AFTERGLOW (28 page)

"Uh, yes, I guess so," he said to the laughing voice on the other end.

"I can't wait to read her love scenes from now on! You, dear man, are now raw material, buff research."

"Uh, well, let me get Chelsea!" He dropped the phone and sent an agonized look toward his
wife.

"Hi, Barbara! Is Beth on the other line?" Chelsea asked, and then was silent, a wide grin on her face.

"Yes, oh boy, you're right about that! Yes, that's
moi!
You got it. Thanks for calling."

"Well," Chelsea said, grinning wickedly at him, "you just got your second dose of writer wit. Keenan and Rowe aren't writers but they're close enough—they publish a magazine. Remember Cynthia Wright? She, my dear, was merely your first dose. Hefty, wasn't it?"

"Articulate, to-the-point bunch, aren't you?"

"Yes indeed, but you just wait until Tom Huff finds out. Lordie! Ain't it great?"

He supposed so. His kids had been a bit less articulate, but Mark had asked him quite clearly on the phone if he was kissing Chelsea more now and patting her bottom still. Margaret hadn't been at all surprised, and the general sent his best wishes. As for his parents, they'd sent a telegram from the south of France, a very noncommittal telegram.

The only snake in the garden appeared a week and a half later when Chelsea, dancing around when he got home from the hospital, handed him an article from the
Examiner.
It was all about the two of them, and he, the most romantic doctor in the world, had gotten fifty percent of the billing. He continued reading about their whirlwind romance and elopement to Las Vegas. He moaned. "Who," he said, "is responsible for this?"

"I think Barbara called a journalist friend and he called me. What's the matter, David? Don't you like it? There are only a couple of inaccuracies, and they're not anything major."

He said the first thing that popped into his mind, "Hell no! For God's sake, Chelsea, I'm a physician! This
…
ridiculous exposé will make my colleagues think
I'm
nothing more than a—"

"A what, David?"

Menacing tone, he thought, and quickly retrenched. He managed a deep sigh and said, "Please, in the future, Chels, just ask me, all right?"

"Ask you what? If you feel too above all us ordinary mortals to appear in print? Ask you if it's all right the next time I'm interviewed or on TV to speak about us?"

"No, damn it! Well, maybe. I just feel like
I'm
on parade, that's all. I don't enjoy feeling like a fool."

"Feeling like a fool because you eloped with me? Feeling like a fool because you married a writer who just happens to write
that
kind of thing? Lord, should I switch to Westerns? How about sci-fi? Ah, mysteries. That's manly, isn't it, with so much more credibility. You wouldn't be so embarrassed and ashamed."

"Stop turning your agile mouth on me, lady!"

"You usually enjoy my agile mouth!"

"I should have said agile tongue!"

"You enjoy that especially!"

"Damn it, keep to the point!"

"There is no point, except that I never should have asked you to marry me! You're becoming an uptight Easterner before my very eyes. You didn't even have to go into a phone booth to change into your stuffed shirt!"

"There's no reasoning with you!"

"Yeck!"

And she stomped out, grabbing her purse from the hall stand.

"Chelsea!" he yelled after her. The front door slammed.

He thought suddenly that it was the man who was supposed to slam out. He heard her car rev up and take off, tires screeching.

What, he thought, walking slowly to the window, had the argument been about in the first place? He saw the accursed newspaper article on the floor. Stuffed shirt, was he! Just because he didn't want to appear like some sort of
…
what?

A real life hero?

Marrying a creator of heroes?

Using him for subject matter?

Dumb jerk!

He knew she'd gone back to Sausalito, to her condo. It wasn't rented out yet. What to do? There wasn't any phone service.

He was at the point of driving like a bat out of hell to Sausalito, when the phone rang. It was the hospital, not his "wife." An emergency. He cursed, knowing there was no hope for it, and went in. He was in emergency surgery until two o'clock in the morning.

When he got out of surgery there was a message for him from Chelsea. She was home,
their
home, thank God.

She was asleep when he arrived, for which he was profoundly thankful. He didn't think he was up to apologizing with the proper finesse in his current state of fatigue.

She was still sleeping when he left the next morning. He didn't awaken her. Instead he had red roses delivered.

"It's something a hero would do," she said when he walked in the door that evening. "A hero who feels guilty and doesn't want to talk about it. A Mark I hero who's more macho than sensitive and believes organic matter will save his hide."

"Hi, sweetheart," he said, and pulled her into his arms. He felt so much relief just to have her close to him. "Please, Chelsea, don't walk out on me again. Let's fight until we can't think of any more words, all right? Just don't leave me."

"I didn't mean what I just said. It was awful of me. I'm a dreadful person. You're not a Mark I, except in bed. I'm sorry."

"I love this spate of apologies from both of us," he said, and gently lifted her face. "You're beautiful, I'm proud of you, I'm crazy about you."

"I guess that about covers what I wanted to say, too." She sniffed. It had been a dreadful day, filled with silent pacing, recriminations, a trotting out of all her insecurities.

"Tell you what, love. Let's have a phone booth installed here. Then, if I turn stuffy, you can shove me into it and hand in a starchy white shirt."

"Okay," she said, giving him a wan smile. "And I'll watch my mouth."

"No, let me watch your mouth, or feel your mouth, as the case may be."

"Are we still on our honeymoon, David?"

"I'm not sure. When is the wedding?"

"Next week, at George's house."

"Good, we'll start all over then."

"David?"

"Yes, sweetheart?" He was busily nuzzling her throat.

"The wedding will be very private."

"Hmmm."

"It's the reception."

"Hmmm?"

"It's going to be, well, just a bit larger than anticipated."

He drew back and looked down into her beloved face, which expressed guilt and wariness. "No," he said softly, placing a fingertip over her lips. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know. All I want right now is for you to make love with me."

She felt that marvelous warmth curling through her. "How can I turn down an offer like that?"

"You can't," he said, tossing her, laughing, over his shoulder and patting the most beautiful bottom in the world.

Chapter 17

«
^

D
avid couldn't believe it. He stared down at the pair of leopard-print underwear and the funny note that accompanied it. He might have known. It was from Cynthia and John-blond-haired-Sanchez who had tried to kill his dog with a rake. George peered over his shoulder, burst into laughter, grabbed the appalling wedding present out of his hands and tossed it to an emergency room nurse.

David managed to slither out of the living room under cover of the roars of laughter from the guests. He continued slithering like a shadow against the wall until he found the safety of the Mallorys' kitchen. It was filled to bursting with people chopping and cooking, and people hefting up trays of food to serve the guests. He found the back door and kept slithering until he reached an isolated part of their small garden.

He sat down on the lone stone bench and leaned back, closing his eyes. You're about ready for the phone booth, he told himself. So what's the big deal about a pair of leopard jockey shorts? A good half the presents they'd received were gag gifts. Lord, he just wanted it all to be over with, all resolved, he and Chelsea finally married—for the second time, of course.

It was nice of the Mallorys to have gone to so much trouble—this party followed by the wedding and the reception afterward. Just three more days, he told himself.

Tomorrow he and Chelsea would go out and buy him a wedding ring, and, he'd insisted, an engagement ring for her. He suddenly remembered the engagement parties and the wedding reception he and Margaret had been given. They had, he decided, perking up, been very formal, very tasteful and very boring. He remembered now that he'd never seen so much silver in his life. He wondered what had happened to all those teapots and serving trays.

"Hi. What's up, Doc?"

He looked up to see Chelsea smiling down at him. "I was just counting my blessings," he said, then added, grinning, "and my leopard shorts."

"You feeling overwhelmed?" Chelsea asked, having seen him slink out of the living room.

He patted the bench beside him, and she eased down. "I love you," he said, and pulled her into his arms. "And I wish we were alone, doing crazy, wonderful things to each other."

"That's a plan I second," Chelsea said, and leaned against his shoulder, sighing. "Everyone is so kind and so much fun, and really, so marvelous—"

"But?"

"I just wish this were the wedding reception and that would spell the end of all the festivities."

"I do like that sexy nightwear you got, though. Who was that from?"

"I honestly don't remember," she said.

"Well, I think that sinful red cutout nightgown will spell the beginning of our festivities."

She giggled, feeling suddenly relaxed for the first time in days. The novel was going exceedingly slowly. Her doctor hero Saint was definitely taking a back seat to her doctor hero David. There was just so much to do, so much to occupy her mind. She ran her hand over his chest. "All mine," she said.

"Yes, ma'am. You've got a fifty-year lease on this property."

"Is there oil in these here hills?"

David was feeling punch-drunk and couldn't think of a retort. Her mind never slowed down, never. Well, maybe when she was in bed with him. He seemed now to recall once when he'd had the last word. She'd just lain there, staring up at him with blurred, vague eyes, a silly smile on her face.

"Three more days to go, sweetheart, then we'll hole up. Okay?"

She nodded against his shoulder.

"When are your parents coming in?"

"Tomorrow." She gave a shudder. "I can't imagine what they're going to give us for a wedding present."

"Let me shudder with you."

Actually, the Lattimers' wedding present, presented the following evening at their apartment, was their trip to Hawaii, including the honeymoon suite at Kapalua Bay and a Mercedes to drive around the island. It was an incredibly generous gift.

"What do you think, Cookie?"

"Oh, Dad!" Chelsea threw her arms around her father, kissed him soundly, then dove for her mother. "You guys are too much!"

Mimi Lattimer gave her daughter a fond, teary look and pressed a long, narrow box into her hands. "Just a little something for you, dear."

Chelsea shot a look at David, then opened the wrapping and the jeweler's box. Inside was a diamond-and-emerald necklace, exquisitely fashioned. Chelsea simply stared at it. Then she looked up at David and burst into tears.

"Cookie!"

"Lovey!"

"It's so beautiful," Chelsea sobbed against David's chest.

"It is, indeed," David said, smiling at Chelsea's parents over her head. "Come on, sweetheart, you're going to take all the starch out of my white shirt."