The Agreement (5 page)

Finally, I got up and made a cup of chamomile
tea and read
Anna Karenina
until I fell asleep, the book in my hand, Big
still in a tangle of socks at the back of my dresser drawer.

Three days later, I sat in a café across from NY
Presbyterian so I could interview Dave. I had on my Doc Marten shoes, with an
elastic bandage on my ankle the only sign I'd been injured, my cuts and scrapes
mostly healed over. I had the sheet of paper that contained my questions and my
iPhone so I could record his answers. I'd called Dave earlier to confirm our
interview. I suggested we meet at a café near the Foundation's offices and he
suggested one. He called a few moments after I arrived.

"I'm on my way over. Dr. Morgan hoped to be
able to do the interview, but he's unable so I'll be doing it after all. He has
a busy day in the O.R."

Good
. Despite disliking Dave, I didn't want to have
to interview Drake. He was just so attractive that I knew I'd feel all
tongue-tied around him. As I waited for Dave to arrive, I wondered if he would
be his usual self and hit on me. He really was a lothario, although very
friendly about it. When Dave arrived and saw me, he made a beeline for me. I
remained seated, glad he didn't bother trying to kiss my hand again.

"Kate, so glad you could come meet
me," he said, friendly but more formal. "I've been looking forward to
this since the fundraiser."

"Nice to see you again," I said, not
meaning it for a moment.

He took a seat across from me and ordered a coffee
when the waitress came to our table. After she left, he turned to me and folded
his hands on the tabletop.

I conducted the interview, turning on my
iPhone's recorder. I asked questions about how the foundation started, where it
had its main projects, how it choose hospitals to fund, the usual questions I
needed to write my article. I asked him what he thought were the most
successful projects and he responded, articulate, informed, and helpful. For
once, he talked to me as a person, not a Don Juan, and I wondered why. Had
Drake said something to him?

"I just checked out our projects, and we
have twenty currently open."

"Wow," I said. "That's quite a
lot going on."

"We're very busy. When I'm not fundraising,
I spend most of my time coordinating shipments of surgical implements and
supplies. Dr. Morgan donates a lot of his own money as well as raising funds
from other donors. He keeps me busy."

"Well, I guess that's it," I said and
turned off my iPhone voice recorder. "Thank you so much for this. I really
appreciate it."

Before I could rise to leave, Drake Morgan
entered the café from the street. Still dressed in his scrubs and white lab
coat, he stopped at the front and glanced around the café before spying us in
the rear. When his eyes met mine, I felt my cheeks heat. I quickly gathered up
my things. I did
not
want to have to talk to him.

He was just too good looking and powerful.

"Thank you for coming down, Kate,"
Dave said, extending his hand. I had to shake, but he didn't lean down and kiss
my hand. I just smiled back, anxious to see if Drake came to our table and if I
could escape before he did.

I couldn't. He walked over and before I could
leave, he came up behind Dave and laid a hand on his shoulder, a smile on his
face.

"There you
are
," he said.
"I was wondering if I'd make it down in time."

"We just finished," I said and
shrugged, smiling in relief. 

 He nodded, his lips pressed a bit thin.
"I
told
Mr. Mills that I'd be right over and he was
supposed
to wait and let me do the interview." He made a face at Dave and then
turned to me and caught my eye. "Perhaps you could stay behind for a
moment so we can speak alone."

I glanced at Dave, who smiled sheepishly.
"I didn't want you to waste your time in case Drake wasn't able to get
away from the hospital. Sometimes his surgeries take longer than planned. Nice
talking to you again, Kate. Good interview."

I watched as he left the café, closing the door
behind him.

I turned back to Drake. He didn't sit in Dave's
vacated chair across from me but the one next to mine, his arm on the back of
my chair. He looked at me directly.

"Well," I said after a moment when he
did nothing and said nothing, just sat there looking at me. "I'm here.
What did you want to talk about?" I forced a smile.

"How's your ankle? Your knees?" He
peered down at my legs, which were covered by tights under my short jean skirt.

"Almost all better."

"Good."

 We smiled at each other and I finally
sighed. "So? You wanted to speak with me?"

"I just wanted to offer you the chance to
ask me anything now that I'm here," he said, his voice low, soft.

"I think I got everything I need from Mr.
Mills."

"You don't want to hear my side of things?
Considering it's my father's foundation…"

I sighed. I really
should
ask him some of
the more personal questions I skipped because I was interviewing Dave instead
of him.

"I do have a few questions, more about
motivation." I took out my iPhone and started the recording. I took in a
deep breath. "Can you tell me why he started this foundation?"

He moved his chair a bit closer, and leaned in
as if he wanted to say something personal. He was a bit
too
close for my
comfort.

"He was a socialist, committed to
eradicating poverty. He didn't expect to become rich and so when he did, he
poured almost every extra cent into helping hospitals in third world countries,
especially Africa. He said something about unequal development and capitalist
exploitation – you'd know more about that than me."

I frowned, not certain I knew what he meant, but
not wanting to push him.

"The Foundation continues his work today.
Everything we do in the Foundation," he said, "is to try to fulfill
my father's vision, even if only in a small way. He was so committed to his
causes. He made a lot of money, and his company is still making a lot of money.
I know he'd want it to be put to good use. He hated being rich and gave most of
his money away. We lived in the same apartment all my life, once my mother
left. He lived off his salary as a trauma surgeon, which while high, was
nothing compared to what his company made."

I watched as he spoke, keeping my eyes on his
mouth instead of his eyes. So bright blue and piercing, I found it hard to look
at them directly.

There was silence for a moment and I realized he
wasn't speaking any longer. He smiled indulgently.

"I'm
sorry
." I grimaced in
embarrassment, although something he said about his mother stuck in my mind.
"Can you tell me what project you're most proud of?"

He spoke about a pediatric neurosurgery program
that brought patients to the US for the most delicate surgeries that couldn't
be done as safely in local hospitals. I nodded and listened, my eyes focusing
on everything but his eyes.

"Your father died while in Africa several
years ago," I said, remembering the story.

"Yes. He died just after you came back from
Africa."

"What happened?"

Drake blinked a few times, his eyes becoming
distant. He fiddled with the cutlery.

"He was flying into a small base camp where
he was going to do some work with a local charity." He glanced down at his
hands when he spoke, as if it still hurt. "Even though we were political
opposites and didn't always see eye to eye, when he died, it was as if the
ground was ripped out from under me." He glanced back up and met my eyes.
"Nothing has been able to fill the hole.
Nothing
. I took over the
helm of his foundation because I thought doing his work might heal me in some
way. That's how your father and I became friends. He came to the funeral and it
was like he adopted me."

I shook my head. "I guess I just never saw
my father as someone who would do that."

"What? Act fatherly?"

I nodded. "I mean, he's an authoritarian
type – head of the family and all. But not to, you know, step in and act
as a father substitute."

"He did. I relied on him to get through
it." He looked back up at me and his expression was so earnest. Seeing his
raw emotion, hearing it in his voice, something in the way he said it brought
out emotions that were just under the surface and I couldn't help myself. My
throat choked up a bit.

"I know what it means to lose a parent."

He smiled softly. "Your mother died of
cancer a few years ago. The year before you went to Africa. Your father told
me."

I nodded and a silence passed between us.

"Well, that's all I have," I said a
little reluctantly, suddenly wishing I had more to ask. "I guess I should
go. Don't want to keep you from the OR."

We both stood and he extended his hand. I took
it and instead of shaking, he lifted my hand to his mouth, his lips soft
against my knuckles.

"People have spoken so highly of you,"
he said, keeping my hand in his. "So has your father. In the past few
days, I've read up a bit about you, reread your articles on Mangaize. Still so
impressive. I don't know who I was expecting when I thought about meeting you.
Someone older. Different. I was so surprised to actually meet you."

I pulled my hand away. "What do you
mean?"

"Your writing – it's so visceral.
Insightful for someone so young." I didn't know what to say about that and
glanced away, stuffing my iPhone into my bag.

"I'm glad we could meet and talk," he
said. "I'd like to interview
you
sometime, talk about Africa."

"I don't really like to talk about
Africa."

"Why?"

"It was upsetting."

He nodded as if in understanding. "Your
father told me you had problems after you came back. You were there at the height
of the famine. It had to be very hard."

Problems
… I didn't say more for my throat choked up at
the thought. I nodded, glancing away.

For my Honors Degree, I wrote an investigative
series on the politics of famine in West Africa. I had the opportunity to go
there and volunteer, then report from the scene because of my father's
connections in philanthropic and political circles. I was so ambitious back
then – so certain of my own mental strength. So determined to succeed and
become a foreign correspondent and please my father. In the end, it was too
soon after my mother's death. I was still grieving but saw the trip as a chance
to move forward.

My project had gravitas. Because of it, I won
the Honors prize for my BA in Journalism at Columbia.

I also had a nervous breakdown.

Five weeks surrounded by the death and chaos
that was the Mangaize refugee camp in Niger was enough to change my focus from
politics to popular culture. From grave to glib.

"I'd really like to just take you out for
coffee or a drink," he said. "I feel like I've known you forever from
everything your father's told me about you. But I probably shouldn't."

"Probably," I said, although I didn't
know why I agreed or what he meant. I stopped and turned to face him, our eyes
meeting. "Can I ask why?" My face heated, but I was curious now why
he thought he shouldn't ask me out.

He shook his head quickly. "You're
The
Hangin' Judge's
daughter," he said, his face dark, his brow furrowed.
"I'm not the kind of man Judge McDermott's daughter should get involved
with."

I frowned. "He thinks very highly of
you."

He cracked a strange grin, that didn't reach his
eyes. "He doesn't really know me."

I said nothing more. 
What does he mean
by that?

We walked to the door to the café, his hand very
soft on the small of my back, and he opened the door for me.

"Thank you for doing an interview," I
said once again as I stepped outside into the cool air, still a bit taken back
by what he said.

He smiled, a crooked grin. "Goodbye, lovely
Katherine."

That sent a jolt of pleasant surprise through me
that only added to my confusion. Then the door closed and he walked one way,
while I walked the other, the image of his face, his smile, in my mind's eye as
I made my way down the street to the subway.

Before the door to my apartment was even closed,
I was on the phone with Dawn, telling her about my meeting with Dave and Dr.
Morgan.

"So I think you were right about him being
a bad boy," I said, remembering his words at the café.

"Why? What did he say?"

"He told me he wanted to ask me out on a
date, but that he wasn’t the kind of man someone like me should get involved
with."

"
What
?"

"I know," I said, frowning.
"Strange, right? He said my father didn't really
know
him."