No Greater Love (5 page)

“Best internship rotation I had,” the man said cheerfully.

“I was dead tired all the time but I loved it.” Pieter smiled and then turned to Janan. “This is my friend, Alan Al-Bayati.” He gestured to her. “This is Janan Coers. She’s Carl Ahern’s honorary niece and he has designated her as my driver.”

Alan chuckled as he shook her hand. “Carl Ahern? How is he? I did a community clinical rotation with him. Wonderful teacher.” He turned back to Pieter. “I’ve arranged everything as you requested but I should warn you, it is going to be a hell of a day for you.” He glanced at Janan and said gently, “It’s going to take time.”

“I’m staying,” she said firmly.

Pieter nodded and followed his friend to the door marked Examining Room 1 where they paused of one accord to watch the subtle sway of Janan’s small, firm hips below the short black jacket as she walked down the hall.

“Hmm,” Alan murmured approvingly, and Pieter’s shoulders straightened as he said, “Ready when you are.”

Janan checked Pieter’s watch again, remembering the feeling of his cool fingers as he fastened it for her. For a moment she was lost in the memory of his arms holding her close as they lay in the snow. She began to pace the length of the now-empty waiting room. For three hours she had shared the heavy feeling of fear of the other people waiting for their loved ones to re-appear at the door, but now she was alone. She slid her hand into her pocket again to feel the reassuring presence of Pieter’s wallet and then, suddenly, he was walking through the door and she felt alive again.

“They said that we’ll resume after lunch.” He scanned her face and then said awkwardly, “There must be a cafeteria or coffee shop.” His face was strained and drained of color but he added politely, “We can look for one if you like?”

“I brought a light lunch.” Janan took his arm. “I know a place that’ll be more comfortable than the coffee shop.” She led him down the hall to a small room designated for families that one of the nurses had said she could use.

Pieter sank into the lounge chair without speaking and rested his head against the back of the chair.

Removing a Thermos and two mugs from her tote bag, Janan poured lemon-chicken rice soup into the mugs, and handed one to Pieter with a spoon before removing the wrapper from a plate of thinly sliced Leiden cheese, releasing the spicy cumin scent of the golden, piquant cheese into the room as she set it on the low table in front of Pieter.

Pieter lifted his head and slanted a quizzical glance in her direction.

“It’s Leiden cheese. Carl likes it. He says that it’s slightly tart and not as rich as some of the others.” She lifted her mug of soup and Pieter followed her action automatically. “Oh, I wasn’t thinking. You are from Amsterdam not Leiden. Perhaps you would have preferred Edam or Gouda?”

He closed his eyes as he lifted a fragrant slice of cheese from the plate. “I know this cheese well.” The tension in his face lessened as he met her eyes. “I was a student at Leiden University. I went to medical school there, too.”

“Leiden University. I’ve read about it.” Her long ebony eyelashes swept down hiding her eyes. “One of the oldest and still one of the best universities in the world they say.”

“Yes, or at least I think so.” He studied her face as though considering how much he wanted to share with her. “They were happy years.” He paused and directed the conversation to a more neutral topic. “What is your favorite cheese?”

She stood up and put her cup and the Thermos back in her bag. “That would be Tulum Peyniri.” Her voice was husky. “It’s only made in Erzincan. It’s a sharp, salty cheese made from goats’ milk and used to fill borek.” She smiled dreamily. “When you take that first bite of a warm, golden, buttery crisp borek and you taste the slightly salty, velvety, white cheese filling”—her voice trembled slightly—“It’s heaven.”

He pushed himself out of the chair and carried his cup to the table. “You want to go back, don’t you?” His voice was filled with compassion as he moved to stand closer to her.

She closed her eyes for a moment and allowed herself to savor the scent she associated with him—the mixture of lime, bergamot that reminded her of Earl Grey Tea, and the calming hint of lemony vetiver. “I think everyone wants to go home.” Drawing strength from the sense of his body sheltering hers, she continued in a steady voice, “But you don’t go home empty-handed.” She lifted her chin and with a determined edge to her voice said, “I have enrolled in an online Disaster Preparedness Program. The next time there is an earthquake in Erzincan, I will be there to help.”

“You think there will be another one?”

“Well, Erzincan sits on two fault lines—the East Anatolian Fault and the North Anatolian Fault.” She gave him a teasing smile. “Yes, I’d say the odds are high.”

With an approving grunt, Pieter put his arm around her to lift her wrist so that he could see his watch. “We’d better head back.” He moved reluctantly toward the door, with his arm resting lightly around her shoulders as he mentally clicked off the procedures scheduled for the afternoon—the tests that would disclose his fate.

Chapter 4

Eager to be away from the Cancer Institute, Pieter had insisted on walking to the car with Janan, and, as soon as she had maneuvered out of the parking lot, he surprised her by returning to the subject of their earlier drive to the hospital. “What’s keeping Carl from going home?”

“He didn’t talk about it very much as long as his aunt, his mother’s sister, was alive and living there, but after he learned that she had died a few months ago, I think it’s been more on his mind.”

“Who is living in his home now?”

“If I understood it correctly, it would be his aunt’s husband, his son, and his son’s wife.”

Pieter gave a disgusted snort. “Arnold’s parents?” He shifted uneasily in his seat.

Janan glanced at him quickly. “Bone marrow biopsies hurt like the devil. I’ll put an ice pack on your hip as soon as we get home.”

He looked down his long nose and said haughtily, “I thought a patient’s treatment was confidential.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” she snapped. “No one said a word to me about your treatment.” With a quick burst of speed, she passed a slow moving truck. “I told you that I had worked there for a short time. I know the usual procedures. I know the time lapse, and I saw you wince when you got into the car.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said with icy formality, looking straight ahead. Then with a barely suppressed grin, he asked, “Do you really think I am a, er, whatever it was you said?”  

Janan kept her eyes on the road while a soft blush stained her cheeks. “I think you’re a trooper.” She added, “That means. . . .”

“I know what it means,” he interrupted her. “Thank you.”

As she took the exit that would take them to her home, she said without looking at him, “Carl suggested that we go to my home where it’s quiet. There is a bedroom on the first floor where you can lie down for a little while.”

“You can just drop me at the Inn. I’ll be fine.”

“I say we follow Carl’s suggestions.” She gave him one of her rare smiles. “He may have retired from medicine but he still knows what’s best for you.” She stopped the car in front of a bungalow very similar to Carl’s but with a neatly shoveled walk.

“There’s a ‘For Sale’ sign on the lawn.” Pieter turned toward her in surprise.

“Yes. It’s been on the market for a while.” She unlocked the front door and motioned for him to enter.

“You are selling your home?” Pieter struggled to understand as he thought of the old homes in The Netherlands that stayed in the family for generations.

“Technically it is more the bank’s than mine,” she said over her shoulder as she hung his coat in the small hall closet. “When my parents were living, we could afford it with my father’s pension and my salary but now I can’t afford the mortgage, taxes, heating, maintenance . . .” She faced him squarely. “So I am selling it or trying to.”

“What will you do then?”

“I’ll take Carl home.” She spoke in a matter-of-fact manner as she led the way along the hallway that led to a surprisingly large bedroom at the back of the house. Before he could ask any more questions, she waved to the bed that took up most of the space. “My father was a tall man.” She glanced up at Pieter. “Almost as tall as you. I think you’ll be comfortable here.”

“Damn it,” he snarled. “I don’t need to be put to bed like an invalid. Just take me back to the Inn.”

“This is how it is going to be,” she said as she advanced toward him and he stepped backward toward the bed. “You are going to lie down on your side.” She placed a slender hand firmly in the middle of his chest. “And I’m going to put an ice pack on your hip. You’re going to rest for 2 hours and then I’ll take you back to the Inn.” She gave him a slight push toward the bed. “After that, I don’t care what you do.”

By the time she returned with an ice pack in one hand and a frosty glass in the other, he had taken off his jacket and shoes and was sitting on the edge of the bed. He considered the glass in her hand and asked mildly, “Do I smell mint?”

“Yes.” She handed him the glass. “It’s
Ayran
—yogurt mixed with water, ice cubes, a dash of salt, and topped with mint.” She met his skeptical look. “It’ll help you rest.”

“It’s very refreshing.” He handed her the empty glass. “I didn’t realize how thirsty I was.” He shot her a teasing look. “An old family recipe?”

“A centuries’ old recipe from the Caucasus.” She smiled shyly. “It’s used in Anatolia for everything.” She stared at the empty glass. “My mother made it for us when we were sick. She believed it could cure anything.”

“Now”—she turned slightly away from him to hide a sense of embarrassment that she did not understand.
She had taken care of male patients for years. Why was she blushing now?
—“If you’d loosen your belt please and lie down on your side, I’ll put this ice bag on your hip.”

She slid the ice bag into place on top of his crisply pressed blue cotton shorts and straightened up quickly. “There, now rest. You’ve had a strenuous day.”

He caught her hand as she turned to leave. “It was a hard day for you too. I won’t be able to rest unless you do.”

Janan caught her breath as she met his eyes that had changed from gray to nearly black.
He’s terrified of what tomorrow will bring,
she thought. “Well, if it’s all right with you, that other pillow”—she gestured to the other side of the wide bed—“looks very tempting.”

“Come.” He patted the other pillow. “We’ve both had an exhausting day.” After she had settled with her head on the pillow, he touched her finger tips with his. “You said your mother made Ayran for you. Tell me more. Tell me what you were like as a little girl?”

She froze and her long eyelashes dropped instantly so that he could not tell what she was thinking, but she did not draw her hand away. She never talked about the time before the earthquake, the time before she lost everything.

When she did not speak, he continued softly, “Now, take me for example.” He tapped her fingers lightly with his. “Not only did I stutter, I was the clumsiest boy you can imagine. I tripped over things and anything breakable seemed to find its way into my hand. When I thought someone was staring at my birthmark, my stuttering became worse.” He stroked her hand and one slender, cool finger slipped under the cuff of her sleeve to smooth the inside of her wrist. “You’re too thin.”

“Suddenly you are a connoisseur of women?” she jeered, trying to hide her hurt as she struggled to sit up. “No doubt you prefer your women blond and curvaceous.”

“No, you misunderstand me.” He tugged on her hand to bring her back to her pillow. “I meant that you’re working too hard. You’re trying to do too much.” He sighed. “It was a physician’s clinical observation. Not a man’s.”

“Clinical? Who are you kidding? You’re a psychiatrist.”

“Yes, but I was a physician first.” His eyes crinkled and he gave her a wicked grin. “Now, as a man, I would say that you are just right—perfect height, lovely, willowy body, beautiful oval face, and hair that only exists in a man’s dreams.”
More than just right. You have eyes that men would go to war for, skin that entices a man’s touch, and lips that curve up at the corners just waiting for a man’s kiss.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked humbly as he continued to stroke her wrist.

“Well,” she acknowledged gruffly, “I may have lost a little weight. It takes a lot of work to keep the house ready to be shown to prospective buyers.”

“Yes, and you are working and looking after Carl too.” He scowled as a sudden thought struck him. “Who shoveled your walk?”

“Who do you think?” she snapped in disbelief. “Everyone shovels his own walk.” She peered at him suspiciously. “Who shovels your walk?”

“We don’t get very much snow in Amsterdam. Maybe a light dusting but then it melts quickly or the army of bicyclists going to work make it disappear.” He smiled at her. “You were going to tell me what you were like as a young girl.”

Her eyes when she looked at him were defenseless. “I was gawky, the tallest girl in the neighborhood. The children called me
leylek,
a stork.”

“A stork?”

“Well, storks are very common in Anatolia. Big birds, some white and some black, with long, spindly legs. They’re migratory. We call them our guests. In the autumn, they fly to South Africa, but in the spring, they come home, to Anatolia, to lay their eggs and raise their young.” Her voice gentled. “Many mate for life and return to the same nest each year in late-March or early April. You can see their nests on nearly every roof.”

“But why did they call you a stork?”

She blushed. “I had very long legs.”

“I see.” The memory of one long slender leg tucked between his as she crouched over him to give CPR quickened his breathing and he moved slightly to hide his response to her but didn’t remove the hand covering hers. “Go on."

“I hated the name but with my long legs I could win every race. I could even beat my brother.” She lifted her head so that she could meet his eyes directly. “His name was Tomas.”

“A fine name,” he said gravely. “In Dutch it means a twin.” His hand closed snugly over hers. “Did you and Tomas play together?”