The Color of Hope (The Color of Heaven Series) (21 page)

When I finished adding him, I said, “Do you want mine?”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

He reached into his back pocket for his phone, and I wondered if he was just being polite. Why would he need my number? In case he had an emergency divorce situation?

I found myself watching his hands as he keyed in my information. He was not wearing a wedding ring, and I wished I had asked about his marital status when he’d asked about mine.

The fact that I was curious seemed rather significant, because until that moment, when it came to men, since what happened with Rick, I had been living in some sort of vegetative state.

He slipped his phone back into his jeans pocket. “Thanks for that. Now I should get going.”

Thanks for what, exactly?
I wondered.
What just happened here?

“I have to get going, too,” I replied. “It was nice bumping into you.”

“You, too. Have a great day.”

We turned and walked in opposite directions, and I had to fight a powerful urge to turn around for one more look at him.

“
H
OW DID YOUR
appointment go?” I asked Nadia when I arrived home from work the following day.

She stood at the stove stirring a pot of something that smelled like chicken soup.

“It went well.” She leaned over the pot to take a whiff. “The baby is still growing, and Dr. Jones said my heart sounded okay.”

“Did you see Dr. Peterson at all?” I asked nonchalantly, as I shrugged out of my blazer and hung it on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. I entered the kitchen and watched her carefully, waiting for her response.

“No. Today was just about the baby.”

For some reason I was relieved to hear that, because if she’d told me she’d spent time in Dr. Peterson’s office, I would have wondered what happened, what they talked about. I might have even felt a little jealous, which made no sense because he was her doctor, not mine.

I hadn’t told her that I ran into him at Starbucks the day before, nor did I reveal that he lived in our neighborhood. I’m not sure why. Maybe I didn’t want her to suspect that I might, possibly, have a teensy tiny crush on him.

This secret of mine felt childish – like something out of junior high school when you know you can’t trust your new best friend not to go after the boy you like.

It made me realize that I still didn’t trust her.

But I was glad the appointment had gone well.

A few days later, it happened again. With a tall latte in my hand, I walked out of Starbucks and nearly collided with Dr. Peterson, who was on his way in.

“We meet again,” he said, and my insides performed a little flip, for I had thought about him often over the past few days. Yesterday after lunch, I tipped my head back in my chair and closed my eyes so I could replay our conversations in my head. Then – because it was my personal and private daydream – I said all sorts of interesting and witty things to him while we waited for our coffees, and he asked me out on a date.

But here we stood, in the real world, not my fantasy. He paused on the sidewalk, and I switched my coffee from one hand to the other. “How are you?” I asked.

“Good,” he replied. “How did your sister’s appointment go the other day?”

A customer hurried out of the coffee shop, and because we were blocking the door, we had to step apart to let her through.

“She said it went well,” I told him. “The baby’s growing.”

I felt suddenly self-conscious, as if he could magically read me and know that I had been daydreaming about our previous encounter.

“And how are
you
coping with all of this?” he asked, stepping a little closer.

“I’m doing fine,” I replied, too abruptly. Then I glanced away at the cars parked along the curb on the other side of the street.

Dr. Peterson stood in front of me, watching me intently while he waited for me to elaborate.

“It’s been tough,” I admitted, meeting his gaze again.

“No doubt. She’s your twin sister.”

I looked down at my feet, because I knew what he thought. He assumed Nadia and I were normal twins who had grown up together, wore similar outfits, and were as closely bonded as two women could be. He had no idea that until last year, neither of us knew the other existed. We had been separated at birth, and separated again recently, by circumstances just as cruel, after only a few months of friendship.

We were far from normal.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked out of the blue, and I was so startled, I nearly dropped my coffee.

“When?” I posed the question as if the time and date would dictate whether or not I would say yes, which was funny, because it didn’t matter when. The answer was going to be yes, regardless.

His eyes smiled at me. “What about tonight? If you’re free.”

“Tonight would be great.” I tried not to have a happy manic episode right there on the street. “What time?”

“Why don’t you come over around 7:00?”

“To
your
place?” I was having some trouble believing this was happening, because it’s exactly how it had played out in my daydream.

“Yeah, I’ll cook.”

I smiled. “All right. Can I bring anything?”

“Just yourself.”

He told me the number of his house on Chestnut Street, then pulled open the door to the coffee shop. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

As I walked away, I did a little dance in my head. Then I wondered what I was going to say to Nadia. He was
her
doctor, and tonight I would leave her home alone to have dinner with him, in his home.

I toyed with the idea of not telling her. I could say I had some sort of work function.

But why didn’t I want her to know?

There were a few different reasons, I suppose.

W
ELL
, I
DID
it. I lied to my pregnant sister with the heart condition. I told her I was having dinner with a client. Then I left the house, got into my car, and drove around the corner to Dr. Peterson’s. It would have been much quicker to walk, because I had trouble finding a parking space and had to hoof it even farther from the opposite direction. I suppose I had that coming.

When I finally reached Dr. Peterson’s townhouse, I paused a moment to look up at it. It was red brick with black shutters and a glossy black front door, almost identical to mine. Though I had colorful marigolds in my window boxes, his were full of overgrown weeds. At least they were green.

Taking a deep breath, I walked up the steps and tapped the brass knocker. Dr. Peterson opened the door, and I decided to stop thinking of him as Dr. Peterson.

“Hi Jacob,” I said.

He stepped aside. “Hi, come on in. Is that for us?” He gestured toward the bottle of wine I carried, and when I held it out, he took it off my hands so I could remove my leather jacket.

Beneath it I wore jeans and a silky black blouse, with a pair of high wedge black sandals.

Jacob also wore jeans, and a loose-fitting, navy cotton shirt that made his shoulders look broad.

I followed him into the kitchen. “You’re not allergic to shellfish, are you?” he asked.

“No, I love shellfish.”

“Great.” He went to the stove and emptied a bag of live mussels into a pot of steaming broth.

“Everything smells delicious,” I said.

He turned to me. “Wine?”

“Yes, please.”

“Red or white?”

I glanced at his glass of white wine and the open bottle on the counter. “I’ll have white.”

He poured it and handed it to me, then leaned against the counter. “How was work today?” he asked.

I regarded him with a smile. “The polite response would be for me say ‘good,’ but it doesn’t seem to be the right word, because I’m working on a difficult appeal right now.”

“Can you tell me about it?” he asked. “If it wouldn’t be breaking any rules of confidentiality...”

I reached for a slice of cheddar cheese on the plate of crackers he had set out, and told him about the woman who lost custody of her children because she’d gone to see a therapist during her separation, and how her abusive husband used it against her to imply she was unable to care for the children.

“I’ll bet that sort of thing happens more often than people realize,” Jacob said.

“You have no idea.”

We stood in his kitchen talking about the legal system while the mussels steamed. When the shells opened up, he served them into a large stainless steel bowl, which he set on the granite-topped island. We stood over it, dipping the mussels in melted butter and devouring them while we talked, mostly about my work.

“Do you enjoy it?” he asked.

I set my mussel fork down and picked up my wine. “Yes, I do. Despite some of the frustrating things I see, I enjoy helping people turn a corner. When they come to me, they’re in the process of breaking apart, and they’re usually stressed and unhappy and afraid of what the future will hold. There’s a fear of the unknown. But by the time we get through it all, they feel relieved, as if they can breathe again. I get lots of hugs from clients, once they reach that stage. Those are the good days.” I inclined my head at him. “But you must experience the same thing in your profession.”

“I do hug a lot of patients,” he told me. “Sometimes they’re relieved, like you said. They’re overjoyed with the news I give them, but not always. I also see a lot of grief and sorrow, too. And fear.”

“That’s not surprising,” I gently replied. “When people come to you, they’re forced to face their mortality.” I paused. “I suppose we all have to face that, even when we’re healthy, but I think there must be some natural defense mechanism that keeps us from dwelling on it – otherwise we’d all be living in a constant state of fear and regret for all the things we didn’t accomplish.”

“That’s probably true,” he agreed, “but that mechanism must break down as we grow older. Look at how teenagers can live so fearlessly and take stupid risks, as if they’re invincible. Then we hit middle age and we start worrying about our cholesterol, and every time we get on a plane...” He picked up another mussel shell and scooped out the flesh. “It really makes you think.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I never used to mind flying, but now I get a little queasy during takeoff and landing. I’m always relieved when we reach a certain altitude in the air and level off. Then, after the long descent, when the wheels finally touch down on the ground, I can’t stop gripping the seat handles, even when we’re taxying. Actually, the part I hate the most is when we’re speeding on the ground, in those final seconds, just before lift off. I’m always afraid we’re going to hit a pothole and spin out of control. Think about it. If you were driving your car that fast...”

“A Boeing 747 has to reach a speed of about 180 miles per hour before takeoff,” he told me. “You wouldn’t have liked the Concorde. It hit 225 on the ground. I think the airports take care of potholes though,” he said with a grin.

I chuckled and sipped my wine. “Thank you, that’s very reassuring.” I was oddly turned on by his knowledge of jet speeds.

Later, when we sat down at the table to enjoy two perfect steaks he’d barbequed – along with roasted potatoes and fresh green beans – he opened the bottle of red wine I brought and poured two glasses.

Jacob sat down. “Thanks for joining me.” He raised his glass to clink lightly against mine.

“Thank you for the invitation,” I replied, and we each cut into our steaks. “It’s delicious,” I said, and then wondered where our conversation would go next.

“
S
O TELL ME
what it was like growing up as a twin,” Jacob said as we cleared the table together.

I carried our plates to the sink to rinse them off. “Actually, Nadia and I didn’t grow up together,” I told him. “I only met her for the first time last year.”

“You’re kidding me.” He was bending to open the dishwasher, but straightened upright to look at me.

“No, I’m not.” I handed him my plate and began to rinse the others.

“What happened?” he asked. “If you don’t mind the question.”

I didn’t mind it at all. In fact, for some reason I couldn’t comprehend, I wanted to confess everything to this man about my relationship with Nadia, but I limited myself to the facts surrounding our adoptions. Because I was embarrassed by the rest of it; it was rather sordid.

“Our birth mother died when we were born,” I explained, “and our biological father was married to another woman, so he didn’t want to have anything to do with us. We were put up for adoption, but the agency felt it best to separate us, so that’s what they did.”

His brow furrowed with dismay. “Why would they think it would be better to separate you?”

“Because of Nadia’s heart defect,” I explained. “I was born healthy, so they figured it was better to get me placed in a home right away, rather than hold both of us back.”

He closed the dishwasher door and stared at me with a look of concern, as if he were contemplating all the lifelong effects of such a decision, which we had no control over.