The Good Doctor (16 page)

“Yeah. That's it exactly. I couldn't figure out why I was supposed to get up in the morning anymore. I wanted explanations and I couldn't find any.”

“I explained the best I could—”

Rapidly he cut in. “Oh, I don't mean medical explanations. I mean the
big
explanation. You know. Why it happened. Why I'm still here and they're not.”

“I know,” she murmured, understanding his confusion. “How are you doing now?”

“My sister made me go for grief counseling. She practically hog-tied me to get me there. I still don't want to go, but I think it's helping.”

“Good. I'm glad.”

“I don't blame you,” he blurted out, as if it was hard for
him to say. “I know you advised Anne to have surgery because that was the best thing for her. I also know if she hadn't had surgery, what happened on the operating table could have happened anytime.”

Violet had tried to explain that to Carl after Anne's death, but he hadn't been ready to listen. “I'm glad you found support. I know it doesn't seem like it now, but the passing of time will help.”

“Yeah, I know. That's what everybody tells me. A year from now I'll let you know if it's true.” He paused. “My lawyer told me you were out of town on vacation or something. Was that because of Anne?”

The man was perceptive. “Yes, it was.”

“I'm glad you called, Dr. Fortune.”

“I'm glad I called, too. Take care of yourself, Mr. Washburn.”

“I will. I know Anne would want me to. I know she'd want me to get on with my life, and eventually I'll do that.”

After an exchange of goodbyes, Violet hung up the phone. She glanced at Anne Washburn's file one more time. Then she closed it and took it out to the receptionist for her to file, feeling more peaceful than she had in a very long time.

 

On Saturday evening, Violet turned down the vegetables on the stove, not at all sure of what she was doing. Last night, when she and Peter and Ryan had returned to Red Rock, Peter had gone straight to the hospital and she had dropped off Ryan at the Double Crown. Saying goodbye to him had been tough. All she could do was hug him and tell him to call her if he needed her. As she'd driven away, she hoped that he would. She hoped he would tell Lily soon what was happening to him.

Whenever Violet thought about losing Ryan, the sadness that filled her seemed overwhelming. So after leaving the
Double Crown, she'd stopped to see Celeste. The little girl had obviously missed her, and Violet had tucked her in for the night, staying until she fell asleep. At home afterward, she had been getting ready for bed herself when Peter called.

“Hey,” he'd said in an intimate, sexy voice that had taken her back to her apartment in New York and everything they'd done together.

“Hey, yourself. Are you finished at the hospital?”

“Nope. Not yet. But I knew you'd be going to bed soon. How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Are you on call?”

“Nope. Where would you like to go?”

“Why don't you come here? I'll cook.”

His voice held amusement. “You'll cook?”

“Just because I haven't had much time to do it doesn't mean I
can't
do it. I can read. Unless you're not willing to take a chance.”

In the few seconds before he spoke, she realized her statement held more than one meaning.

“All right,” Peter said. “I'll take a chance. What time?”

“Can you get away by seven?”

“Seven's good. I'll see you then. And, Violet?”

“Yes?” she whispered.

“Imagine me kissing you good-night.”

“I will.”

Now, as she remembered the conversation and the anticipatory excitement that had kept her awake much of the night, she scurried around the pool house, wanting dinner to be perfect. How difficult could it be to serve a meal?

She found out. At seven-thirty Peter called to tell her he was on his way. He'd gotten tied up with a consultation. Taking another peek at the roast in the oven at eight, she finally heard the sound of tires on the gravel outside and heaved a sigh of relief.

Her relief was short-lived, however. When she removed the roast beef from the oven she noticed all of the broth had cooked away and the meat was overdone and dry. The carrots and string beans she'd steamed on top of the stove were soggy and limp. Only the baked potatoes had survived. After all, what could go wrong with baked potatoes?

Peter knocked, but didn't wait for her to answer before he came in, a bag in each hand. When he found her in the kitchen area, he set the bags on the counter. “I'm sorry about the delay.”

She knew he was. She also knew in their profession, delays were commonplace. She should have allowed for the possibility he'd be late.

Glumly she looked up at him. “It's a good thing I picked up a loaf of bread at the bakery because the rest of dinner is a disaster.”

The roast was sitting on a dish on the counter. Peter poked it with the fork that had been lying beside it. “Hmm. Looks like I'll get a lot of exercise chewing.”

“You don't need teeth for the vegetables,” she warned him.

Grinning, he took her into his arms. “Any food is good food after the day I've had. I brought a bottle of wine since I'm not on call tonight. And…”

He retrieved one of the bags he'd set on the counter. “How about chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert?”

He was being such a sport about this, and she should be, too. “You don't have to eat the beef and vegetables,” she said softly.

“If I kiss you right now, we won't be eating anything for a couple of hours anyway.”

Peter was acting as if the meal didn't matter. Yet she knew he wanted a woman who could make a home. She'd never thought of herself as a homemaker.

He must have seen the doubt in her eyes. He must have seen the worry that somehow she wasn't measuring up.

Taking her chin in his hand, he muttered, “The hell with food,” then he kissed her thoroughly.

She needed his kiss. She needed
him.
Last night, as she'd slept alone, she'd wanted Peter beside her. She'd wanted to be in his arms. She'd wanted to be giving him pleasure and receiving it. She'd wanted to love him and have that love returned. Whether she was being wise or foolish, she was weaving dreams about the two of them—she just hadn't ironed out the details.

When she laced her hands through his hair and pulled his head down for another kiss, he groaned. Not letting her get the upper hand, he tunneled his fingers under the hem of her sweater and was ready to raise it up and over her head when a Samba melody started playing from Violet's purse, which was lying on the counter.

“Do you have to get it?” he grumbled.

“I'd better. My service in New York has the number.”

Reluctantly, Peter released her sweater. But he gave her another hungry kiss before she went to the counter.

Opening her purse, she retrieved her little blue phone. “Violet Fortune here.”

“Dr. Fortune, this is Mrs. Crawford. You don't know me, but you saved my husband's life.”

Violet turned the name over in her mind, repeated it aloud, then heard Peter say, “Flight to New York.”

The man who had benefitted from the defibrillator on the airplane. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Crawford. How
is
your husband?”

“Glad to be alive. He's supposed to be released from the hospital tomorrow. I told him he should call you himself, but he felt funny about the way we got your number.”

“How
did
you get it?”

She hesitated a moment. “I have a relative who's on the police force. He got it for me. He has his sources. I had another
number and tried that first, but no one answered. I didn't want to just leave a message.”

“I'm glad you called to let me know how your husband is doing.”

“We wanted to thank Dr. Clark, too, but we didn't know how to trace him.”

“He happens to be here. Would you like to speak to him?”

“Oh, yes. Please.”

Violet handed off the phone to Peter, and for a few minutes he listened to Mrs. Crawford's thanks. “You tell your husband that he's supposed to listen to everything you tell him.”

Whatever Mrs. Crawford said made Peter laugh out loud. “Yes, men can be a little stubborn. But so can women. I want you to know the flight attendants who did CPR on your husband saved his life, too.”

After Peter listened for a few more moments, he said, “I'm sure they appreciated that. Maybe we'll stop in the next time we get to New York. No, we're not there now. I practice in Texas.”

After he listened a little longer, he responded, “I'll relay that to Dr. Fortune. You and your husband take care.”

When he closed Violet's phone, he smiled at her. “Mrs. Crawford owns Vintage And More—a shop that sells old clothes. She says the next time you're in New York you should stop in and pick out an outfit for yourself.”

A sweet warmth filled Violet's heart. “Did she say you could do that, too?”

“Hardly. Though she said if I stop in, she always has imported chocolate in her shop, too. She sent the flight attendants flowers. I think she needs to thank us in some tangible way.”

“That's kind of her.”

Snatching up the bag that contained the chocolate-cov
ered strawberries, he took Violet's hand and tugged her toward the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” she asked with a laugh.

“We're going to satisfy two appetites at once. Then maybe we can salvage some roast beef sandwiches out of dinner.”

As soon as he pulled her down onto the bed beside him, she didn't care about roast beef sandwiches. She only cared about loving him right now.

W
hen Violet went to the rehab center on Monday, she checked her watch and saw Celeste would still be working with her morning therapists. Afterward they'd have lunch together, and play with the electronic game Peter had brought her yesterday.

Knowing Celeste's schedule by heart, Violet headed for the physical therapy room. When she stepped inside, the brightness of it made her smile. It was painted in primary colors—yellow walls with bright blue and red stripes halfway up. Above those, children could search out pictures of Winnie-the-Pooh, Cinderella and Nemo. The therapist had told her the large thick decals were removable and that they could always keep up-to-date with the children's favorite characters.

Violet spotted Celeste on a low, wide, padded table, where she was stretched out full-length. Her therapist was bending her leg up and down.

Violet tried never to interrupt Celeste's therapies. She observed, made notes in her head and waited until the therapists were finished.

Today the therapist looked up with a big smile. “She's doing great. Give us twenty minutes and we'll be finished.”

Crossing over to Celeste, Violet brushed the girl's bangs from her forehead, gave her a thumbs-up sign and said, “I'll be back in a little while.”

To Violet's surprise the therapist said to Celeste, “I'll be right back,” and pulled Violet aside. In a low voice she murmured, “Celeste's social worker is here. I told her you usually came in around this time. She's waiting in the cafeteria.”

“She wants to see me?”

“Yes. I'm not sure what it's all about, but she had papers in her hand and was talking to the director here this morning.”

Violet didn't like the sound of that. “Okay. I'll go find her. Her name is Mrs. Gunthry, right?”

The therapist nodded.

As Violet's heart tripped a little faster, she walked down the hall with its Dalmatian murals and entered the cafeteria. Mrs. Gunthry—Peter had once described her as a woman in her fifties with brown curly hair and tortoiseshell glasses—was the only person in the room, seated at a table, nursing a cup of coffee. She did, indeed, have a file folder in front of her, and she was making notes.

Approaching her, Violet stopped at her table. “Mrs. Gunthry?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Violet Fortune. Celeste's therapist said you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, I did. I've already called Dr. Clark. He's hoping to meet me here in a little while. I have to get an accurate status report on Celeste's condition.”

“Why is that?”

Mrs. Gunthry pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “I know you've been visiting Celeste regularly, and Dr. Clark is monitoring her care. We've had an unexpected development in her case.”

Violet waited.

“Dr. Clark probably mentioned that after her parents' accident we contacted a great-aunt who lives in Ohio.”

“Yes, he mentioned it. She's older and said she didn't want a child.”

“Yes, that was the case then. That's why Celeste went into foster care. But now, with her progress and the necessity of placing her again when she leaves Tumbleweed, we contacted the great-aunt once more.”

“And?” Violet prompted.

After straightening a few of the papers, Mrs. Gunthry's gaze finally met Violet's. “I think she feels responsible for what happened to Celeste because of being placed in foster care. She told us that if Celeste is ambulatory and fully capable of taking care of herself by the time rehab is finished, she will take her.”

“What do you mean, fully able to take care of herself? She's six!”

“Dr. Fortune, I think you know what that means. If she can dress herself, go to the bathroom herself, bathe herself. Apparently this aunt has arthritis and can't race after a child. That's understandable. But at least Celeste will have a place to go.”

At least Celeste will have a place to go.

Violet's heart hurt at the thought of it. She hated the idea that Celeste would be in the care of woman who, from the sound of it, might not really want her, but might eventually expect Celeste to take care of
her.

“Did you speak to this aunt personally?” she asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“What does your intuition tell you about her? Why does she want Celeste to come live with her?”

Looking uncomfortable, Mrs. Gunthry shifted in her chair. “She's in her sixties. My sense of it is, as Celeste gets older, she'll be able to do more things for her aunt.”

No!
Violet thought.
That is not a good reason to adopt a child.

Before Violet could voice her concern, Mrs. Gunthry hurried on, “We have countless children who need homes, and not enough foster parents. When a relative agrees to take responsibility, we have to honor that.”

Violet wanted to shout,
What if I agreed to adopt Celeste?

But before those words came out of her mouth, she had to be absolutely sure that was what she wanted to do. She had to be absolutely sure she was ready for that change in her life.

“How soon is all this going to happen?”

“That's why I want to talk to Dr. Clark. I'm hoping he can give me a prognosis for Celeste and a tentative release date.”

Again, Violet glanced at the papers spread before the social worker. “How long will you be here?”

“I'm going to wait for Dr. Clark, and then we'll have to conference.” The woman checked her watch. “I'd say until one o'clock. I can't stay much past that. I have other cases and other work I have to be doing. I know that might seem callous to you, but Celeste is one of many.”

In more turmoil than she could ever remember being in, Violet said, “Thank you for telling me all of this.”

Turning and leaving the cafeteria, she headed out for some fresh air. She needed to clear her head. She needed to make some decisions. Now.

 

Peter strode quickly down the hall to Tumbleweed's cafeteria. When he saw Mrs. Gunthry, he frowned. He had about
a half hour until he had to return to the hospital for a meeting. He didn't like mystery, but the social worker hadn't wanted to discuss anything over the phone.

Checking his watch again, he realized Violet was probably having lunch with Celeste. His heart lightened at the thought. He missed Violet when he wasn't with her. It was a totally odd sensation for him. He'd never missed anyone like that. When they made love, his world seemed to tumble over itself. Yet when he held her afterward, he felt he could conquer anything. Caring this much about Violet Fortune was only going to hurt him—her life was in flux. But he couldn't seem to help himself.

Spotting Mrs. Gunthry, he hurried toward the table where she was sitting. When she saw him she stood, gathering her papers and file folder. “Dr. Clark. Great. I just got a call and I have to be somewhere else. But I have a few minutes.”

“You said this was in regard to Celeste?”

“Yes, it is. I need you to do a complete examination, give me your treatment plan and some kind of time line for when she'll be released from here.”

Peter pinned her with a long look. “I can't do that at this stage. I can give her a physical exam, but as far as the time line, that depends.”

Mrs. Gunthry frowned. “I don't want her great-aunt to change her mind,” she said, tapping her chin.

“Great-aunt? The one who didn't want her?”

“Yes, well, we've been in discussions with her. If Celeste can walk and take care of herself, the woman will take her. Celeste
is
going to walk again, right?”

“That's my hope, but as I said, this is early in her therapy. Violet Fortune is probably having lunch with her right now. I think we should include her in this discussion.”

“Oh, I've already talked to Dr. Fortune.”

“What did she say?”

“She didn't say much at all.”

Peter knew he had to be rational about this. “Do you have the report you wrote up on Celeste's aunt?”

“I can't give that to you.”

“Yes, I think you can. As her physician, I should be able to see everything that concerns her. And this certainly concerns her. So you either tell me about the report, or you let me read it.”

Apparently guessing she wasn't going to be able to leave until all of Peter's questions were answered, she took the report from her file folder and handed it to him.

As he read it, his scowl deepened. “These are exact quotes from the aunt?”

“Yes, they are,” Mrs. Gunthry said, looking chagrined.

Anger rose inside of Peter, fast and hot.
I suppose it's my duty to take a relative who has nowhere to go.
And farther down the page—
She'll be in school all day. When she gets home I'll give her supper and she'll go to bed. A few years from now she'll be a big help to me.

“Does Dr. Fortune know this woman's attitude?”

“I gave her the gist of it. She's probably just glad the little girl will have a place to go when she leaves here. That's what important, isn't it, Dr. Clark?”

“Hell, no! There are a lot of things more important than that.” Disappointment in Violet stabbed him deep. He'd thought she was different from Sandra.

“Yes, well, we can talk about this further at a later date,” Mrs. Gunthry stated. “But right now I have to be going. I'll be in touch, Dr. Clark.”

“Not if I'm in touch with you first,” he muttered, then went to look for Violet.

Celeste's room was empty. In the PT room he found her on the mat with the therapist. Better he didn't talk to her until after he'd found Violet.

Going to the parking lot, he saw Violet's car was still there, so she was somewhere around. The longer it took him to find her, the angrier he got. Finally, he spied her sitting on a low retaining wall at the rear of the building. When he approached her, he couldn't read her expression.

“I spoke with Mrs. Gunthry,” he said curtly.

“So did I.”

“Yes. She told me. And I can't believe you're just going to let this happen. This relative of Celeste's could care less about her. After all these weeks of bonding with her, you're just going to break away and set her adrift with a stranger. I suspected your career would be more important than she is, that your needs and goals would dictate your life, and I was right.”

Violet looked stunned for a few seconds, then exploded. “You hypocrite!”

“I am not—”

“Yes, you are! Your needs and goals dictate
your
life. So why are you judging me? You have no right to assume what I'm going to do. How could you even
think
that I would let Celeste go with a stranger who doesn't want her?”

“Mrs. Gunthry said—”

“I don't care what Mrs. Gunthry said. I didn't tell her what I was going to do because I needed to think about it. Adopting a child isn't something I take lightly.”

He'd seen Violet upset before, over the whole situation with Ryan, but he'd never seen her truly angry till now. Her blue eyes seemed to flash silver sparks, and her hair swung along her chin like a war helmet. Her cheeks were spotted with color.

“You
are
going to adopt her?” he asked with a sinking sensation in his stomach.

“Yes. That's what I want. But the fact that you could even think I'd abandon her—”

Violet's voice broke and Peter could see that behind the anger was a world of hurt. He'd caused that. He'd caused that because he'd expected her to act like Sandra Mason. He'd caused that because he'd expected her to put love aside in favor of her own needs. “Violet—”

“I thought you had feelings for me. I thought you knew what kind of person I was. But if you jumped to the wrong conclusion so readily, then you don't know me at all. And I wonder how much you feel. All this talk about jobs and different cities. You want what's convenient for you. Well, apparently
I'm
not. Go back to your practice and your life, Peter. I'm going to spend some time with Celeste, have lunch with her, tell her how much I love her, and then I'm going to contact Mrs. Gunthry and declare my intention to adopt her. I won't give Celeste up to a woman who doesn't care—not without a fight.”

Before he could even think about apologizing, before he could decide how much she'd said was true, she stormed away from him and disappeared into the rehab building.

He considered going after her, but he didn't know what he would say. When he spoke to Violet again, he was going to have to do more than apologize—he was going to have to tell her what was in his heart.

He had to make damn sure the words came out right.

 

Jason Wilkes was sitting at his massive walnut desk at Fortune TX, Ltd. Monday afternoon crunching numbers on the computer when the commotion began. He heard a noise in the hall. Voices. A shout.

Pushing away from his desk, he rose from the burgundy leather high-backed chair, buttoned his suit coat, went to the
door and looked out. Ryan Fortune was standing in the corridor, a crowd gathering around him. A woman with a cassette recorder was firing questions at him.

Jason hadn't even known Ryan was in the building. He always made a point of sucking up to the old man whenever he could. Today Ryan
looked
old. There were creases on his tanned face that hadn't been there before. Being a suspect in a murder investigation was wearing him down.

And that nicely placed article in the
Red Rock Gazette…

Jason didn't know the woman reporter. She had red hair and long legs, and a figure that rivaled Melissa's. In her tailored tan pantsuit, she was enjoyable to watch as she levered herself in front of Ryan Fortune and wouldn't let him evade her.

“You're an influential man in this community, Mr. Fortune.”

“I'm a citizen, just like everyone else. And I deserve some privacy, too.”