time to give it to you herself.” Even though Sarah was at the age she wanted to feed herself, Angela wasn't ready to give up the experience. She loved it, felt the bonding growing through it. Got sad when she thought of how, in so many ways, her daughter was already finding her own way in life. “And, Dinah, tell Eric to stop talking and start acting. You really do need two or three of these.”

“One or two,” Dinah corrected, then stepped into the hall.

Angela followed a minute later, after she'd spoken with the head of the nursery, promising her she'd have Sarah back for afternoon playtime. Then she carried her daughter through the main hall, singing Sarah's favorite, “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round…” They passed the conference room, through the hospital lobby, and headed on to the little office adjoining the kitchen. Still singing, still paying more attention to Sarah than to where she was going. Which was
why, when she took a sharp turn past the food storage pantry, she nearly crashed into Mark.

“Catchy tune,” he quipped, his eyes on Sarah, not on Angela

“Were you looking for me? Because my office isn't exactly convenient to anything else in the hospital unless you're the bread deliveryman.”

He held out a pie plate. “Your office was locked. Couldn't leave it inside. Pie was good for a leftover, by the way. Made a pretty good lunch. Definitely something you should consider for your diabetic menu.”

“You took half a pie home with you!” she exclaimed, taking a firmer hold on Sarah, who was beginning to squirm.

“And ate it for lunch. It's nice having a homemade meal for a change.”

“Pie isn't a meal, and you're not going to eat like that at camp, Mark. Not where I'm trying to train the children to eat proper meals.”

“Camp…. ah, yes. See, here's the thing. You've got that beautiful little girl. How are you going to be able to leave her behind when you go to camp? Aren't you going to miss her?” He ran a thumb over Sarah's chubby cheek. “Isn't she going to miss you?”

Angela smiled. “You're good, but it's not going to work. Camp is going on as planned, I'll be there, and I'll have plenty of time to spend with my daughter because I've arranged to have her cared for there, the way I have her here, at the hospital, with me. Good try, though. I'll give you credit where it's due.”

“Daaa…” Sarah said, looking straight at Mark, holding her arms out to him.

He stepped back.

“I think she wants you to hold her,” Angela said, smiling.

“I know what she wants,” he said, taking even another step backwards. “And contrary to what she thinks, I'm not her daaa, and I don't hold children unless they have a medical problem.”

Not to be daunted, Angela stepped toward him, then lifted Sarah over to him. “I don't like to disappoint her. I'm not sure why she thinks you're her daddy. In fact, I'm surprised she even has the concept of daddy. But she does, and I think you should hold her.” She smiled at his distress, smiled even more broadly over the way Sarah was struggling so hard to get into his arms. For whatever reason, her daughter was quite smitten. Briefly, Angela wondered if that was the sign of things to come in the future. Her daughter, and tall, dark, drop-dead gorgeous men?

 

What was it about Angela? She wasn't merely a little pixie of a woman, she was a huge, overpowering presence. Her entire essence just exploded all over the place, and to be frank about it, it scared him a little. Not because he was anticipating some big love affair with her. Not even because he was anticipating a friendship of more than anything on the surface. But when her
essence
exploded, it got all over people. Caught them up in the same enthusiasm that infected her. And if there was one thing he didn't want, it was enthusiasm, about
anything.

Still, here he was, sitting in a chair in the worst office he'd ever seen in his life, feeding her baby a yogurt concoction. It was crazy. He wasn't sure how it had happened. One minute he was returning a pie plate and the next he had something sticky spilled on his scrub top because Sarah was fighting him for the spoon, and winning. “You need a better office,” he said, holding onto the bowl of yogurt while Sarah also
held on, still tussling to get it away from him. Tussling, like mother, like daughter. “And next time bring me a napkin or two.”

“Office suits me. It's near the kitchen, I can see the food vendors when they come and go. And even a napkin is a poor defense against Sarah when she wants to be independent.” She smiled. “You need a rain slicker.”

“What I need is to get back to work.” Sarah was too cute. She reminded him of…of things he'd rather forget, things that needed to stay where they were, in the past. He made a move to hand her back to Angela, but Sarah fought him and held on for everything she was worth. And to be honest, he didn't struggle too much to let go. It was nice holding her. If the situation had turned out differently, he might have been a dad to a baby this age.

“She adores you,” Angela said. “Just look how happy she is on your lap. I wouldn't want to interrupt her right now. It might affect her digestion. And it's nice just…watching her relate to other people. She's a very friendly little girl.”

“What is it about you and your obsession with digestion?” he said, taking his eye off the bowl just long enough for Sarah to grab it and dump it in his lap.

“It's not a bad color on you,” Angela said, laughing as she finally rescued Mark by taking Sarah back. “And I'm not really obsessed with digestion so much as concerned by it. Of course, you don't recognize a registered dietician as having any kind of medical expertise…” She put Sarah into a corner playpen and handed her a stuffed bear. Then turned back to Mark. “So explanations would be lost on you.”

He stood, walked over to the playpen, bent down and kissed Sarah on the top of her head. “Next time, young lady, we're going to talk about table manners.”

Sarah bubbled a little laugh then held her arms out for him again. “Daaa…”

“Mama,” he told her. “You want your mama.”

Apparently, she didn't. “Daaa…” she persisted.

“You're stubborn,” he said, laughing. “Just like your mama.”

“And her mama wants to thank you for making the sacrifice.”

He gave Sarah's chubby hand a squeeze then turned to Angela. “Sacrifice?”

“The yogurt. Better on you than me.”

“Well, like I told your daughter, next time we're having a heart to heart about table manners.” What was it about her that made him actually glad he'd come and lost the food fight? It wasn't anything he wanted to think about, or even put away and explore another time. He'd wasted five years with the last woman who'd captivated him, only to discover it had all been a mistake. Of course, killing her father hadn't really helped that debacle of a relationship. But the problem was, he'd bought into all that. Allowed his illusions of what his life should be to cloud his judgment.

That's why he wasn't going to be clouded, ever again. Oh, women were fine for casual companionship, even no-strings affairs. Next time one got herself into a position to persuade him to budge by even a fraction of an inch, though, that's when he was going to turn tail and run. Obligation or no obligation. Friends or no friends. He didn't want the hassle. The truth was, it scared him more now than it ever had, and marriage to Norah Evigan had been a scary situation.

Of course, none of that had anything to do with Angela. For starters, she wasn't his type. Not even close to it. “Esophageal manometry,” he said, on his way to the door. “A test used to measure the strength and coordination of the esophagus during swallowing in order to identify the source of problems in the upper digestive system.”

As he left, he saw her sit there, arms folded, staring at
him. Probably thinking of ways to best him. Or win what she wanted from him. What he didn't see once he was out in the hall was Angela's mad dash to her little notebook to jot down what he'd just said.

“D
O YOU
ever relax?” Mark stood off to the side of the hall, Fred tucked under his arm, leaning against the wall, watching Angela literally run circles around him and every other volunteer at the Three Sisters Juvenile Diabetes Boot Camp. She'd been working at this pace for a week now. And that in addition to her duties at the hospital. It seemed like he bumped into her everywhere he went and, to be honest, it was getting to be a little embarrassing. Not because he bumped into her so much but because she did twice as much as anyone else, and twice as fast. On top of that, she baked cookies and brought them to the volunteers almost every day.

And here he was, feeling like the tortoise who
wasn't
going to win the race with the hare.

“At night, with Sarah,” she said as she flew by him, pausing briefly to scratch Fred on the head.

Impulsively, he reached out, grabbed her by the arm and stopped her. “This pace isn't good for you, Angela. You need to slow down or it's going to slow you down to a point where you're not able to do anything.”

“Why?” she asked, not even trying to disguise her impatience over this distraction. “So you can keep up with me?”

“Ah, yes, I'd almost forgotten the sharp wit of Angela
Blanchard.” He chuckled. “I've actually missed it a little this past week, you've been so busy.”

“No, you haven't,” she said, relaxing a little.

“OK, so maybe I haven't missed the sharp-tongued barbs so much as I've missed the lady who hurls them. But I am serious about the pace you're keeping. Between setting up the lodge for your camp and your job at the hospital…plus those cookies, and did I mention that plain sugar cookies are my favorite? Anyway, you can't keep going like this.”

“Is that the doctor speaking, or the man who can't keep up with me?”

Her lips didn't curl into a smile when she said that, but her eyes were a giveaway. They sparkled with a little bit of mischief and a whole lot of…well, the only thing that came to mind was challenge. Challenge, and not in a bad way but in the kind of way that made him want to get to know her a little better. Get to know her outside what he saw. Which was a totally bad idea. “You think I can't keep up with you?”

“Can you?”

Yes, definitely challenge in her eyes. “I've done what I was supposed to. The clinic is set up, I've ordered the supplies I'll be needing. Taken Fred on his fifth walk for the day. Worked with Walt on some medical protocol. Interviewed three candidates for my school. Talked to two parents about your JD camp. Bought a new bag of dog food.”

“Simple things, Doctor. That took you, what? Two, maybe three hours? And how long did storytime at the library take you?”

“Damn small town,” he grumbled. “Can't do anything here without the whole town talking about it.” He'd taken Fred to storytime, not a big deal. “Richard Whetherby asked if I would. Since I wasn't busy at the time…”

She studied him for a moment then conceded victory in this little encounter with a smile. “That's nice, Mark. Let me
know when you'll be doing it again, because I'd like to bring Sarah.”

“You're assuming that I will?”

“I'm assuming that you won't disappoint the children.”

“Too many assumptions are dangerous, Angela,” he warned. In truth, he'd already committed to another storytime, then had second thoughts afterwards. Not because of the deed so much as the appearance of establishing ties in White Elk. He didn't want to dig himself in any deeper here, yet that's what he seemed to be doing every time he turned round.

“Dangerous for whom?”

“Look, just tell me what you want me to do now, OK?” No trying to hide the annoyance in his voice. “Give me a list and let me get to it.”

“It was a nice thing, Mark. Don't deny yourself the good feelings that come from doing something nice.”

“The list?” He held out his hand for it, so she thrust a list at him. Still smiling. Probably sensing his conflict about such a simple thing. Probably appreciating it in some perverse way.

“OK, it's a food order. Delivery's on it's way in right now. You can go to the back door, meet them, check everything off the list and make sure it gets organized in the pantry.”

“Organized? How do I do that?”

“I have a list for that, too.”

“Of course you do.” He glanced at the list in his hand. “And I suppose you'll want me to take the food items I check off from this list and arrange them on the shelves according to your other list. Which makes me curious, Angela. Do you have a list of lists, so you'll know what lists you have to work from and which ones you'll have to create?”

Rather than taking offense, her eyes sparkled. “You know, that's a great idea. I'll put it on my list of things to do.”

“Am I on a list somewhere, Angela? One of your things to conquer?”

“Maybe you are.”

“Good list, bad list?”

“Let's just call it a perplexing list.”

“You think I'm perplexing?”

She nodded. “You do nice things, but you don't want anybody to know it. You're compassionate and you try hard to hide it. You really do want to be involved in worthy causes. Taking care of Fred's a good example of that. But you grumble about it. And you scowl, even though you're really not grumpy. More like preoccupied. Yet you like it that people think you're grumpy and stay away from you. And that, Dr. Anderson, is a very perplexing list.”

“And a very boring one. So, on that note, I'll go see if Emoline wants to take Fred home with her tonight, because who knows how long organizing your pantry is going to take? Then I'll excuse myself to the pantry before you come to some kind of screwy conclusion with your psychoanalysis of me. But before I break my back hauling food, there's one condition. And I'm dead serious about this.”

She faked a shiver. “I'm not sure I want to find out.”

“It's not that bad. It's also in your best interests.”

The mischief in her eyes overtook the challenge. “I have a hard time believing that. Especially when I know that you don't even want to be here. So, what is this
one
condition?”

“Dinner.”

She blinked. “As in…”

“As in dinner. The two of us, tonight. Or three, if you don't have arrangements made for Sarah.” He checked his watch. “Three hours from now. You need the rest, and I think the only way you're going to get it is to either let me sedate you or take you out to dinner. Because, if you really want
to give this program your all when it starts in a few days, you're going to have to be rested for it. The children deserve that. And, you deserve, too. So, it's your choice. Sedative or dinner? Oh, and so you won't get the wrong idea, we'll talk about the camp. I have some ideas I want to go over with you, some things I'd like to try doing with the children. Dinner's as good a place as any to talk about it.”

“Not a dinner date, but a working dinner?”

“I do work, but I don't do dates. So, yes, a working dinner.”

“Can I add that to my perplexing list?”

“Agree to dinner, and you can add anything you want to your list.”

She glanced at her own watch then nodded. “OK, then. I'll ask Dinah if she can look after Sarah for me. But let's make it four hours. And I'll cook.”

“But I wanted you to relax.”

“Cooking is relaxing. And I'm anxious to try out the kitchen here.”

“OK, you can cook. But three and a half hours, not four.” She actually held out her hand to shake on the deal and when she did, when he took hold and their palms glided over one another's, a little tingle leapt up his arm. From his skin to hers, it was the true jolt out of the blue. One he hadn't expected and, from the look on her face, one she'd also felt and likewise hadn't expected.

“Static electricity,” she said, pulling back her hand and wiping it down the leg of her jeans. “Common here, in the winter, when the humidity is low.”

“Static electricity,” Mark agreed. “Or…” There was nothing to finish that sentence with, because the implication was one he wouldn't consider. Not even with a woman as sexy as Angela. And make no mistake, in her tight little jeans, and
that pink sweater she was wearing… “Static electricity,” he repeated, trying to snap that last image from his mind.

Twenty minutes later, with Fred on his way to a night of Emoline Putter's pampering, Mark was directing the unloading of food from the delivery truck, trying to keep his mind focused on the various cans, boxes and sacks. But somehow all this food reminded him of Angela. And Angela reminded him of…well, no other woman he'd ever met.

The problem was, with the exception of his ex-wife, who was unforgettable for so many unpleasant reasons, every other woman he'd ever met was
thoroughly
forgettable. Every woman, that was, except Angela. And the fact that he was about to organize cases of canned tuna on shelves for her wasn't good. Not good at all.

 

“Very nice,” Angela said, stepping into the pantry a while later.

“Nice? That's all you've got to say? I've been busting my back for hours, getting everything inventoried off the truck then put away. And I'll have you know, I went by my own list, not yours.” To prove it, he held up a sheet of paper covered with illegible scrawls.

“Oh, foolish man, thinking your list can top mine.” She arched a critical eyebrow, or tried to, but she couldn't keep a straight face doing it. “Can you even read your list?”

“It's perfectly legible.”

She grabbed it from his hands, studied it for a moment then asked, “Looks like doctors' scrawl to me. So, what does it say?”

Grabbing the list back, he looked, frowned, then nodded. “Put the…um…” Frowned again. “Put the mayonnaise on the top shelf.”

“Except I didn't have mayonnaise ordered. I make my own—a healthier version than the commercially prepared.”
She grinned. “And the only thing I see on the top shelf is rice, which should be on the bottom, as the bags are heavy.”

“Rice, olive oil, mayonnaise…” He shrugged. “It's still a perfectly good list, and the proof is in the pantry.” He stepped aside to allow her the full view.

Actually, he was right. The proof
was
in the pantry. The shelves were lined up perfectly, and the pantry looked like a small grocery store. Large cans, large jars, large boxes, all, she noticed, with their labels turned facing out. And they were sitting so neatly he could have measured each container's position with a ruler. With the exception of only a couple if things that would have to be rearranged, it was perfect. “You're not compulsive, are you?” she asked, running her fingers lightly over the large jar of gherkins.

“Actually, I'm not the compulsive personality in this room. But I knew that if I didn't get this in good order, the compulsive personality would make me do it over.” He grabbed hold of his aching back, faked a scowl. “And I'm too tired, too hungry.”

Angela laughed. “Having a little power feels so good.”

His response was to twist the jar of gherkins around until the label faced backwards. “Sometimes disrupting the power is good, too.”

“You really do like to go against the system, don't you?”

“Mostly when I see that the system needs some going against.”

“And you think I need some going against? Is that what this is about?”

“What I think is that
you
think everybody needs some going against. And I'm just imitating the teacher.”

That was a fair assessment. She knew that. Recognized it in herself. But in her defense, which she wouldn't say out loud, she'd had to become like that to survive Brad. Loving the wrong person had been so exhausting, and if she'd
relaxed, if she hadn't always fought against him so much, well…she wouldn't have come away from him strong. For Sarah, she had to be strong rather then being another one of those casualties who wandered through life never knowing where they were, or who they were. “Sometimes you just have to fight,” she said. “It's what makes sense at the time, I suppose.”

“But wouldn't it be nice, Angela, being in a place where you didn't have to fight?” His voice was gentle, serious. So much so it sent chills up her spine.

“Are you in that place, Mark?”

She knew he wasn't. The grimness she saw on his face when he wasn't forcing himself to look pleasant said so much.

“The place I'm in is a dark pantry with a pretty lady who prides herself on pushing the wrong buttons.”

“So it's OK for you to analyze me, but I can't do the same to you?” She'd come close to touching something deep, possibly the thing that others knew about him but which he'd never told her. In a way, she wanted to know. But in a bigger way, it scared her, because knowing would take their relationship to a different level, and she truly did not want them to go anywhere other than where they were.

“Something like that. And if you could get a clear look at my face right now, you'd see a scowl. But that's because I'm off duty. And that's what I do when I'm off duty. I scowl.”

He'd changed the subject, and it was a relief. Now they could get back to their usual level, the one where they tossed barbs back and forth and took care to make sure none of those barbs were truly sharp. Actually, she liked that place. “You've had so much practice doing it, too.”

“Angela!” Ed Lester shouted from outside the pantry.

“In here,” she called back.

Ed, the head of maintenance at the hospital, poked his
head inside. “Just wanted to tell you that I've got some boxes full of laptop computers. Edith Weston donated them to the program and asked me to bring them up here.”

“Put them in the central storage for now,” she instructed. Then turned to straighten out the jar of gherkins. When she did, Ed shut the pantry door, which automatically turned off the light.