A Soft Place to Fall (41 page)

They didn't even notice when Ellen slipped
out the door, which was, of course, as it should be. She had done
her job, helping Annie bring little Sarah Joy into the world but
now the rest of it was up to them. She leaned against the wall and
let her emotions seek their level once again. You would think she
would be used to it by now but each time she saw a tiny head
crowning, each time she heard a newborn baby greet the world, she
was filled once again with a sense of wonder that carried her
through until the next delivery.

But sometimes, like today with Annie and Sam,
it was even more wondrous. To see them with their baby girl, to be
privileged to witness the happiness on their faces and on the faces
of the people who loved them –

"Are you crying again, Markowitz?"

She looked up through teary eyes as Hall
approached. He was fresh from the delivery room himself, wearing
the look of wonder she knew all too well.

"Boy or girl?" she asked him. "I know Aileen
was looking for a boy."

"Aileen got her wish," he said, leaning
against the wall next to her. He smelled faintly of Betadine and
that made her smile. "Nine pounds, six ounces with lungs like his
mother." She heard him drawn in a breath. "Annie?" he asked.

"A beautiful little girl," Ellen said as
those damn tears flooded down her cheeks and splashed onto her
scrubs. "Sarah Joy Butler." She provided the vital statistics and
tried very hard not to notice that his own eyes filled with tears.
"I have never seen so many people in a waiting room in my
life."

"The Galloways stick together," Hall
said.

"Looks like the Butlers do too."
Lucky
Annie,
she thought.
Lucky Sam.

Lucky, lucky Sarah.

They were quiet for a while, then Ellen
stifled a yawn. "I think I'm going to call it a day," she said.

He looked at her and for the first time she
didn't see Annie Butler reflected in his eyes. She didn't know if
it meant anything at all but she was open to the possibility. "How
about we grab some lunch at Cappy's?"

"I'd like that," she said then smiled at him.
"I'd like it a lot."

They watched for a moment as Sarah Joy Butler
took her place in the nursery next to Baby Boy Whitcomb. They held
the hopes and fears and dreams of their parents tight in those
little fists. A smile from either one of them could make a grown
man cry.

She didn't know what Hall was thinking but
she could guess. "Another day, another miracle," she said,
pretending to dust off her hands. "All in a day's work around
General Hospital."

He laughed and turned away from the window of
sleeping dreams. "Ain't it the truth, Doc," he said. "Ain't it the
truth."

"Cappy's in fifteen minutes?"

"Sounds great," said Hall. "I'll meet you in
the parking lot."

Ellen was smiling as she hurried back to her
office to change into street clothes.

It wasn't a miracle, but it would do for
now.

==The End==

Page down for excerpts from
The Marrying
Man, I Do, I Do . . . Again,
and
At Last
from Barbara
Bretton

The Marrying Man - a novella

Chapter One

Catherine O'Leary Zaslow knew twenty-seven
ways to kill a man and on that morning before Thanksgiving she
contemplated a twenty-eighth. If looks could kill, her agent would
be six feet under.

"I must be crazy," she announced as Max took
her coat then handed it to his assistant. "I don't know how I let
you convince me to come all the way down to Manhattan for this
meeting. This is the day before Thanksgiving, Max. Normal people
are home baking pies, not taking meetings."

"This was the only day Riley McKendrick could
make it," Max said. "We had to grab him when we could."

Cat took a seat at the long conference table.
"So who is this Riley McKendrick, the uncrowned king of
England?"

"Better than that," said Max, taking a seat
opposite her. "McKendrick's the best time management expert in the
country. I know how you feel about organization, Catherine, but the
time has come--"

"If you think I'm letting one of those
schedule-loving lunatics into my house so he can alphabetize my
spices and color-code the toilet tissue, you're crazy."

"Think how successful you'd be if you could
actually find your computer in that rat-trap office of yours. I've
been to your house, Catherine. I'm surprised you can find your
children."

"You mind your business, Max, and I'll mind
mine." What difference did it make if she had the organizational
abilities of the average fruit fly? Everyone was clean, fed, and
happy. If more was required in raising children, she couldn't
imagine what it was. Besides, her kids weren't any of Max's
business, her books were. And these days her mystery novels were
number one on bestseller lists across the country.

"Frank Fairbairn's production has doubled
since he hired a time management specialist to whip him into
shape." Frank Fairbairn was her closest competition in the murder
mystery field. Max looked downright wistful at the thought of
double production.

"Frank Fairbairn is a man," Cat pointed out,
choosing to ignore Max's statement about a time-management
specialist. "His wife keeps his world running smoothly."

"Listen, if a wife'll get you back on track,
I'll find you a wife."

"Jenny and I do just fine on our own." Jenny
was her housekeeper, confidante, and partner in chaos.

"I know Jenny," Max reminded her. "That's not
a very convincing argument. The woman can't make scrambled eggs
without consulting the Joy of Cooking."

"I know why you're doing this," she said,
tapping her index finger against the table top. "Last year it was a
personal trainer, this year it's a time management consultant.
You're too trendy for your own good, Max."

"Trends come and trends go," Max intoned,
"but an organized life is forever."

She glanced at her watch. "What time was he
supposed to be here?"

Max shifted uncomfortably. "Ten o'clock."

"It's ten-fifteen," she observed. "Sounds
like the world's best time management consultant needs to have his
credentials updated."

"This is Manhattan, Cat. He probably got
stuck in traffic."

Cat rose then walked around to the other side
of the table and placed a quick kiss atop Max's elegant, perfectly
barbered head. "Dinner's at four o'clock tomorrow, Max. We'll pick
you up at the train station at three-fifteen."

"Catherine, Catherine, Catherine! See reason,
please. An hour with Riley McKendrick will change your life
forever."

"Sure, Max," she said. "That and a magic
lantern with a genie inside. No nearsighted weenie with an
obsession for clocks and calendars is going to get close enough
to--" She stopped, a frown creasing her forehead. Max's smile was
incandescent. His eyes sparkled. He'd seen reason!

Her heart soared with delight until she
realized Max was looking right past her toward the door.

"McKendrick!" Max said in a booming,
hail-fellow-well-met voice he reserved for contract negotiations
and Elite models. "We were about to send out a search party."

"Sorry," drawled a deep male voice behind
her. "Flat tire on East 54th Street."

The number-crunching clockwatcher. She barely
suppressed a groan. If she hadn't stopped to kiss Max on the head,
she'd be safely in the elevator and on her way home.

No big deal. She'd turn, she'd smile politely
at the poor dweeb in the doorway, and then excuse herself with
dispatch.

She turned around.

She looked at him.

And her entire life seemed to pass before her
eyes.

That was no dweeb. That was the Marlboro Man
- in all of his untamed, uncivilized Wild West glory.

Her jaw dropped open and for a moment she
wondered if she'd need professional help to get it closed.

The guy wore artfully faded jeans, a
cream-colored sweater, and a leather jacket that looked as if it
had a few stories to tell. Her gaze slid across his torso, down his
long legs, to the boots. And not the kind of boots you'd find on
some ersatz urban cowboy. These were the real thing, tough, worn,
sexy as hell.

Same as the man who wore them. He was at
least six-four and most of that was muscle. Hard, well-developed
muscles, some of them in places she'd believed only Greek statues
had muscles. Dark hair, green eyes, your basic Adonis. For a moment
she considered swooning but thought better of it. This was the 90s,
after all, and modern women were supposed to take things like
amazing male pulchritude in stride.

He was the kind of guy you saw on the cover
of a paperback historical romance, one of those perfect specimens
that came complete with a bosomy blond companion clutching at his
manly chest.

That couldn't be the clockwatcher. Maybe he
really was a cover model and that was why he was looming in Max's
doorway. If she could breathe at all, she'd breathe a sigh of
relief. Max handled a few big name romance authors and he probably
had a say in who posed for the covers. Riley McKendrick must be
standing behind the Marlboro Man, hidden behind the cowboy's broad
shoulders. You could hide a redwood tree behind those
shoulders.

"Cat." Max's voice broke into her reverie. "I
want you to meet Riley McKendrick."

She waited for a small, plain man to peer
around the cowboy's shoulder but none did.
It can't
be
,
she thought, heartbeat
accelerating.
It's just not possible!

The cowboy smiled down at her. This was the
man who watched clocks for a living? Men who looked like this guy
did usually spent more time looking in the mirror. His teeth were
white, shiny, and symmetrical. Instead of money, the tooth fairy
had probably left porcelain veneers under his pillow.

"C. O. Lowe," McKendrick said, as her hand
was swallowed up in his. "I know your books."

She nodded, aware that he'd said he knew her
books, not that he either read and/or liked them.

"My name's Cat," she managed, wishing she had
more experience dealing with cowboy Adonises, "and I'm not
interested in getting organized." Blunt but true.

"That's what they all say."

"I'm sure they do," she murmured as reason
made a delayed return, "but let me say it again: I don't know what
Max promised you, but there's no deal. Not with me."

Max popped up between them, a referee in
Armani. "Coffee," he said in an unnaturally cheerful voice. "That's
what we need. Coffee." He looked toward McKendrick. "How do you
take it?"

Talk about a loaded question. A voluptuous
shiver rose up from the soles of her feet and she wondered if
anyone would notice if she poured a pitcher of iced water over her
head.

"Black," said the cowboy. "No sugar."

"Cat?" Max asked.

"With cream," Cat mumbled. "Two sugars.
Decaf."

"Decaf?" asked McKendrick.

"What's wrong with decaf?" she asked.

"Most people drink coffee for the
caffeine."

"I drink it for the taste."

"No taste in decaf."

"That's why the cream and sugar."

"That's illogical."

"So sue me."

Max mumbled something then vanished in search
of refreshments. Cat considered the wisdom of following hard on his
heels but the cowboy barred the way.

"So what exactly do you have against
organization?" McKendrick asked, bracing an arm against the
doorjamb.

In for a penny, in for a pound
.
"Organization is anathema to the creative spirit."
Anathema
,
she thought with a grin.
Let him chew on that for a while.

He didn't bat an eye. Was it possible, brawn
and brains? Dangerous combination. "I've seen your office," he
said. "Your creative spirit better come with a road map."

"What do you mean, you've seen my
office?"

"Max sent me pictures."

"Max will need a road map of the intensive
care ward if he doesn't stop doing things like that."

"Don't blame Max." The guy had a smile that
could light up a movie screen. "I asked him for one."

"Someone should have asked me
.
"

"Someone should've sent in a wrecking
crew."

Max hustled back in, balancing three mugs of
coffee and a plate of bagels. "Now this is what I call synergy. Two
people at the top of their respective fields, coming together for
mutual benefit."

"Sorry, pal." McKendrick shook his head. "No
deal."

Cat glared at him. "What do you mean, there's
no deal? That's not for you to say." She turned to Max. "There's no
deal."

"Don't be hasty," Max said, looking from Cat
to McKendrick. "We can--"

"Forget it, Max," McKendrick broke in. "She
doesn't want my help.""