The Calendar of New Beginnings (8 page)

“True,” her mother remarked. “Maybe you might help April out by telling Andy?”

If she hadn’t known April was less devious than her mother, she would have believed they’d planned this trap together.

Her mother batted her eyelashes at her like a silent film ingénue. Lucy mirrored her crazy expression right back. April remained silent, looking back and forth between the two of them.

“Fine,” she said finally, seeing no way out. “I’ll tell him.”

“Good,” her mom said, patting her on the arm. “Now, about the poses. Everyone wants to have a say. Since it’s so personal and all…”

Lucy suppressed a shudder. “I’ll be happy to listen. Within reason. Am I supposed to talk to everyone individually? I’ll also have to find a space for the shoot.” Could they do it in a couple days? She didn’t think so. From her experience, getting a person comfortable enough to show his or her true self in a photo intended for a calendar took hours. The shooting was completely different than the kind she did on the fly in war zones.

“Don’t worry about the details too much,” her mother said, doing the cha-cha in the kitchen. “We’ll have everyone over to brainstorm together.”

Her artistic control was flying right out the window. They were going to struggle over this calendar, she had no doubt.

“Maybe I can ask your father to bring home a long-neck from the bar for one of the men,” her mom said, guffawing madly. “Why don’t you ask him, Lucy?”

She decided leaving the kitchen was her best course of action. “I am not listening to this.”

Her mother slapped her butt on her way out. “Better get dressed. It’ll be lunchtime before you know it.”

As she headed to her old room, Lucy reflected on just how far she was from her normal routine. Somehow she’d agreed to take racy pictures of her mother and her friends for a good cause.

She sure wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

Chapter 5      

Andy raced around the kitchen like a Nascar driver in his final lap. He managed to pour dog food in Rufus’ bowl, flip his son’s eggs, and butter toast in one turn around the island. Too bad no one was waiting at the finish line with an award and a cold beer.
 

It was just another day in the life of a single dad.
 

He pulled a yogurt from the fridge and juggled it in the air like a baseball because…he felt a little cuckoo on mornings like this. And it was only Monday.

“Dad!”
 

Andy almost dropped the yogurt. “Yes?” he hollered back.

Danny’s shuffling steps sounded on the stairs, so Andy detoured to the doorway. His son didn’t look too happy when he came into view. His lip was stuck out, and he still had bed head.

“Rufus took my navy shoes with the flames again.”

Would they ever have another calm morning? Ever since he’d caved and gotten Danny a dog from the pound, there had been nothing but chaos. “Pick out a different pair,” he said, peeling open his yogurt.

“No,” Danny whined. “I want those.”

Somehow he’d ended up with a kid who had a shoe fetish. Kim, who had always been particular about her shoes, would have found it amusing. Andy could care less about footwear so long as they were comfortable. Clearly his son had also gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. He’d gone to bed later than usual because of Lucy’s party and eaten more junk food than was normally allowed.
 

“Is that a whine I hear?” he asked.

“No, Dad,” came the immediate response.

“It had better not be because otherwise I’ll have to get out the—”

“Whine-O-Meter,” Danny finished in a high-pitched voice.

“And then the…”

“Not the Whine-Buster!”

Andy fought a smile. The Whine-Buster was a fancy name for a tickle attack, but the threat had worked like a charm. Danny’s pout was history. Andy glanced at the clock in the hall. He had forty minutes to get Danny dressed, fed, driven to school, and then himself off to the hospital. It was going to be tight.
 

“Rufus!” he called, trying to channel authority.

The golden retriever trotted into view and put his head down on his paws when he sat.

“Bad dog,” he said sternly. “You’ve got to stop taking Danny’s shoes.”
 

The dog started whining too, and Andy felt a headache coming on. He needed Jane to work her dog training magic on Rufus. If she could do it for his brother’s dog, Henry, she could do it for this guy.

“Go find the shoes,” he ordered Rufus.

The smell of overcooked eggs reached his nose, and he nearly cursed. He’d forgotten the eggs! He darted over to the stove. The edges were burned, and the yolks cooked through. Maybe this one time Danny would eat a hard yolk.
Please, God.
He scooped them onto a plate with the toast and added a liberal amount of ketchup to hide the burn. Usually he was light with the condiment, but today he added it liberally. Danny loved it on hot dogs. Maybe it would work with eggs.

“Come and eat, Danny. I’ll look for your shoes.”
 

He poured Danny some milk and set his own uneaten yogurt on the table. Danny shuffled into the kitchen. Rufus trailed after him, his head hanging woefully. It was hard to stay mad at a dog that acted so guilty.

“Grab a fork and a spoon. I’ll be right back.”

Andy flew up the stairs, throwing up bed skirts and searching through closets.
 

“Dad!” his son called. “My egg is burned, and the yolk’s not runny.”

So much for the ketchup disguise. “Eat my yogurt then.” He could grab one on the way out the door.

After five minutes of crouching down in ways a grown man simply shouldn’t, he admitted defeat and chose another pair of shoes with a sense of dread. He hated shoe battles with his son. He jogged down the stairs and froze at the entrance to the kitchen. Bits of toast littered the floor. He narrowed his eyes. Danny pushed his egg around on his plate without looking up. Rufus plopped down on the floor beside the table and let out a whine.

“What happened?” He hated asking questions he could answer himself, but it was a dreaded—and unavoidable—part of parenting.
 

“Rufus took the toast off my plate,” Danny said, making fork tracks in his ketchup.

Andy set the shoes on the kitchen counter, striving for calm. “Rufus doesn’t like toast. That’s why it’s still lying on the floor instead of in his stomach. You threw your toast on the floor because you didn’t want it. What have I told you about fibbing to me? Just say you don’t want to eat it.”

“I’m sorry I fibbed,” Danny said in a heavy tone. “I think I’m allergic to toast.”

How did kids figure out how to incorporate topics from their parents’ careers into their arguments? Allergies, indeed. “I’m the doctor in this family. For the record, you don’t have any allergies. And you know grains are good for you.” Andy slid his yogurt over to his son. “Try the yogurt.”
 

Danny made gagging sounds. “I hate yogurt. Alice Adams says it tastes like chalk.”

“You liked it last week.” Great. Now other kids—worse the daughter of his childhood bully, Jason Adams—were influencing his son’s eating habits. “It does not taste like chalk.”

“It does to me,” Danny said, crossing his arms.

Boy, he was in a mood today. Usually, Danny was the sweetest kid ever. Andy tried to remember these moments were blips on the screen. “Fine. You have two minutes to choose something from the refrigerator to eat. Danny, you need to hustle. We’re running late.”

While Danny studied the contents of their fridge, Andy shoveled in the yogurt. His son picked out sliced cheddar cheese and ham sandwich meat, so he rolled the cheese and meat into pinwheels, handing them to Danny one at a time. As a breakfast, it wasn’t the best, but at least it would provide him with a good portion of dairy and protein.

“I’m full,” Danny said, rubbing his belly. “See.” Then he stuck it out, laughing.

Rufus barked encouragingly, and Danny ran over to hug him. Andy made a couple of extra pinwheels for himself since he knew he’d burn through the yogurt in his rounds.
 

“Time to get dressed,” he said after chewing. “I couldn’t find your navy shoes, so you’ll have to wear these.”

Danny stuck his chin out. “I don’t want to wear the brown ones. We have to keep looking.”

“You are so getting the Whine-Buster when we get home.” Andy poured his cooling coffee in a to-go container. “We don’t have time to keep looking. Let’s get you dressed stat.”

“But, Dad—”

“No buts, mister. Upstairs.”
 

Danny moved to the stairs like a turtle in a three-legged race. “I don’t want to wear the brown shoes.”

Cripes, Danny was acting like the world had ended. Andy wanted to pull his hair out. He surveyed the toast bits on the floor. If they had the time, he would make Danny pick up the crumbs. “Life’s tough. Be glad you have shoes. Lucy takes pictures of kids who don’t have any. You should be grateful.”

God. Had those words sailed out of his mouth? His parents had said things like that to him and his sisters, talking about starving kids in Ethiopia before he even knew where that was. He’d hoped to never resort to that schtick.
 

“I’m sorry for saying that, Danny. I know you want the other shoes. I just can’t find them today. Please give me a break and go upstairs so we can get you dressed and off to school. I’m doing my best here. Okay, buddy?”

There. That was more loving.

Danny wrapped his arms around Andy’s leg. “I’m sorry too, Dad. I’ll wear the brown shoes.”

“And brush your teeth,” he added, picking him up and hugging him tight.

The love he had for his son burst through like sun from behind the clouds. Who cared if toast bits lined the floor or that his son had whined about a pair of shoes? He was alive and healthy, and in the end, that was all that mattered.

“I love you,” he said, cupping Danny’s head, feeling the soft hair cradling his skull.

“I love you too, Dad,” he answered, squeezing Andy’s neck.

“Now let’s get ready to blow this joint,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time with his son in his arms. “It’s going to be a great day.”

After seeing Danny off to school, he headed to Dare Valley General. Morning rounds went well. All his patients were improving—a rarity—and their visiting family members were in good spirits. He even discharged Everett Corrigan, who’d been with them over a week with an obstructed bowel. Realizing he’d have time for a lunch break, he texted his brother to see if he wanted to join him for a run. He received Matt’s one-word answer—
yes
—as he headed back to his office on the seventh floor to do some paperwork.

Patient files lined the metal holder situated on the corner of his desk. In his Denver hospital, he’d been able to type his notes onto a hand-held device. Dare Valley General wasn’t as automated, which was a pain in the butt. He’d brought the innovation up to the hospital board in the hopes they would go for his suggestion. Sometimes it was hard to read his notes, though Joyce Henners, the charge nurse, had become a master at deciphering his handwriting. He completed the charts from his rounds that morning and then sat back in his chair.

Lucy filtered through his mind, and he went online to see if she was on Skype. After talking with her last night about her accident and injuries, he was tempted to call up Dr. Davidson to informally discuss her case out of professional courtesy. Doctors still did that—even with HIPAA. He shook his head, realizing that he was doing precisely what Lucy had asked him not to do.

She had been right to make him promise not to intervene without her blessing. But he couldn’t deny he was worried about her. That worry had kept him up for hours after he’d put Danny to bed. Didn’t she need extra support after all she’d been through? Her stubborn Irish side really ticked him off sometimes.

He reached for his phone to text her, only to realize he didn’t have her number. They always used Skype. She usually picked up a new disposable phone every few weeks since most of the countries she went to had different cellular systems—if only rudimentary ones. Or satellite phones, which were reserved for emergencies—like being injured in a bombing.
 

He eyed his phone. Should he call her house? Would that be awkward? Ellen O’Brien would love it, as would his mother. Popping open a bottle of water, he concluded he was making too big a deal of it. She was living at her parents’ house for the moment. He wanted to talk to her about getting together. It was as simple as that.

And if he knew Lucy, her mother was going to drive her bat-shit crazy if she didn’t have frequent breaks from the madness. He picked up the phone and dialed the O’Brien residence.

“Hello,” Ellen answered.

“Hi, Ellen,” he said in as even a tone as he could muster. “I wasn’t sure if Lucy had a cell phone she was using, so I figured I’d try your home phone. Could you put her on for me?”

Brief. Factual. Friendly.

He needed to keep Ellen and his mother from spinning fairy tales about them finding happily ever after together after all this time.

“Well, well, well,” Ellen drawled. “Andy Hale. It’s been a while since you called this house asking for Lucy.”