Wishes & Tears (21 page)

His eyes were glazed over as he stared into space.

Faith closed her eyes and drew a deep breath for courage. The anguish of the past was coming back to haunt the present.

He continued, “She was the same age, had the same dark hair and eyes, had a difficult labor, and had delivered a healthy baby boy. She had everything to live for. Everything. She was begging me to help her but I couldn’t do anything to stop the hemorrhaging. She stared at me, her eyes wide with foreboding, knowing she was dying and that I couldn’t save her. I tried but I couldn’t save her.”

“You’re only human,” Faith whispered, knowing that her words were little consolation when a life was lost.

“What kind of doctor am I to sit back and helplessly watch beautiful young mothers die? What made me think I could save her when I couldn’t even save my own wife? I couldn’t even save Andrew’s mother.” He bent forward, clasping his head in his hands. His shoulders quaked as he was overcome with grief and tears.

Faith knelt and wrapped her arms around him, holding him like a mother comforting a child. “You did your best. You’re not God. Only God determines who lives and who dies, when and where.”

“Oh, God. Why?” he cried, reliving the memories of years ago after Andrew’s mother died. He reached out and clung to Faith. He held on to her for strength as she hugged him to offer comfort.

She didn’t know how long they were intertwined, but she was grateful that Bridget was away to the market. Quiet was needed at times like these.

The doctor looked up, still holding on to Faith as she, in turn, held him. He sniffled, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry for putting you through all this, Faith,” he said. “Thank you for being so understanding. You probably now think of me as some sort of madman.”

She looked into his glassy bloodshot eyes. “We’re all allowed to be crazy once in a while. You have a reason for being upset.”

He blinked. “It was like reliving the worst nightmare in my life. There’s nothing as devastating as losing someone you love.”

Or losing someone you think you love. Faith thought of Brad and the divorce.

His magnetic touch aroused her from her thoughts. She shivered as she met his intense gaze. Was it his touch, his eyes, or the emotions of the moment that made her tremble so?

“Thank you for being here, Faith,” he murmured, drawing her into an intimate embrace.

Her arms encircled his neck as he drew her up against him. His scent of spice and mint was intoxicating. His head pressed against hers, his face buried in the nape of her neck, his breath moist and hot on her delicate flesh.

“I’ve never been moved to tears before at the death of a patient,” he whispered.

“You’re only human,” she said, running her fingers through his damp hair, an action that was involuntary.

“It made me realize how fragile life and love is.” His hands began to pull at her hair, mussing her pompadour and chignon.

As her hair fell free to her shoulders, Faith thought she’d faint from his tender touch, the heat radiating from his body and breath, the emotion in his words and dusky voice. He was awakening the woman in her, tingling areas that had been dormant for so long she was frightened.

“Don’t tremble,” he whispered. “There’s no reason to tremble.” He raised his head to look into her glowing eyes.

For a moment, their eyes melded. Two sets became one in an instant. She closed her eyes just as his lips reached down to capture hers. His mouth was lush, hot, demanding. Fleshy lips that nibbled against hers, tasting and teasing from bottom to top and back again. Just when she was getting used to his hot rhythm, he changed the pace, prying with his tongue. She willingly opened her mouth to welcome his curling tongue and salty taste. As their tongues danced and joined she was on fire.

He lowered her to the floor without stopping his mouth’s seduction. Her back pressed against the Oriental rug as he rolled over her, clasping her wrists back above her head. Beneath his lithe form, she was a willing prisoner.

Suddenly, rumbling footsteps and banshee screaming disrupted the tryst. Doctor Forrester jumped up and off her, yelping in pain as tiny fists pummeled him about the head and neck. As he rose to his feet, Andrew clung to his neck kicking and screaming.

“Stop it! Stop hurting Miss Donahue! Leave her alone! Leave her alone!” Andrew was in near hysteria, his face flushed red with anger and upset.

Doctor Forrester reached up and behind trying to get his son off his back down to his feet. The child clung like an attack cat. Faith rose to her knees and up on her feet. With her heart still pulsing from hypnotic kisses, she drew a deep breath for composure. She stepped toward the doctor and reached out to pull Andrew who was practically strangling his father.

“Andrew! Andrew, let go!” she ordered, grasping the boy about the waist.

With his hands free, the boy pulled at his father’s hair screaming, “I hate you! You’re mean! You were hurting Miss Donahue!”

“Let go,” Faith yanked at Andrew’s waist until he finally released his grip on his father’s neck. She lowered the boy to the floor but held him by his suspenders like a tethered dog.

Doctor Forrester rubbed his neck, shaking his head to get the kinks out. He looked down at the keg of dynamite that was his son.

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” he asked.

“I won’t let you hurt Miss Donahue!” Andrew stomped his feet. “I won’t!”

Faith held tight to the boy’s suspenders that pulled back and forth like rubber bands. Andrew’s hands were curled into fists, ready to beat up his father.

“He wasn’t hurting me,” Faith said in a calm voice.

“Papa had you pinned to the floor! He hurt you!”

“Andrew, we were playing,” Faith said, smiling. If the boy weren’t so serious, she would have burst out in uncontrollable laughter. The scene was one for the movies.

“Yes, we were only playing,” the doctor added, rubbing his neck, wincing in pain.

“Playing?” Andrew asked, calming down.

“Wrestling,” Faith said.

“You don’t play with me like that,” Andrew pouted.

“When you get older,” the doctor said and snickered, his eyes meeting Faith’s.

“I bet Bridget’s back from the market and has lunch about ready,” Faith said, diplomatically changing the subject. She released his suspenders and smoothed her skirt.

“Why don’t you go see what Bridget’s cooking?” the doctor hinted to his son.

Andrew looked up at his father with a sneer. He held his head high and marched out of the library without a backward glance.

“He thinks he’s Napoleon,” Faith said with a chuckle.

“He packs quite a punch.” Doctor Forrester was still twisting his neck. “I must have pulled a muscle.”

Faith walked up to him and placed her hand on his neck. Red welts were swelling where Andrew had tightened his grasp. The doctor had to be in pain. “May I help?”

The doctor reached back and removed her hand. “Miss Donahue, please keep your hands to yourself.” His gaze was unwavering, his eyes aglow. “You know what happened the last time you touched me.”

He was so deadpan serious she began to laugh. She shook her head.

“I don’t see the humor,” the doctor said.

“That’s because you’re the one who was beaten up by a four-year-old.”

“And over a woman, yet.” The doctor winked.

“I’d better fix my hair and tend to Andrew,” Faith said, turning toward the doorway.

“Faith?” the doctor called.

She pivoted to face him.

“We need to talk,” he said in a serious tone, raking his hands through his tousled hair. They definitely had to talk.

• • •

Doctor Forrester didn’t join them for lunch. Faith sat alone with Andrew in the dining room as the boy slurped his soup and munched on cold chicken. No offense to Bridget’s culinary skill, but she would have given anything for a cheeseburger and fries. A chocolate milkshake would have tasted good, too.

Watching Andrew, it was hard to believe that this angelic little boy could fight and hit so hard. She surmised that the doctor was still hurting and wasn’t quite ready to face his son. Bridget had mentioned that the doctor had taken to his bed for a nap. After all, he had been up all night and morning tending to the difficult delivery. She thought about the doctor and his recollection of the death of Andrew’s mother and of his tattered emotional state.

She closed her eyes remembering the crush of his lips and the length of his body over hers. Just thinking about his taste and touch made her cross her legs. She couldn’t help but wonder if he cared for her or was merely using her as a way to release all the pent-up tension. He did say that they had to talk. What did he have to say? That he was sorry and didn’t mean it? That it would never happen again? She opened her eyes, confused.

Just as Bridget entered to refill Andrew’s glass of milk, Andrew asked Faith, “What game were you and Papa playing on the floor?”

Bridget’s eyebrows shot up and she cast a glance at Faith that could have boiled the jug of milk.

Faith cleared her throat. “An adult game.”

“Wrestling?”

“Yes, Andrew.”

Bridget approached Faith and leaned toward her, asking with a bite in her voice, “Would you like some milk, Miss Donahue, or, perhaps something more potent?”

“The doctor may be in need of your brandy, Bridget,” Faith said.

“I hit Papa.” Andrew was beaming as if it were something to be proud of.

“Is that so? And that’s a good thing?” Bridget tilted her head, rising.

“I saved Miss Donahue.”

“Saved her?”

“From Papa.”

“I see.” Bridget smiled and mumbled, “Most women prefer not to be saved from the good doctor.”

“It’s a long story, Bridget,” Faith said, wanting to end the conversation once and for all.

“And I will be hearing it one of these days, eh?” she asked, nudging Faith before she returned to the pantry.

• • •

The next day, Doctor Forrester left early to tend to his patients, neglected to come home for lunch, and arrived late for supper. He breezed into the dining room just in time for dessert. Bridget was scooping out strawberry trifle with dollops of whipped cream.

“Papa,” Andrew greeted, lowering his head sheepishly.

Faith’s lecture on never punching your father must have hit home.

“Doctor,” Faith said with a forced smile. She wasn’t sure how to react to him after all the conflicting emotion he seemed to evoke lately.

“My, everyone is in such a gay mood,” the doctor said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice as he pulled out a chair and sat across from Faith. He fanned his napkin on his lap as Bridget plopped an abundant serving of trifle in front of him.

“No offense, Bridget, but is anything left over from the evening meal?”

“I can fry up a cheeseburger or two for you,” Bridget replied.

“A what?”

“Miss Donahue helped with supper this evening. We made cheeseburgers and French fries.”

He stared at the women, perplexed. “I don’t recall ever having such a meal.”

“It’s good, Papa,” Andrew added, licking his lips for emphasis.

“Miss Donahue can cook, too?” he asked, glancing over to Faith and to Bridget, “I’ll try this new supper.”

“Yes, Sir.” Bridget went through the pantry toward the kitchen.

“Is there anything you cannot do, Miss Donahue?” he asked, lifting a palm. “Don’t answer. I shall fear your answer.” He lifted up his forefinger as a signal to silence her.

Faith took a spoonful of trifle. Whipped cream clung to her mouth. As she licked it off her top lip, the doctor gave her the most quizzical stare. She thought he’d drool at any moment.

“I apologize for being late,” he said. “I had a baby to deliver, a precious little girl. Mother and baby are doing fine.” He smiled, bottom lip trembling.

“That’s wonderful,” Faith said, glad to hear of a happy outcome. Maybe that’s why he was nervous and fidgeting. She couldn’t understand how a man who always had his act together, was cool to the point of arrogance, could be so messed up lately. He went from being Lawrence Olivier to Hugh Grant.

Bridget served his meal of a cheeseburger covered with lettuce and tomato on a homemade roll with steaming French fries. He stared at the plate and looked up at Faith. “Interesting. Is this a common meal in your world, Miss Donahue?” he asked.

“Very much so. Restaurants are devoted to it.” Oh, how she missed the Golden Arches.

She watched him raise the burger up to his lips and take a juicy bite. She tingled, remembering how those same lips nibbled hers. Oh, to be that cheeseburger. She wanted to pinch herself for such lurid thoughts.

After the doctor’s supper and dessert, Faith was about to excuse herself to go up to her room. The day had been long and vexing. She wanted nothing more than to go to bed to sort out the day and her thoughts.

As she rose from her chair, the doctor asked, “Faith, shall you join me for a walk in the garden? I wish to speak with you.”

“The hour is getting late,” she said, wanting to beg off, yet curious about his intentions.

“Ah, but the night is young,” he said in a low voice directed at her.

“Andrew must be tucked in for the night.”

“Bridget,” the doctor called. The maid appeared. “Please see to it that Master Andrew is put to bed. I have important matters to discuss with Miss Donahue.”

“Yes, sir.” Bridget snickered and winked at Faith.

The doctor took Faith’s arm and escorted her out to the moonlit garden. They strolled down the brick garden path shaded by oak and cherry trees and under an arbor dripping with fragrant bougainvillea. The full moon glowed above like a gazing ball and moonflowers glittered as they climbed a nearby trellis. The doctor pointed to a cast iron settee and Faith sat.

She felt as nervous as a schoolgirl on a first date. Just because she was transported back in time, did she have to feel as flush and silly as a woman native to the era? The doctor pulled a matching cast iron chair next to her and settled into the narrow seat.

“Faith,” he began, fidgeting with his hands. “We need to talk.”

“So you’ve said.” She clasped her hands together on her lap to hide her own nervousness.