Any Sunday, page 7
“No, they’re not,” Lydia disagreed sharply.
“You think I should phone him?” The idea didn’t appeal to her. Sam had left her with the impression that he’d contact her.
“No…” Lydia gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling fixture. “You need a more subtle approach.”
“I suppose I could do what he did,” Marjorie murmured thoughtfully.
Lydia’s stare was blank. “What do you mean?”
“Meet him on his own ground. I could call for an appointment, claim I was having problems with the insurance company or something.”
Lydia nearly tipped back the chair in her enthusiasm. “That’s perfect, and there wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary in you showing up with the forms.”
Even though it sounded easy, it took Marjorie nearly all afternoon to work up the courage to contact Sam’s office. Since she feared the receptionist would probably handle any insurance work, she asked for an actual appointment and was given one later the following week. Now that she’d taken some positive action, she felt a hundred times better—until she saw Lydia’s shocked face later that afternoon.
“What’s the matter?”
“Dr. Sam’s office just called.”
“And?”
“And, well…apparently Dr. Sam looked over his schedule and saw your name.”
“So?”
“Marjorie, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”
“Lydia, for heaven’s sake, will you stop beating around the bush and tell me what’s going on?”
“You know Mary and I are good friends, don’t you?”
From what she remembered, Mary was Sam’s receptionist. “Yes, what did she say?”
“Mary told me that when Dr. Sam saw your name, he got upset, swore under his breath, and asked Mary to call you and suggest you make an appointment with another doctor.”
Five
Marjorie turned on the television and plunked herself down on the overstuffed sofa, crossing her arms in a defiant gesture. Five minutes later she dug through the sofa cushions to find the remote and switched channels, not that it helped any. She was too furious for a coherent thought, and the possibility of a mere television movie salving her injured ego was nil.
Men! Sam Bretton in particular! None of them were worth all this aggravation. She had behaved like a fool over Sam, and knowing it made her lack of savoir faire all the more difficult to swallow.
Hindsight nearly always proved to be twenty-twenty, but she should have known not to trust a man who preferred mild salsa on his enchiladas. If he couldn’t eat a jalapeño straight from the jar, he wasn’t her type. She liked her food and her men spicy and pungent. Sam was too…too wonderful. That was it, much too wonderful.
Depression settled over her shoulders like a dark mantle, and she rubbed her forearms to ward off a late-evening chill that had little to do with the mild Puget Sound weather. Sam and she were simply too different. Sam no doubt liked moonlight walks and a glass of wine in front of the fireplace, and she liked…moonlight walks and a glass of wine in front of the fireplace. Well, going over every detail a hundred times wasn’t going to settle anything. He didn’t want to see her again, and that was that.
She was an adult; she should be able to handle disappointments. Obviously Sam was interested in meek, mild women who knew their place. She was neither, and it was far easier to face that truth now than later, when her heart was completely infected and the prognosis for recovery would be against her.
Once Marjorie had sorted through her myriad thoughts, she felt better, even good enough to put this unpleasantness behind her and think about fixing herself something to eat. She left the television on and wandered into the kitchen. The freezer contained a wide assortment of prepackaged meals, but none of them appealed to her. Popcorn suited her mood—something crunchy and salty would help to vent her frustration. Microwave popcorn, naturally. What she’d told Sam about her lack of expertise in the kitchen had been true. She could manage spreadsheets and calculators in her sleep, but recipes baffled her. Having her anywhere in the vicinity of hot grease was like putting a submachine gun in the hands of a raw recruit. In fact, she didn’t even own a complete set of cookware. The less she involved herself with a stovetop, the better.
Marjorie inserted the popcorn bag, set the timer, and waited. Soon the sounds and smells of the butter-flavored kernels filled the small apartment.
She had just opened the bag and munched down the first handful when the doorbell chimed. A glance at the wall clock told her it was after nine. She certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. The hope that it might be Sam caused her to hurry. It wouldn’t be him, of course—she knew that—but she so wanted to see him again that her mind tormented her with the possibility.
With an eagerness that was difficult to explain, she opened her front door. Sam was standing on the other side. It was as though her wishful thinking had conjured him up.
“Hello, Sam.” She greeted him as though she’d been expecting him all along, revealing no surprise.
He looked terrible. Exhausted, overworked, and not himself. She would have thought he would never allow a strand of hair to fall out of place, but his hair wasn’t the only thing rumpled; everything about him looked unkempt. His clothes hung on him, and the top two buttons of his shirt were unfastened. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days, or so it appeared.
“I have had the most exhausting day of my life,” he announced, walking past her and into the apartment.
Bemused, Marjorie remained at the entrance, her hand on the doorknob. She’d expected contrition, guilt, grief, but not this out-and-out appeal for sympathy.
“It’s been one thing after another,” he continued, undaunted. Without invitation, he picked up her remote and cued up the guide at the bottom of the screen.
“Would you like something to drink?” she offered, choosing to ignore his opening statement.
“Please.” He sank onto her sofa and leaned forward to wipe the tiredness from his eyes. He’d planned on calling her hours earlier and inviting her to dinner. Before he could get to a phone, Nancy Brightfield had gone into labor, and he’d spent the next five hours at the hospital with her. The delivery had been difficult, and he hadn’t been able to get away until now. The unexpected trip to the delivery room and the arrival of Baby Brightfield had been a climax to a long, tedious day.
Sam realized that arriving unannounced on Marjorie’s doorstep probably hadn’t been one of his most brilliant ideas, but he wanted to straighten out a few things between them, and delaying the discussion was potentially unwise. He was beginning to know Marjorie Majors, and the message she was bound to read into the canceled appointment would be all wrong.
Marjorie went into her kitchen to survey her meager supply of refreshments. All she could find was a two-liter bottle of flat cola in the back of her refrigerator, a can of tomato juice with a rusty crust over the aluminum top, and a carton of milk she’d been meaning to toss for the past week.
“Is instant coffee all right?”
“Fine, fine.” He really didn’t care. All he really wanted was the chance for a long talk with her. He leaned back and inhaled deeply, paused, then asked, “Do I smell popcorn?”
Grinning, Marjorie stuck her head around the corner of her kitchen. Nothing smelled better than freshly popped popcorn. “Want some?”
Sam shook his head. “No, thanks. I haven’t had any dinner.”
“This is my dinner.”
His face twisted into a mock scowl that revealed his amusement. She had to be joking with him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
Sam jumped up from the couch with a reserve of energy he hadn’t realized he possessed. “You can’t eat that for dinner…It’s unhealthy.”
“I disagree.” Everything she’d read contradicted Sam. The kernels were reported to be a good source of fiber, and since she ate her main meal at noon, it made sense to have something light in the evenings.
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to argue with a doctor?” Actually, Sam wasn’t as concerned about the nutritional value of popcorn as he was that her choice for her evening meal gave him an excellent excuse to invite her out.
“Sam, it isn’t any big deal…”
“Come on, I’ll take you to dinner.”
Marjorie hedged. “But you just said today’s been the most exhausting day of your life. What you need is to put up your feet and enjoy a good home-cooked meal.” Oh heavens, why had she suggested that? Sam would assume she planned to do the cooking, and then there would be real trouble. She might be able to bluff her way through some things, but a complete meal was out of the question.
The idea of Marjorie preparing a meal for him appealed to Sam, but he studied her carefully. Maybe he’d misunderstood her earlier. “You told me you don’t cook.”
At that moment she would gladly have surrendered three commissions to Al Swanson in exchange for the ability to whip together a three-egg, cheese, and mushroom omelet, but she knew better than to offer. Still, the temptation was so strong. She opened her mouth and closed it again. “I make excellent microwave popcorn,” she offered weakly, and gestured toward the open bag sitting on the counter behind her.
“Then popcorn it is,” Sam said, lowering himself back onto the couch. While he waited, he glanced back at the television and recognized an old-fashioned romance from the late fifties. He wouldn’t have thought Marjorie would appreciate anything so sentimental. But then, she’d surprised him before.
“Here’s your coffee and dinner. It’s the specialty of the house.” She brought in a steaming cup and handed it to him, along with a breadbasket filled with hot popcorn. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“I owe you a dinner, you know.”
“As I recall, it’s a lunch, and if you’re counting that, you might as well add a movie and popcorn to the list.” He didn’t owe her anything. Not really. She was the one in debt to him. Sam had given her so much more than she could ever hope to repay.
He relaxed against the thick cushions and felt his body release a silent sigh of relief. He’d missed Marjorie over the past couple days. Missed her wit. Missed her warmth. Missed her smile. He’d wanted to see her again despite his reservations. For two days he’d been trying to find the time to call her, but there were never more than those odd five minutes here or ten minutes there. Besides, what he had to say would be better said in person. There was too much room for misunderstanding over the phone. But letting another day pass without seeing her would only add to his mounting frustration, so he’d headed over here tonight despite the late hour.
She joined him a minute later, stretched her legs on top of the coffee table and crossed them at the ankles. Judging exactly where she should sit had been a problem. If she sat too close, he might read something into that. On the other hand, if she positioned herself as far away as possible, he might think she didn’t want him around, and nothing could be further from the truth.
They sat quietly and watched the movie for a moment, then she ventured into conversation. “So. Tell me about your day.”
“It was nonstop busy, and then, just as I was getting ready to leave, a woman came in, ready to have her first baby. And then, as sometimes happens, I had a difficult delivery.”
Even as she tried not to, Marjorie started laughing. “You had a difficult delivery? How’s the poor mother doing?”
“Better than me, I think. She got her girl.”
“And what did you get?”
The same reward that came with every new life he brought into the world: pride and a deep sense of satisfaction.
“Plenty,” he answered, in a gentle way that assured her that no matter what problems he faced, he was content with his life.
The unexpected vision of Marjorie with a baby, their baby, in her arms produced such an intense longing that his breath jammed in his lungs. He shook his head to dispel the image, but it remained, clearer than before. For years Sam had brought children into the world. He’d spent countless hours encouraging new mothers and an almost equal amount of time soothing soon-to-be fathers, but only rarely had he thought about the woman who would give him children one day.
Their eyes met, and Sam’s smile embraced her. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but if she’d been holding her coffee cup, it would have slipped from her fingers. Sam had the most sensuous smile of any man she’d ever known.
“So how have you been?”
“Good.” She nodded once, then swallowed and headed for the deep end. “About that appointment…”
“Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“I got the insurance papers straightened out—no problem.”
“Insurance papers? You made the appointment to go over some papers?” Sam felt like a heel now. He’d thought she’d wanted a physical or something else equally impossible.
Her excuse to see him sounded so flimsy now that a deep flush crept up her neck and over her ears.
“It would be best if you got another physician,” Sam said, and cleared his throat. “I’d be more than happy to recommend one if you want.”
Marjorie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He said it so calmly, without so much as a hint of regret, as though they were discussing the weather or something equally trivial. With those few words he was telling her that he wanted her out of his life.
Unable to trust her voice, she nodded.
“It’s important for everyone to have a regular physician,” Sam insisted. “Cal Johnson will be doing the follow-up after your appendectomy, but he’s a surgeon, and you need a general practitioner.”
Marjorie’s throat closed up on her, the tightness making it difficult to breathe evenly.
The wounded look in her eyes tore at Sam’s heart. It was apparent that she still didn’t understand. He would have to spell it out for her.
“I think you’re wonderful, Marjorie.”
Sure he did. Enough to dump her right when she needed him.
“I’d like to see a lot more of you,” Sam continued, “and I can’t do that if you continue to be my patient.”
Marjorie jerked her head around. What had he said? He wanted to see her? As in date her? Spend time with her? Be with her? She blinked and pointed her index finger at her chest. “You want to see more of me?”
“Don’t look so surprised.”
“I’m not…It’s just that…”
“It shouldn’t seem all that sudden. You must have known in the hospital I was interested. Believe me, I don’t spend that much time with all my patients.”
“I know, but…I don’t know…” She was unsure, confused. Her gaze narrowed as she studied him. It would be best to clear away any misconceptions up front. “It’s not gratitude, you know.”
“It’s not?” He didn’t quite follow her meaning.
“Of course I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, but if we’d met on the street, I’d have felt the same things I do now.”
“Which are?” he prompted, scooting closer to her. His dark eyes surveyed her with renewed interest.
“Never mind,” she said with a small laugh. She could see no reason to inflate his ego any higher than it was already.
With his eyes steadily holding hers, Sam tucked a finger beneath her chin and slowly raised her mouth to his. Marjorie’s eyelids fluttered closed as she awaited the warm sensation of his lips settling over hers. He didn’t keep her waiting long. His arms encircled her, drawing her gently against his hard chest.
Their lips met in an unrushed exploration, as though they had all the time in the world and there wasn’t any reason to hurry anything. His mouth was moist and pliant against her own, moving with such gentleness, such care, that a tiny shudder worked its way through Marjorie, and with it came a helpless moan.
After torturous seconds Sam’s lips reluctantly left hers. He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder and inhaled a calming breath. He’d felt physically drained when he’d arrived. Now he was alive, more alive than he could ever remember being. Holding Marjorie, touching her, energized him, filled him with purpose, exhilarated him, eased the ache of loneliness that followed whenever he returned to an empty house after a delivery.
The wealth of sensation took Marjorie by surprise. A simple kiss—their first—had left her with a hunger as deep as the sea. Emotion clogged her throat, and she held him to her, her fingers weaving through the thick strands of his dark hair.
“Marjorie?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you always smell this good?”
Her eyes remained closed, and she grinned. “I think it’s the popcorn.”
“Not this. It’s roses, I think.”
“My perfume.”
“And sunshine.”
“I showered when I got home.”
He shook his head, declining her explanation. “And something more, something I can’t define.”
“That’s probably the popcorn.”
Sam shook his head. “Not this,” he countered softly. “Not this.”
The reluctance with which he loosened his hold thrilled her. They straightened and went back to watching the movie. He tucked his arm around her, and she rested her head against his shoulder. The warmth of his nearness convinced her that the man beside her was indeed real and not the product of a fanciful imagination or some delayed anesthesia-induced illusion.
A multitude of unanswered questions ran through her mind. It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out everything she felt for him, but she feared ruining this special evening.
“So you enjoy old movies,” he said, the thought pleasing him.
“Especially the classics. They did romances so well in those days.”
“You like romance?”
Marjorie nodded and hid a smile. “I’m liking it more all the time.”
