The Holiday Triplets Page 6

  Sam thought this over. Not much to think about, really. “I vote for a world filled with miniature Mark Rayburns, as long as they don’t kick poor patients out in the street.”

  “When have I ever done that?”

  “Aside from the clinic?”

  “Those aren’t patients.” He regarded her closely. “I know you wanted children, but have you truly considered what’s involved? I’m not a hundred percent convinced you’d be willing to make the sacrifices.”

  She missed her mouth with the edge of her coffee cup, sending a shower of the brew onto her knit top. “Darn.” She dabbed her chest with a paper napkin, keenly aware of Mark’s interested expression.

  “I’d be glad to help,” he said with mock earnestness.

  She wished her breasts didn’t tighten beneath his gaze. “I’m sure you would.”

  “But that might be construed as harassment.”

  “I’m the one who kissed you,” she reminded him. “Forget it. I’m working up some outrage and I’m not going to waste it by flirting.” Deep breath. “How dare you imply I wouldn’t be willing to sacrifice for motherhood?”

  Whatever it took, she’d do it. When she was ready, Sam amended for the sake of honesty.

  “I don’t doubt that you’d sacrifice your comfort,” Mark told her soberly. “And your finances, and possibly your health. What I meant was that I doubt you’d give up your volunteer work.”

  She’d never considered motherhood and volunteering incompatible. “Why should I?”

  “Because children deserve more than spare minutes between working and saving the world, which is part of why I choose not to have any,” he said. “And because you deserve the joy of being there for those unpredictable, precious moments when a child says or does or understands something in a unique way.”

  She didn’t have to nurture her annoyance any longer; it sprang up forcefully. “There’s no reason I can’t manage all that.”

  “There are only twenty-four hours in a day,” Mark cautioned. “And very few years before kids start sharing more with their friends and teachers than with their parents.”

  “A woman shouldn’t have to choose between motherhood and other goals,” Sam snapped.

  “Everybody has to make choices. Men included.”

  This conversation wasn’t going at all to her liking. Well, two could play at this game, especially since Mark seemed blissfully unaware of his own shortcomings.

  “You make choices too easily,” Sam countered. “You choose one course of action and push everything else aside without considering whether it’s necessary or wise or right to compromise.”

  “That’s rather a broad conclusion, don’t you think?”

  “But accurate.” Sam believed in intuitive leaps. “You were quick to doubt your sister’s sobriety.”

  If she’d expected an offended reaction, she’d have been disappointed. “I’d put the odds against her showing up for Christmas at eighty-twenty,” Mark said levelly.

  Samantha was rooting for his sister, and not only out of compassion. “I’ll take those odds.”

  He tilted his head. “What’s the bet?”

  She hadn’t considered this a real wager, but why not? As long as they kept things light. “A kiss under the mistletoe.”

  He gave her a heart-stopping smile. “Yes, but which of us gets the kiss?”

  “You do, if you win.” Sam would enjoy it, too, but she needn’t mention that.

  “What if you win?” he asked suspiciously.

  She wanted to suggest he let the counseling clinic keep its quarters, but he’d never agree to that. “You buy me a piece of kitschy glassware at a yard sale.” Not that she wanted any more clutter. Rather, Mark needed to loosen up. He might even decide to buy a few odds and ends for those nearly naked cupboards of his.

  “It’s a deal.” He stood and reached across the table, and they shook. Big, warm hand with blunt fingertips, which struck Samantha as very masculine.

  “Orange is a nice color, but I like blue, too,” she advised him. “Multicolors have a kind of retro glamour.”

  “You’re picky about your cheesy glassware?”

  “Just the opposite,” she said. “The bigger and more flamboyant, the better.”

  “You’re pretty confident about winning.”

  “I have faith in your sister. I mean, she’s related to you. Take it as a compliment.”

  “I’m trying,” Mark said.

  They sat contemplating their bet and stealing glances at each other. Sam couldn’t recall the last time she’d relaxed like this with a guy. Male friends occasionally escorted her to charitable functions, and she’d had her share of lovers over the years, but they rarely seemed to find idle moments. Mark, she suspected, was not all that different. Yet here he was, and here she was.

  “Why haven’t you ever married?” she blurted. “Or did you, and I missed it?”

  He pretended to wince. “Is this another of your stump-the-host questions, like whether I want children?”

  “Is this another of your evasive answers?”

  “I was engaged once,” he said. “How’s that for not being evasive?”

  “You haven’t filled in the details yet,” Samantha pointed out. While she’d assumed he’d had serious girlfriends, the news of a broken engagement surprised her. Mark seemed like the kind of guy who’d choose with care, and then follow through. “When?”

  “A few years ago, in Florida.” His shoulders hunched into what she interpreted as a defensive posture.

  “Was it that bad?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re bracing as if…” She searched for a football analogy. “As if you’re about to be tackled.”

  He lowered his shoulders, regaining control. “My fiancée was a nurse. Smart and fun to be around. And worth spending my life with, or so I believed.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “She got caught stealing drugs from the hospital. Turned out she’d been addicted to painkillers since a car accident the year before.”

  His jaw tightened. What an ugly situation. While Sam sympathized with anyone struggling to work through pain and addiction, stealing drugs from the hospital where you worked was a serious breach of trust, as well as a crime.

  “How awful. I presume she hadn’t confided in you.”

  He shook his head. “If I’d known anything about it, I could have lost my medical license. I cared about her, but I felt betrayed, too.”

  “What happened?”

  “I helped Chelsea get into a rehab program, but while I understand about addiction, I couldn’t forgive the violation of trust. That was the end of our plans together.”

  “Being addicted and violating trust go hand in hand,” Samantha observed sympathetically.

  “As I learned growing up.”

  Her heart went out to him. “Which one of your parents? Not both, surely.”

  “Dad didn’t abuse substances, but he had affairs. That can be an addiction in its own way. My mother drank herself into liver failure.” He spoke tightly but without hesitation.

  He’d come to terms with his loss, at least at some level, Sam gathered. That didn’t mean he’d released all the anger or the pain.

  “Do you blame your dad?”

  He shrugged. “Did he cheat because she drank, or did she drink because he cheated? Maybe both, or maybe they were drawn to each other’s dysfunctions.”

  That brought them to the subject at hand. “What about your sister? When did she develop problems?”

  “She started binge drinking as a teenager. For years, I kept trying to save her, and kept failing.” Sorrow shadowed his eyes. “Finally I had to admit defeat and let her go. Now I’m reluctant to buy into the same cycle of hope and regret all over again.”

  The rough note in his voice touched Sam. “She left scars.”

  “She did.”

  “Scars can be stronger than the tissue they replace,” she noted.

  “Other t
imes, you have to cut out the scar tissue or it limits your ability to function.”

  “Is that why you’re prepared to think the worst of her?” Sam probed.

  “We’ll see come Christmas, won’t we?”

  They’d finished their coffee. And, apparently, their conversation.

  “We should do this more often,” Mark said.

  “With healthier food.”

  “Agreed.”

  Sam cleared away the chocolate wrappers and washed her hands. It was hard to leave this place, warm despite its starkness, and this man who filled up a room with a subtle sense of power.

  And yet, she reflected a few minutes later as she headed toward her house a block away, although Mark seemed contented, he didn’t strike her as happy.

  She had no idea what anyone could do about that. Oddly, though, she felt an urge to try.

  Chapter Six

  On Monday morning, between performing several C-sections Mark pondered Samantha’s questions. “Do you want children? Why haven’t you ever married?”

  As a rule, he enjoyed his life. Got a jolt of adrenaline from planning the new fertility clinic. Relished bringing babies into the world and helping women lead healthier, fuller lives. And prized going home to a peaceful environment, without the drama, tears and temperaments he’d grown up with.

  Today, though, he couldn’t escape the image of all that empty space in his cupboards and cabinets. How did it feel to watch a woman arranging her colorful vases and bowls in there? To come home and cook dinner together, and talk over the events of the day? And, watching a new father’s face light up as he held his son for the first time, Mark wondered what it was like not simply to appreciate the miracle of birth, but to know you were going to spend the rest of your life caring for that child.

  Well, he planned to spend the rest of his life doing what he loved: using the talents and skills he’d been blessed with both as a doctor and as an administrator to make miracles happen.

  When he reached his office, Mark listened to his voice mail. One call had to be returned immediately. It was to Candy Alarcon.

  “I’m sorry to hear you had a rough weekend,” he told the young patient when he reached her. “If you felt it was an emergency, you should have called my service. They can reach me 24/7.”

  She heaved a long sigh. “Everything seems like an emergency these days, Dr. Rayburn. All these babies. Even with the volunteers, I feel overwhelmed, and now…” The sigh gave way to a sob.

  Her message had mentioned postpartum depression, a matter that Mark took very seriously. While many young moms experienced brief episodes of sadness as they adjusted to their new role, serious cases of depression could interfere with the vital mother-child bond, or even stir suicidal thoughts.

  If necessary, he’d prescribe medication, therapy or a combination of both. First, though, he needed to listen carefully to the patient.

  “Can you come to my office in the medical building this afternoon?” Mark asked. “I’ll clear time for you.”

  “How about right after lunch?”

  He checked his schedule. “At one, Dr. Forrest and I are holding a press conference. Will four o’clock work?”

  “I’m not sure. If my boyfriend…” In the background, a door slammed. “Jon just came home. I told him something I shouldn’t have and now he’s kind of upset. Can I call you back?”

  “Sure. If you can’t reach me, Lori will make an appointment. I’ll let her know the situation.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” The phone clicked off.

  After a quick call to his nurse, Mark plunged into reading reports, advisories and updates about hospital affairs. He was immersed in the proposal for installing the basement lab when he got a call from Chandra in Louisville.

  “What’s this I hear about a press conference?” she demanded.

  Mark gave a start. The vice president was nothing if not thorough. She must have scrutinized the hospital’s schedule of events, posted on its website and updated daily.

  “The counseling clinic is holding a Christmas fundraiser. That’s all we’re announcing,” he assured her. “I have Dr. Forrest’s word that she won’t mention anything about the fertility center.”

  “Cancel it,” she said.

  “The press has already been notified.”

  “Then un-notify them. That woman can’t be trusted not to shoot off her mouth.”

  Less than two hours remained until the event. While he understood Chandra’s concern, Mark found it misplaced. “I doubt we’ll be able to reach everyone in the media. In my opinion, it’s better to go ahead rather than raise all sorts of questions about why we canceled. I promise I’ll keep a lid on things.”

  “No offense, but you don’t exactly have a shining track record for keeping a lid on Dr. Forrest,” the veep replied. “I’m sorry I ever agreed to this counseling idea. I should have known it would be trouble.”

  “Trouble? I wouldn’t say that.”

  Chandra cut him off. “I’m emailing you data about a major fertility conference scheduled for Los Angeles next fall. I want our new staff on board and presenting papers at that event. The prestige will be priceless.”

  “I agree. However, the organizers may already have scheduled the presenters,” Mark warned.

  “Then find out who they are and hire them,” she snapped. “The fertility center is our number one priority.”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t waste your energy on distractions like Dr. Forrest’s claptrap.”

  Samantha would hit the roof if she heard her pet project described as claptrap. But that wasn’t the issue. “Even with a cancellation, we’re going to have reporters show up. We’ll have to tell them something.”

  “You should never have agreed to this,” she said. “Make it go away.”

  No sense arguing further. “All right.”

  He put in a call to Jennifer in public relations. She told him what he already knew: it was too late.

  “Do it anyway,” he said resignedly.

  “Okay. I hope you’re wearing a hard hat and iron underwear, though. You know Samantha.”

  Oh, yes. Indeed he did.

  It occurred to Mark that when he gave the go-ahead for the press conference, he and Sam had made a deal that effectively muzzled her. Now, thanks to Chandra, he was defaulting on his end of the bargain.

  Maybe he’d better add a bulletproof vest to that list of protective gear.

  WITH JENNIFER’S WORDS ECHOING in her ear, Samantha clicked off her cell phone. Her thoughts raced furiously. Apparently, she’d made a deal with the devil, and the devil had just reneged.

  Sam refused to let her attraction to Mark interfere with her moral outrage. Nor would she yield to the fear of losing her job. Once she started censoring herself, she might as well give up.

  This press conference was essential to notify the public about the fundraising event. Her center was losing its home, losing its cachet as part of the hospital and losing much of its momentum in the process. Without a boost at this critical point, it could easily crumble to nothing.

  Dedicated as she was, Sam couldn’t run a volunteer center on her own. She already counseled the group of teen mothers, and of course her medical practice took the bulk of her time and energy. She had to establish this center on firm financial footing. But how was she going to do that if she couldn’t even reach out to the community?

  Determination firing on all cylinders, she barreled into the nearest examining room, where two children stopped screaming at each other and stared at her wide-eyed. The little girl ducked behind her mother, who regarded Sam with relief.

  “The sight of you puts the fear of divine retribution into them,” the woman said admiringly.

  “Now let’s put the fear of divine retribution into that earache,” Sam replied, and helped the boy onto the examining table.

  By a little past noon, she’d prescribed antibiotics for earaches and ointments for rashes, completed well-baby exams, stitched a cut in a
boy’s forehead and persuaded a tearful mom to seek family counseling for her marital problems. Between patients, Samantha’s outrage found its focus.

  Despite Jennifer’s attempts to call off the event, the press would be trickling in soon. The evil powers-that-be at Medical Center Management had seriously misjudged the situation, Sam mused with satisfaction as she took the stairs down. She’d corral the press in the parking lot and fire away.

  The center had aroused widespread support in blogs and tweets and social media. While most of the donations that trickled in were modest, sometimes just a few dollars, they came from a significant number of individuals. The public appreciated this nonbureaucratic, caring attempt to reach out. Once reporters learned the whole story of the center’s ousting, there’d be a firestorm.

  Just what MCM deserved. As for Mark, he’d chosen his alliances. Despite a pang of concern, Sam refused to back down simply to spare him the embarrassment.

  On the ground floor, she met up with Nora Kendall. The gynecologist pinned her with a glance. “How are you doing? I’ve been worried about you.”

  “The counseling center…”

  “I’m talking about your health.”

  “Oh, that.” Sam glanced around to make sure no patients were nearby. She preferred to keep her medical issues private. “Not sleeping terribly well,” she admitted. “I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  The other woman nodded sympathetically. “The hospital grapevine has been working overtime. I hope you locate new offices quickly.”

  “I suspect we’re about to get a lot of support.” Sam explained about the canceled press conference and the opportunity to make a public appeal, free of the restraint she’d promised Mark.

  Alarm flashed in Nora’s green eyes. “Hold on, Sam.”

  “Don’t you start into me, too!”

  “Just listen,” the other woman said.

  Sam planted hands on hips. “I’m listening. Talk fast.”

  “I realize that this feels like big business pushing around poor helpless women and kids,” Nora began.

  “That pretty much sums it up.”

  “You of all people should understand how it feels to have your chance at motherhood yanked away.” She paused as a couple of pregnant women walked past, before continuing in a low voice, “The new fertility center will help people from all over the world.”