The Holiday Triplets Page 14

  Last night, after caroling, he’d helped Sam strap the babies into the van and then followed them home in his car. They’d lit the tree and let the enchantment ripple through them.

  Since they had busy schedules for Christmas Day, they’d exchanged gifts that evening. He’d bought her a quilt handmade by hospital volunteers, with panels that reproduced children’s colorful drawings. She’d given him a home golf simulator that allowed him to practice his swing and get it analyzed by computer. Sure to improve his golf game, and possibly his mood.

  Then they’d made love and gone to sleep in each other’s arms.

  During the night, they’d taken turns getting up for feedings, since Sam had refused to ask a nurse to work on a holiday night. Mark didn’t mind. Sitting in the quiet hours holding the infants, he’d stumbled into a magical connection with them.

  Unbelievable, that such tiny bundles could hold an entire future. As he gazed down at their faces, he saw the future unfolding: toddlers learning to walk, children reading words aloud, teenagers holding hands with a first love or rushing to share the results of a college application. The tears and disappointments, the challenges and triumphs. All this, and they still fit into the crook of his arm.

  In the morning, he slept later than usual to compensate for his night duty. Samantha slumbered deeply beside him. Good, she needed it.

  As he rose, she shifted to sprawl diagonally across the double bed. Eyes closed, breathing regular, blond hair rioting around her…she might have been the picture of beauty, save for her light snoring. Actually, Mark decided, she was still the picture of beauty, with sound effects.

  He’d received only one call from the hospital last night, about a patient in the early stages of labor. Mark had monitored her progress during feedings, and, after dressing and eating breakfast, arrived at the maternity ward in time for the delivery.

  A beautiful little boy. The large Italian family that gathered to welcome him showered Mark with thanks, holiday greetings and homemade cookies.

  That morning, he ushered three more babies into the world, including one by C-section. As always, Mark was grateful to be part of such miracles.

  But, for a change, he was also a little impatient to get back to the miracles that had come into his own life.

  SAM HAD A GREAT FEELING about this party. Although she’d wondered whether having it on Christmas Day might discourage volunteers, several came early to finish decorating the suite with paper flowers, a piñata and holiday lights, and more showed up just before the two o’clock start time. The caterer arrived with boxes of hot hors d’oeuvres, while the initial trickle of guests swelled to a torrent, many with checks to contribute. Ian had offered to keep track of those, and drop them off at the bank’s night deposit box.

  A volunteer Santa distributed small gifts to children, joking with them about his red-trimmed white sombrero. As for the band, its music set people’s toes tapping and hips wiggling.

  While the actual event hadn’t drawn a lot of interest from the press, reporter Tom LaGrange had stopped by with a photographer. Jennifer, who was discreetly steering him around, had presented him with a new brochure about the clinic’s plans. Optimistic plans, Sam had to admit, considering what a large amount they’d need now that they could no longer use the hospital’s facilities.

  They’d taken for granted not only this suite, but free access to utilities and the internet. She’d also grown accustomed to dropping in here between other duties. That would be difficult when she had to drive to another location.

  Sam gave herself a mental shake. This was no occasion for negativity. Her friends and volunteers were laughing and enjoying the alcohol-free punch, and Mark…she kept having to force her gaze away from him as he joked with the appreciative crowd around him.

  Were her feelings written as plainly on her face as she feared? It was too soon to let the hospital grapevine get hold of their relationship. Sam wasn’t certain yet what kind of relationship they had, except that he’d become so entwined in her thoughts and daydreams that she could scarcely believe only weeks ago they’d been nothing more than verbal sparring partners.

  Then, with a jolt, she spotted a boy seated on a folding chair near the band, shaking a castanet in synch with the music. The rest of the room faded, leaving only this youngster. He was small for his twelve years, his face was puffy from steroids, and his tasseled Santa hat had slipped back to reveal a bald head.

  No one had told her Artie Ortega’s cancer was back.

  Mischievous and smart, Artie had recovered from his initial brain tumor. Obviously, it had returned and was being treated aggressively.

  Tamping down her concern, Sam pasted a smile on her face and hurried over. “I didn’t realize you’d joined the band.” She gestured toward his castanet.

  “You didn’t know I was a rock star?” he shot back.

  Sam slid into the chair beside him. “So how’s it going?”

  “I met a cute girl at a party last night.” Doffing the hat, he ducked his head to show the words “Luv, Mellie” scrawled in black marker. “I think she likes me.”

  “How could she help it?” Sam teased.

  Artie’s mother, a rotund woman who smelled of cinnamon, perched in the chair on his far side. “He’s beating this, Dr. Sam.”

  “I can see that.” She couldn’t really, but Sam hoped it was true. If she’d won her battle with cancer, why not Artie?

  The pair filled her in on the latest developments in the boy’s life. His older sister had had a baby, elevating him to the rank of uncle. His father, laid off from his job, had recently found work again. Good news, all of it.

  As the conversation wound down, Mrs. Ortega stared across the room. “Who’s that? I think I’ve seen her on the news.” She indicated a tall, patrician woman talking intently with Ian.

  “No, who’s that?” Artie indicated a teenage girl standing with the new arrival. Unlike her mother—Sam presumed they were related, given their similar heights and nutmeg-brown hair—the girl had an open, friendly face. A very pretty face, as the boy had obviously noticed.

  “Someone I haven’t met yet,” Sam informed him. “She looks a tad old for you.”

  “I’m a man of the world,” Artie informed her loftily.

  She gave him a hug. “You certainly are.”

  As soon as she released him, he pulled his hat on, covering the other girl’s signature. “Don’t want her to think I’m taken.”

  “Why, you flirt!” Sam joked. “You’re going to leave a trail of broken hearts.”

  Sadness flickered across his young face. “Girls just pretend to flirt with me. I don’t look so good right now.” His smile returned. “But that’ll be over soon.”

  “Go for it, champ.” Reluctantly, Sam excused herself to return to her duties. Mark had joined the group around the tall woman and her daughter, and judging by his serious manner, they weren’t merely discussing the punch.

  She’d better go find out what that was all about.

  FOR THE FIRST HOUR OF THE PARTY, Mark had been swept up by the Hot and Happy Christmas spirit. But while he realized that three o’clock was merely an estimate for his sister’s arrival, he’d begun checking his watch instinctively since that hour passed.

  When he dialed Bryn’s cell phone number, it went through to voice mail. That made sense, since she shouldn’t be gabbing on the phone while driving, but he wished he could reach her.

  Where was she now on her journey from Phoenix? Surely she’d crossed the state line into California. Possibly she was entering Orange County’s northern limits right now, a mere half hour’s drive from Safe Harbor.

  He wondered how much she’d changed in the past five years. She must be thirty-three, and she’d lived those years hard. Yet to see her healthy and in control of her life would more than compensate for a few added wrinkles and gray hairs, and for the nights he’d spent searching for her in bars and alcohol-drenched flophouses.

  But what about the lies, the money he’d
wasted on rehab, the sense of angry frustration, and the silence after she disappeared?

  Thou shalt not hold grudges. Thou shalt be grateful for the prodigal’s return. Except, a tiny voice kept asking, what if she didn’t come? What if, once again, she went back on her word?

  He pushed those concerns aside when Ian introduced him to Mrs. Wycliff and her daughter. Both were charming, and filled with ideas. Eleanor, as she insisted everyone call her, had already talked to a number of influential friends. “They agree that this sounds like a worthwhile project. True, there are a number of programs asking for money, but how exciting to build something practically from the ground up.”

  “It’s special because it’s named after that baby who died,” added Libby Wycliff, her eyes bright with tears.

  “Don’t start crying now!” her mother said. “It’s Christmas.”

  “I won’t.” The girl bit down on a trembling lip. It was only a few months since her father’s death, Mark remembered. Libby must be transferring some of her emotions to this new project.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t have jumped the gun, but I called the city of Safe Harbor’s human services coordinator, and guess what?” Eleanor told him. “She’s been trying to figure out how to expand the family and teen offerings at their community center. When she heard this was Dr. Forrest’s clinic, she got all excited. We may have a new home already!”

  “That’s terrific,” Ian said.

  A new home. It sounded great, but Sam already knew the human services coordinator. Why hadn’t they discussed this possibility?

  “Did I hear my name?” Sam joined them, her cheerful expression a touch strained. A short while ago, he’d seen her talking to a little boy who was obviously a cancer patient.

  As Ian made introductions, Mark wished he’d informed her sooner about Eleanor’s interest. For one thing, he didn’t want to add to Sam’s concerns right now. Also, he’d assumed Ian’s friend would show up here as an interested newcomer, nothing more. Instead, she’d apparently appointed herself to represent the counseling center to the city.

  He checked his watch. Nearly three-thirty. It was just as well Bryn had been delayed, he supposed; he’d hate for her to walk into the middle of a tense situation.

  He glanced at Sam. She didn’t seem to take offense. Instead, she listened politely, if guardedly, to Eleanor’s explanation of what she’d been doing and how excited she was about the plans. It must be the Christmas spirit. Or was it possible that, as the mother of three, she finally felt ready to hand over the clinic to someone else?

  SAM RESTRAINED AN URGE to poke Mark in the side for failing to warn her about this eager-beaver socialite. Still, the clinic had to move within the next few weeks, and it could use a sponsor. Also, when Jennifer mentioned Ian’s wealthy contact, Sam had put her off—and never brought up the subject again. No wonder her friends had decided to act independently.

  Still, Eleanor Wycliff’s imperious manner was likely to intimidate the very people who most needed counseling. Also, from the way she talked about her friends’ fundraising balls, Sam doubted they had any real concept of how this low-key, grassroots project operated.

  As for coming under the city’s sponsorship, Sam had been putting off any discussion of that possibility as a last resort. “Once you get officials involved, there’s always red tape,” she explained to Eleanor after they’d chatted for a while. “What’s special about the Edward Serra Clinic is that teenagers and women can just wander in and talk to a peer counselor, or a doctor, like me. They don’t have to fill out a bunch of paperwork first.”

  Eleanor dismissed the notion with a lift of her elegant shoulders. “I’m sure we can work around that.”

  “This will be so much fun,” added Libby, a sweet girl with an air of fragility. “My best friend’s going to collect baby stuff for the clients at her next birthday party, instead of gifts. Isn’t that cool?”

  “That’s very generous.” Sam liked the daughter, and she supposed she would like the mother, too, once she got to know Eleanor better. It was a relief to think of sharing responsibility for the clinic. Not that Sam intended to abandon her vision, but recently it had begun to feel more like a burden and less like the realization of a dream.

  More playtime with the triplets. More leisurely evenings with Mark, and mornings waking up to his warmth lingering on the sheets. She craved those things, and she deserved them.

  “Sam, I think you’re needed.” Ian nodded toward Jennifer, who was standing across the room with Tom LaGrange and several other people. The photographer’s flash went off, and Tom was taking rapid notes as he talked to someone Sam couldn’t see.

  Jennifer’s anxious gaze caught Sam’s. Something was wrong. “I’ll go see what the problem is.” She excused herself and crossed the room. Unexpectedly, Eleanor broke away and walked with her.

  At Sam’s suggestion that she didn’t have to get involved, the socialite replied, “This is a fundraiser for our clinic. I’m already involved.”

  Too late to argue. Besides, at that moment Sam caught sight of the woman who’d been hidden from view. It was Vivien Babcock, her hair even more matted than yesterday, her face flushed and her voice painfully loud.

  Whatever she might be saying, the reporter was eating up every word.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What a sham this whole thing is!” Vivien proclaimed in slurred tones as Sam and Eleanor approached. “A bunch of fancy people making themselves feel important. You should see the way they treated me!”

  “Who is that creature?” Eleanor murmured.

  “A very troubled woman,” Sam answered. “Let’s find out exactly what she wants.” Despite her irritation, she hadn’t forgotten Vivien’s declaration that she planned to leave her husband. That was one of those turning points when people’s lives could explode, or implode.

  “Is she a client?” Eleanor asked.

  “She dropped in last night. Christmas Eve, after dinner. Got mad that nobody was staffing the clinic.” After this quiet aside, Sam moved to join the group around Jennifer. “Hello, Mrs. Babcock.”

  Vivien’s jaw tightened pugnaciously. “Well! Here’s the great doctor who gave me the brush-off last night.”

  “I tried to refer you to a more appropriate, full-service facility,” Sam said calmly. “You chose to leave.”

  “Well, you didn’t try hard enough.” With a glittering, almost triumphant look, Vivien peeled back her blouse, exposing a massive black-and-blue patch across her shoulder and chest. With only the bra protecting her from indecency, she turned to display welts across her back. Gasps went up from the observers. The camera was flashing again, and several onlookers raised cell phones to take pictures. “This is what my husband did when I told him I was leaving. You could have prevented this.”

  No, you could have prevented it. “I advised you to call the police, or simply leave without telling him.”

  “Easy for you to say!”

  Mark was heading in their direction, his face creased with concern. To the reporter, Sam explained, “No one threw anybody out. The Edward Serra Clinic offers informal counseling. We don’t have a professional staff yet. I offered to arrange for Mrs. Babcock to enter a women’s shelter, and I’ll do that now. First, though, we have to report this to the police. Unless you’ve already filed a report?” She raised an eyebrow at the woman.

  Vivien’s face crumpled. “My husband is a cop.”

  Sam’s stomach tensed. No wonder the woman felt powerless and filled with rage. True, she had unreasonable expectations of the clinic, along with a harsh and not very likable personality, but she was clearly hurting inside and out. “Then I can understand…”

  “Oh, you can understand?” Vivien mocked. “Sure you can.”

  “You’re drunk. Drunk and selfish.” Eleanor’s voice snapped through the air like a whip. “Dr. Forrest offered to help you last night and you threw it in her face. You brought this on yourself.”

  “How dare you!” Vivien tensed,
as if she’d like to land a few blows on this elegant woman, a startling contrast to her own sagging, pouchy self. Both of them were in their late forties, Sam estimated, but what a difference.

  “People are giving up their Christmases to help women like you,” Eleanor told the interloper. “Of course that man had no right to beat you, but you should get a lawyer and make him pay for it.”

  “Easy for you to say. Get a lawyer! As if they grew on trees. Maybe for rich people like you.”

  To short-circuit the argument, Sam caught Vivien’s arm. Too late, she realized her mistake. Although it was impossible to see through the sleeve, there must have been a nasty bruise underneath, because the woman let out a yelp.

  “I’m sorry.” Too late.

  “You’re both hypocrites!” Vivien cried. “You don’t care about the poor or the downtrodden. All you care about is prancing around acting important.”

  More shutters clicked. Tom held up his recorder, capturing every word.

  Barely bothering to yank her blouse into place, Vivien stalked off. “Oh, let her go,” Eleanor said. “That woman’s beyond saving.”

  “Nobody’s beyond saving!” Sam flared. “If that’s the way you think, this is the wrong place for you.”

  Then she ran to catch up with Vivien Babcock.

  MARK, WHO’D BEEN LISTENING from a distance, assessed the situation rapidly. One wealthy donor about to flounce out of the party, deeply offended. A newspaper reporter barely suppressing his glee over stumbling across a controversy. Guests talking and texting on their cell phones, probably sending video around the world.

  And then there was Sam disappearing in the wake of an injured woman.

  Mark went after Sam.

  He found her by the elevators with Vivien Babcock, who had tears streaming down her face. All the anger seemed to have whooshed out of her, leaving her deflated and frightened. “I’m calling someone I know at a shelter,” Sam told him. “We have to get her to a safe place and figure out how to handle the situation with the police.”