AFTERGLOW (16 page)

He entered her powerfully, fully, and she watched the myriad expressions on his face as he moved over her. "You are so beautiful, David," she said, lurching more closely against him when his fingers found her.

"Moan for me, Chelsea," he said, and she did.

Chelsea found herself stunned three more times that weekend. In her novels lovemaking between the hero and heroine always got better, but she'd sincerely doubted that that was true in real life.

But it certainly seemed to be. It had to be the lost weekend, she thought.

"I love your belly," David said. "Almost as much as your bottom."

"You ain't so bad yourself, Doctor," she said, gazing at him pointedly.

Under her fond gaze he became quite enthusiastic. "You
are
a lecher," Chelsea said, laughing.

"I don't think that
lecher
fits my uptight, stuffed-shirt Bostonian image."

"You're becoming more Californian by the day. What an improvement!"

Suddenly David cursed.

"What's wrong with you?" Chelsea asked, her fingers busily kneading his shoulders.

"I'm out of socks," he said in a very mournful voice. "And I suppose I should get myself home. I'm on duty early tomorrow morning, and I definitely need to recharge my batteries with some uninterrupted sleep. I've got a staff meeting, and I've got to be brilliant."

"Want me to write a script for you?"

"As in how to cure atrophy and not through surgery?"

"How about acupuncture?"

"As in insertion of a needle or something a trifle more dramatic into a prescribed point in the body?"

"You're terrible, and not at all serious. I do think, Dr. Winter, that I could nibble your neck right now and talk Transylvanian, and you wouldn't mind at all."

"You want me to be laid back, do you?"

He kissed her goodbye for the dozenth time. "Try to see Maggie tomorrow, okay?"

"I certainly don't want to be responsible for impeding a scientific study," she said, shooting him an impish smile.

David discovered during the following weeks that he had, miraculously, become a toucher. If he was driving he held her hand. If they were watching TV he could never remember the plots because his hands were busily doing their own plotting.

"I need my Chelsea fix," he announced to himself one afternoon at the hospital. He hadn't seen her for two days. He wondered if he were going off the deep end. If he was, he decided, it was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. Boston winters, very competitive professional people, stuffy parties—all seemed light-years away. But he missed his kids and worried about them. Damn, he didn't want them developing ulcers, and with the none-too-subtle pressure doubtless exerted on them, it could happen. He wanted them to be happy. He wanted them to be as carefree as their dear old dad was now.

He and Chelsea were dining out, David holding Chelsea's hand, his thumb stroking her palm, when he told her of his concern.

Chelsea was pleased, because David rarely spoke of his life in Boston. "There's competition out here, too, David. It's just that it's difficult to be totally immersed, as it were, when the weather is so enticing, and the ocean is at your back door, and everywhere you look it's like a postcard."

"And the pace of things is slower. Even sick people don't seem quite as sick in the emergency room. A lot of the residents are uptight, of course, but they've got boards to worry about and higher ups to impress."

"Tell me about medical school."

David groaned. "I worked my butt off."

"The original overachiever, huh?"

"That was just part of it."

"But there are rewards to being a doctor."

"True, and I firmly believe that after four years of university, four years of medical school, a year of internship and up to five years of residency, there should be something. Hell, Chels, the long hours don't magically stop after residency. They never stop. Most doctors I know deserve their income, and they really care about their profession and doing the right thing for their patients. I shudder to think about socialized medicine taking hold here in the U.S."

"I agree that the foundation of our society—work hard, excel, and there's a payoff—shouldn't be tampered with. I suspect if the reward weren't there, the quality of service would fall."

"Brilliantly put," David said, beaming at her. Of course, she'd spoken aloud his own thoughts on the subject. "Now that we've resolved that problem, what was that you were saying about dinner with the boys?"

"Not just Angelo, Maurice and Delbert. One of my writer friends from Sacramento, Cindy Wright, is coming. She used to live here in Sausalito, then moved. She breaks into wild sobs and deep sighs every time she comes back for a visit. She needs her Marin fix about every two weeks."

"Is that as dramatic as my Chelsea fix?"

"Yes, but not in the same way."

"Does she have a mouth like yours?"

"You can count on that, Doctor!"

"Does she look like you too?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, a writer friend of Cynthia's told me back in New York that we looked like sisters. I was astounded, and so was Cynthia. We quickly realized that we'd just insulted each other and decided that sisters it would be."

"Ah, but her bottom? No one's bottom could be as delicious as yours."

"I don't think I'd be quite that specific with Cindy. She just might give you some socks for your birthday. Knitted."

Cindy, David quickly discovered, was a whirlwind who gave him a disconcerting look and thrust a champagne bottle at him. She was small, like Chelsea, with dark hair and sparkling eyes. He thought her delightful, and waited for the coming of the inevitable bedlam.

It started when he heard her say to Chelsea, "I never should have left! Do you think I should hang out at the hospitals in Sacramento? He's a hunk, Chels." He moved a bit closer when she lowered her voice. All he could make out was something about thick fingers and big toes
…

Then Chelsea broke into merry laughter.

"All right, Cindy, time to check the board and carry out Sarah's instructions for dinner."

"This time," Cindy said firmly, "I'm going to make certain everything gets to the table at the same time, and hot. Remember that one banquet where you forgot to put in the main course?"

Besides Angelo, Maurice and Delbert, another man showed up, a journalist named John Sanchez. "He's into crime and erotic Marin scandals," Cindy told David by way of introduction. "He's usually harmless and reasonable, except for his refusal to wear the beautiful yellow sweater I bought him for Christmas last year."

"Hi," said John Sanchez, shaking David's hand. "I've got this problem and Chelsea told me I should ask you about it. Do you play chess?"

David, who had thought he'd be doling out medical advice, grinned. "I was pretty good until my brain cells started dying off."

John concentrated for a long moment on stuffing his pipe. "Chelsea gave me a beginners' chess book for my birthday, so I guess you must be better."

"Come on, boys and girls," Maurice called from the dining room table. "Let's get with it. We're allowing forty-five minutes for dinner. Then onward to poker. Delbert needs money for his gambling debts." He turned to Chelsea and continued without pause, "Well, sweetie, you look like a woman who's finally met her match."

"I don't smoke," Chelsea said.

"Lord that was bad," John said, sucking on his already dead pipe.

"Does he like racing?" Delbert asked. "I don't remember."

"He looks tired, Chelsea," Angelo said. "You're not overextending him, are you, dear?"

"More beer?" Chelsea asked the table at large.

"Champagne," Cindy said.

John Sanchez looked up and said, as he tapped his pipe into an ashtray, "Make that a Chi Chi, Chelsea. I want to drink to my mother."

"John!" Cynthia said, punching him in the arm. "Your mother's going to smack you if you keep accusing her of hanging out at the Polo Lounge!"

"She loves it," John said, eyeing Cynthia's bust swathed in a new yellow sweater with black swirls on it.

"Ah, lust at the dinner table," Maurice said.

Cynthia and John disappeared into the kitchen to get dessert. When they came out, Cindy called out, "Get the camera, Chels. This is our new routine."

"Sunglasses?" David said.

"Absolutely," Cindy said.

Chelsea got her camera and snapped some corker photos.

Maurice said to John, "You know, I've never met a Sanchez with blond hair before."

John stuffed his pipe and took three matches to light it. He said in a bland voice, between puffs, "It's in the genes. Actually, I used to be a bullfighter."

"Ha," said Cindy. "Actually, guys, Sanchez was only a cow fighter. And still is."

"Come on, John, tell the truth," Chelsea said. "All you ever did was try to kill your dog with a rake."

"Unjust, unfair," said John. He turned to David. "You wanna play chess while these thugs try to kill each other at poker?"

"No way," said Delbert firmly. "I want to win the doc's money. With David eyeing Chelsea like your raked dog with a meaty bone, he doesn't stand a prayer."

"John doesn't either," Cindy said. "Now, you guys, before the slaughter begins, we've got to write down our ratings for dinner on Sarah's board in the kitchen." The average rating for a delicious meal of chicken enchiladas, tacos, homemade salsa and re-fried beans, was a nine point five.

David, true to Delbert's prediction, got wiped out by ten o'clock. John was wiped out by eleven, and his pipe was nearly chewed through. He mumbled every once in a while that he preferred humiliation by chess. Cindy and Chelsea were attacking a bottle of white wine, and only laughed when Delbert showed a full house, reducing them to quarter chips.

"I thought Cindy was staying with you," David said when everyone trooped out thirty minutes later.

"And you were depressed, weren't you?"

"You got it, lady."

"Well, you're saved by John Sanchez. The two of them tape every movie in the world and spend hours in front of the tube, watching."

David pulled her into his arms and kissed the tip of her nose. "Is that all they do in front of the tube?"

"That, Doctor, you will have to ask them! My lips are sealed."

"I'll just have to take care of that, won't I?" David said, and began kissing her.

"You look like a very smug man," Elliot said to David one afternoon at the swimming pool. It was a week before Christmas, sixty-five degrees outside and sunny.

"Chelsea is the most unaccountable female," David said. "I swear, we argue as much as we love. At least it's never boring."

Elliot grinned. "George told me that Maggie called you with a full report on Chelsea when she went in for an exam."

"Yes," David said. "I've never been more embarrassed. That wouldn't happen in Boston."

"That's a pity," Elliot said. "She did the same thing to me when I sent George to her. When are you flying out?"

"In three days. Back to snow and ice and wind-chill factors. I think my blood's thinned out. I don't know if this poor body will be able to tolerate building a snowman with the kids this year."

But there was no snowman that year. One day before David planned to leave, he got a phone call at the hospital.

"I can't believe the hospital is the only place I can reach you, David."

David stared at the phone as if it were a piece of rare steak that had just walked off his plate. "Margaret?"

"Who else, darling? Is that laughter I hear in the background? In your precious, very serious hospital?"

"This is California, Margaret," he said to his ex-wife in a very tense voice. "Did you call for my flight schedule? The kids are okay, aren't they? And Mom and Dad?"

"No, dear, yes, and the same as ever. Merry Christmas, David. The kids and I are here, at your apartment. Your security guard let us in. When are you coming home?"