03_The Doctor's Perfect Match (11 page)

His first impulse was to kiss her. But he knew she wasn’t ready for that.

Without breaking eye contact, he took her shoulders in a gentle grip, turned her toward him and pulled her close. But he didn’t claim her lips. He just held her in the shelter of his arms, the photo of Henry’s gazebo—a symbol of enduring love—captured between them.

He could feel her trembling, but she didn’t pull away as he’d feared she might. And as the seconds ticked by, the silence broken only by the distant crash of the surf, he slowly felt the tension melt from her body. Stroking her back, he nestled her closer, resting his cheek against her curls, marveling at how right she felt in his arms.

Christopher had no idea how long they stood there in the quiet of Henry’s garden. But at last she drew a shuddering breath and eased back. Although he missed her warmth at once, he let her go. For now.

Her eyes downcast, she fingered the photo and spoke in a tone that tried a little too hard to sound light and casual.
“Henry’s picture seems to have cast quite a spell. Pretty soon it’ll have us believing in fairy tales.”

Putting a finger under her chin, Christopher tipped her head up and locked gazes with her. “The picture isn’t the only thing casting a spell. And not all romance is confined to fairy tales.”

Tears welled in her eyes—along with an emotion he could only classify as regret. “It is for me.”

Before he could process that comment, she backed down the porch steps. “I need t-to go. I’ll let you know what Chester says about the gazebo.”

With that, she took off at a half run around the side of the cottage.

“Marci, wait…” He started after her, but the panicked look she threw over her shoulder when he reached the arbor told him she needed space. Desperately.

So he remained under the cascade of roses, gripping the top of the gate while she slid into her car and sped away with a crunch of gravel.

He remained that way long after she’d disappeared, staring after her. But at last he pried his fingers off the gate, took a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. Retracing his steps, he paused to look at the spot that had once held the gazebo built with loving care by Henry for a woman whose love continued to enrich his life.

That was what he wanted, Christopher realized. The kind of love shared by Henry and Marjorie—and by his own parents. Yes, he’d made an error in judgment once, mistaking neediness for love. And a deep-seated wariness was a lasting souvenir of the tragic consequences of that relationship.

But Marci wasn’t Denise. He’d learned enough about her to feel confident of that.

Yet Marci had her own issues. Her comment tonight about
fairy tales reinforced that. As did her hasty exit when things started to get romantic. And they might be just as scary as Denise’s. He needed to find out what they were—but unfortunately, he was running out of time. In a little more than two weeks, she would board a plane for Chicago.

And somehow he knew that if he let her walk away, the brightness she’d added to his days would fade away as quickly as clouds could snuff out the Nantucket sun.

“I
can’t believe how fast this came together.”

At Marci’s comment, Christopher took a long swig of lemonade and eyed the gazebo that had risen in Henry’s backyard in the course of one Sunday afternoon, a mere three days after she’d broached the idea. “Me, neither. Another half hour ought to wrap it up. We couldn’t have done it without Chester, though.”

They both looked toward the older man in overalls who was perched on a ladder securing a decorative piece of lattice while J.C. held it in place and Edith directed the process from ground level.

“When I gave him the photo, he rubbed his hands together, got this gleam in his eye and said, ‘I love projects.’ Edith warned me he tended to be slow—she said it took him more than two years to restore the cottage I’m staying in—but she must have lit a fire under him. He came out here Friday afternoon, drew the plans up that night and bought all the material yesterday. It’s amazing. And I think our little scheme is working. When I dropped a few hints to Henry about a surprise, I could tell his interest was piqued.”

Excitement had put a becoming flush on her cheeks, and her eyes were shining. She’d done a good job evading him since they’d exchanged the hug on Henry’s porch, and Christopher couldn’t believe how much he’d missed her.

“It is. He’s been trying to finagle information out of me every time I visit.”

“More to the right, Chester,” Edith called. “The lattice is sticking out on the other side over the opening.”

“She’d make a good foreman.” Christopher grinned and walked a few feet away to pick up another piece of trim. “You want to help me put this up?”

“Sure.”

He set his disposable cup aside and moved back to the gazebo. Positioning a ladder beside the opening next to Chester, he took the lattice from Marci.

“I’m sorry to run out on you, but we have plans for tonight.” Edith steadied the adjacent ladder as her husband descended. “You and Marci can handle the last two pieces of trim, can’t you?”

“We don’t have to rush, Edith,” the older man protested.

“Chester.” She elbowed him. “We have to leave.
Now.
”

Squinting at her, he took off his baseball cap and scratched his head, leaving his unruly cowlick in disarray. “I guess we do.”

She gave a satisfied nod and turned to J.C., pinning him with a pointed stare. “J.C., didn’t Heather ask you to be back by seven? You could hitch a ride home with us and leave the car for Marci to use later.”

He looked from his neighbor to his sister, a grin twitching his lips. “Sounds good to me.”

Propping one shoulder against the gazebo, Christopher watched in amusement, admiring Edith’s masterful maneuvering.

But it was clear from Marci’s narrowed-eyed, mutinous ex
pression that she didn’t share his reaction. “None of you said anything earlier about having to leave at a certain time.”

“I assumed we’d be done by now. But that’s what happens when you have an amateur crew.” Edith began to bustle about, collecting some of the scraps of wood while Chester and J.C. broke down the portable sawhorses and headed for Chester’s truck with various tools. “You want us to leave one of the ladders, Christopher?”

“If you don’t mind. I can use Henry’s, but it would help if Marci had one, too, so she can balance the trim in place while I attach it.”

“No problem. Chester gets out this way at least once a week. He’ll pick it up on his next trip.” Edith planted her hands on her ample hips and surveyed the gazebo. “Looks mighty fine. I imagine Henry will be pleased.”

Throughout this exchange, Marci had remained quiet. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, and she was frowning.

Not good.

“If you want to leave with your brother, it’s okay,” Christopher said, lowering his voice for her ears only.

She looked at him, clearly torn. “Can you finish this alone?”

“It would be easier with another pair of hands. Besides, I have some things I wanted to discuss with you about Caring Connections.”

She shot the cleanup trio another glance. “Look, in case you haven’t realized it yet, Edith has a penchant for matchmaking.”

His lips quirked into a smile. “Yeah. I figured that out.”

“The thing is, I don’t want to encourage her. Or my brother. It makes no sense for a lot of reasons. Not the least of which is my imminent departure.”

“I’d like to talk to you about that, too.”

Before she could respond, Edith called out to them. “We’re off. Be sure to get that trim on straight, Christopher.”

“I will. Thanks for all your help. You, too, Chester, J.C.”

There were a flurry of goodbyes, followed by the cough of a truck engine as it turned over and the crunch of tires on oyster shells. Then silence descended, save for the rhythmic pounding of the surf.

Based on Marci’s silence, Christopher assumed she was still processing his last comment. He hadn’t planned to bring up the subject of her departure today. But in light of the way she’d been avoiding him, it might be his best opportunity to put out some feelers about her interest in the director job.

And in him.

Snagging a piece of trim, he climbed the ladder. “Let’s finish this up before we lose the good light.”

Without a word, Marci ascended the other ladder, grasped the trim and held it in place while Christopher secured it.

For the next fifteen minutes, their communication was confined to simple phrases like “A little more to the right” and “Raise it an inch on your side.” She didn’t ask him to explain his comment; he didn’t offer to.

After the last screw was firmly seated in the wood, Christopher put Henry’s ladder in the toolshed and leaned Chester’s against the railing of the back porch. Then he joined Marci, who had moved off to examine the gazebo from across the yard.

The step-up structure was simple in design, the only ornamentation the lattice panels above each opening and a picketed railing. Constructed of natural wood, it had the raw look of fresh-cut lumber. But Christopher knew it wouldn’t take long for the gazebo to acquire the driftwood-colored patina of its predecessor. Large enough to accommodate a café table or a pair of wicker rocking chairs, it would be a perfect place for Henry to recuperate—and remember.

“I can picture Henry sitting there with a mug of coffee in his hand, can’t you?”

He smiled. “You must be reading my mind.”

“What’s your best guess on when he might come home?”

“He didn’t have a fever this morning when I stopped by. That’s a good sign. If he continues to progress, I’d say he could be back here by Thursday.”

“Good. That will give me a chance to make sure all the help I lined up is working out okay before I leave.”

He gestured toward the gazebo. “How about we sit for a minute? Might as well enjoy the fruits of our labors.”

After a brief hesitation, she acquiesced with a dip of her head. “Okay.”

Crossing the lawn, she sat on the elevated floor at the entrance, as close as possible to the upright post on one side.

He joined her in the ample space she’d left for him. Stretching out his legs, he crossed his ankles and leaned back on his palms. The lush green grass and colorful, well-tended flower beds inside the white picket fence provided a striking contrast to the golden sand and sparkling sea beyond.

“Henry has a nice spot here.”

Marci gazed out over the water, her expression pensive. “Too bad Patricia can’t appreciate that. And how much it means to Henry.” She clasped her hands around one knee and looked over at him. “You know, after visiting him at that assisted-living facility, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to end their days in a place like that. I’m glad your plan will give older folks another option.”

“At this point, it’s your plan as much as it is mine.”

She shook her head. “No, it was your idea. But I’m glad I could help give it life.”

Christopher’s heart began to hammer, and he took the plunge. “I’d like for you to do more than that.”

She gave him a wary look. “What do you mean?”

“You saw my note about the program deserving a full-time director?”

“Yes.”

“With your social-work degree, organizational skills and empathy for the elderly, you’d be perfect for the job.”

Several beats of silence ticked by. “You mean until you find a permanent director?”

“No. I think you’d be a good permanent director.”

“I’d have to move here.”

“I know. And I can appreciate what that means. You’d have to disrupt your whole life in Chicago. Leave behind everything you know. But you’ll be looking for a job anyway. And your brother lives here now, so it wouldn’t be as if—”

His phone began to vibrate, and he stifled a groan. Talk about bad timing. He supposed he could ignore it, but his years of medical training had hardwired him to respond to every call.

Pulling the phone off his belt, he checked the caller ID. “It’s my exchange. I need to take this.”

“No problem.”

He pressed the Talk button. “Christopher Morgan. Hold a moment, please.” Tapping Mute, he rose. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we grab some sandwiches in town and talk about this? It’s past dinnertime. Think about it while I take care of this call, okay?”

Without waiting for her to respond, he moved across the yard. Giving her the opportunity to think up an excuse to cut their evening short. Or refuse the job outright.

But he hoped she wouldn’t do that. Because if she did, she’d be nixing their relationship before it even had a chance to take root.

And that was a possibility he wasn’t willing to consider.

From her perch at the edge of Henry’s gazebo, Marci sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward for the interruption. She needed a few minutes to think.

Putting personal feelings aside, the job did appeal to her. As she’d discovered over the past few weeks, she did have an affinity for older folks. Helping people like Henry retain their independence would be satisfying, rewarding work.

As for Christopher’s comment about giving up her life in Chicago, that would be no sacrifice. She had few fond memories of the Windy City.

But even if she took the job, even if they found a way to bridge the differences between them, she had very little confidence he’d be able to overlook the past she hadn’t yet shared with him. And before she agreed to stay, they’d have to clear that hurdle.

There was no way was she ready to discuss that tonight, however.

Ending the call, Christopher rejoined her. “So how about some dinner? The ’Sconset Café has great sandwiches. We could grab a couple and enjoy them on the beach while we talk.”

“I need some time to think about your suggestion, Christopher.”

“Okay.” He grinned. “But you also have to eat. At least join me for a bite. We deserve it after all our hard work this afternoon. And I promise not to push about the job. Tonight, anyway.”

She hesitated. Dinner on the beach with the handsome man smiling down at her sounded wonderful.

“Don’t overthink it, Marci. It’s just sandwiches.”

Giving in to the prodding of her heart, she capitulated. What harm could there be in a casual dinner? “Okay.”

“Great. Let me grab a beach towel.”

Sixty seconds later, they were strolling down the narrow
lane toward the center of the tiny village. Honoring his promise, he didn’t bring up the job again. Instead, he kept the conversation light. Once they arrived at the small restaurant, already packed for the evening meal, they worked their way through the crowd and placed their order with the hostess.

“You must be a regular.” Marci squeezed through the throng of customers as he ushered her back toward the deck in front.

He grinned. “I’m a typical bachelor, I guess. Cooking isn’t my thing. I come here three or four nights a week.” He pushed the door open and they stepped outside to wait for their order to be called.

“I can tell. You seem to be on a first-name basis with everyone who works here.”

“That’s not hard in a town the size of ’Sconset. It doesn’t take long to distinguish the year-rounders from the day-trippers and summer people. And ninety-eight percent of the people here fall into the latter two categories.” He gestured around at the diners enjoying their meal on the other side of the deck. “I don’t recognize any—”

When he stopped abruptly, Marci looked up at him. His complexion had gone pale, and his features had grown taut.

Alarmed, she turned to follow the direction of his gaze. A woman in her late fifties or early sixties, seated at a table for two on the other side of the deck, was staring at him. As Marci watched, she spoke to her gray-haired companion, whose back was to them. He shifted toward them, and the icy look he aimed at Christopher sent a shiver down her spine, despite the balmy weather.

She turned back to him. “What’s wrong, Christopher?”

Instead of answering, he took her arm and guided her back inside. Her apprehension escalated at the tremors in his fingers.

“Let’s see if our food is ready.”

Leaving her inside the door, he strode to the counter and
spoke to the hostess. She disappeared into the kitchen, and rather than rejoin her as he waited, Christopher remained where he was. Although Marci couldn’t see his face, the tense line of his broad shoulders and his stiff stance communicated distress with a capital D.

What was going on?

A couple of minutes later, the hostess reappeared with two packages wrapped in white paper. She slid them into a large bag, added cans of soda and cellophane-wrapped utensils and handed the bag to Christopher.

When he turned back toward her, the shock had disappeared from his face. But in its place were pain and distress.

As he rejoined her, he spoke before she could voice her concern.

“Let’s head for the beach.”

Taking her arm, he led her across the elevated wooden platform and down the steps. Christopher never looked back at the two people who’d given him such a venomous perusal. But Marci glanced toward the deck as they passed. They were still watching Christopher, and she had no problem reading the emotion in their eyes.