The Holiday Triplets (10 page)

Then he spotted two news vans parked in front of the hospital and a knot of reporters gathered on the walkway. What on earth was this about? “Any idea why they're here?”

“I guess I should have returned my phone messages
last night,” Sam said wryly. “Apparently the triplets and I make a great human interest story.”

Annoying as he found the press's intrusion, Mark didn't blame her. “I doubt a few phone interviews would have stopped them from showing up.”

She adjusted her suit jacket. “Well, brace yourself.”

He did his best.

As she endured a photo op on the hospital's front steps and answered questions about how the triplets had spent the night, Sam reminded herself that the news coverage was sure to boost support for the Christmas fundraiser. Honestly, though, did the woman from an L.A. paper have to keep asking her to turn Connie to make the birthmark more prominent? And if that radio reporter kept implying that Sam was only taking the triplets as a publicity stunt, she might deck him.

“That's enough,” she was relieved to hear Jennifer announce. “Dr. Forrest needs to get the babies settled and she has patients to see.”

“They aren't going to keep showing up, are they?” Sam grumbled as Jennifer and Mark provided a protective escort into the lobby.

“Depends on whether it's a slow news day. Pray for a Hollywood scandal.” Her friend took over the double stroller from Mark, who departed with a wave.

Watching his jaunty stride as he crossed the lobby, Sam wished she could time travel back to last night's dinner. Having Mark in her house had made everything feel more grounded, more secure. Then this morning a zip of
appreciation had run through her when she saw him with Colin. He handled the baby differently than she did, yet with great tenderness. Was it possible babies craved that fatherly touch? Or that
she
did? When she awoke this morning, her bed had felt wide and lonely. Crazy. She liked having all that room to herself.

Busy wheeling a carriage down the corridor, Jennifer didn't appear to notice Sam was lost in thought. Thank goodness.

At the day care center, Jen planted a kiss on the baby girl she'd recently adopted. Rosalie's birth mother, anguished because she couldn't keep her baby, had seen the public relations director interviewed on the internet and chosen her to be the new mom. Then Jennifer had fallen in love with Ian Martin, the pain-in-the-neck reporter who kept splashing her and Rosalie all over the web, and—not being entirely an idiot—he'd fallen in love with Jennifer, too. Married a little over a month, she and Ian doted on each other and on their new daughter.

A day care worker hurried over to take charge of the triplets. Sam surveyed her to rule out any sign of illness, then yielded the little ones with a tug of mixed emotions.

Colin had already gained two ounces, she'd noticed, when she weighed him this morning. What if being left with a stranger put him off his bottle? As for Courtney, she was peering about with the usual worried furrow between her tiny eyebrows. And Connie seemed so vulnerable.

“Call me if they feel hot,” she warned.

The worker fixed her with a knowing smile. “Thank you, Mom. Now it's time to leave.”

“That's Dr. Mom. And I'll go in a minute. I'm not sure they're ready.”

The woman planted her hands on her hips. “Don't you mean when you're ready? Dr. Forrest, I've been doing this type of work a long time. I know separation anxiety when I see it.”

“Me?” Sam asked in astonishment.

The woman gave a knowing nod.

“Right,” Samantha said, and tore herself away.

Was that a heartbroken cry from Colin? she wondered as she marched away. No, that screech came from a toddler whose toy had just been snatched by a preschooler.

And I thought my pediatric training gave me an edge on this mom business.

Sam found Jennifer waiting by the door. “Listen, I have an idea about the press,” her friend said as they exited.

“Good. I've got more than enough to handle without them.” How ironic that in the past, Sam had rather enjoyed talking to the media. Now she disliked having them dog her footsteps, or stroller tracks.

“Once the public's curiosity is satisfied, they'll turn to other things.” Jennifer kept pace along the corridor. “Ian still does the occasional interview for Flash News/Global.”

He'd covered an international beat for the syndicate until signing a book contract to write about medical advances affecting women. “So?”

“Ian mentioned he'd like to discuss the counseling clinic with you, so why not let him write about the babies, as well? Video, still photos, the whole shebang. His stories go all over the world. That ought to slake people's thirst for triplet news.”

Sam paused in a corner to let an employee in a wheelchair scoot past. “What did you inhale for breakfast?”

“Excuse me?” Her friend regarded her in surprise.

“You're usually such an expert, Jen, but
more
publicity? Next you'll be proposing I star in a reality show.”

Jennifer tapped her foot angrily. “That's insulting, Sam.”

Perhaps she
had
gone too far. “I'm sorry. But I'm also right. Think about it.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment idea. Forget I mentioned it.” Her friend took a deep breath. “Changing subjects here, I have some good news about the clinic. Ian may have found a sponsor. She's dynamic and well connected, and she's looking for a project to pour her energies into.”

“To raise funds for—that kind of thing, right?” Not a do-gooder socialite who wanted to play at actually running the place, Sam hoped.

“I'm sure she'd be more involved than that.” Jennifer didn't seem to pick up the warning note.

“An amateur who jumps on every health care trend that comes along? Or a control freak who never met a piece of paperwork she didn't love? Email me with the details and I'll check her out.”

Jennifer bristled. “Sam, the clinic doesn't belong to you. It's named after
my
son. You decided to take on three babies, which I applaud you for, but you can't keep the clinic under your thumb forever.”

“I don't plan to. Once we've found new quarters and a professional director, I'll be happy to let go.” Overjoyed, in fact.

“Without help, you may never be able to afford a director,” Jennifer answered tightly. “This clinic means as much to me as it does to you. I was thrilled when Ian said he had a patron in mind.”

Sam had already done more than enough arguing for
one morning. Besides, she valued Jen's friendship. “Let's table this discussion, all right?”

“Fine. But not for too long.”

“I'll get back to you. I promise. And I do appreciate how much you and Ian care about the clinic.”

All the same, uneasiness dogged Sam as she made her way to the medical building next door. She wasn't trying to hang on to the clinic. She simply refused to see it follow the same misguided path as the medical center itself.

Once a full-service community hospital, Safe Harbor had been converted into a facility primarily serving women and their babies. While that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, it meant taking in fewer charity cases and reaping larger profits. She understood the financial realities involved. For heaven's sake, she'd remained here in part because of her own financial realities—paying off medical school debts.

As for the counseling clinic, she'd established it as a place where women and families could drop in without worrying about who qualified for what or whether they played nice with an intake counselor. What about the cranky, the messy, the offbeat clients who didn't “show” well in front of bureaucrats?

Sam had worked too hard to get this place off the ground. She wasn't about to let it become a plaything for rich dilettantes who acted noble while serving only the right kind of clients, the ones who looked good on posters and appeared suitably grateful.

True, she couldn't hold on to the reins forever. But she didn't intend to let her new status as a mother stampede her into abandoning her vision.

 

O
VER THE COURSE OF THE WEEK
, to Mark's relief, press interest was deflected by the birth of twins in Los Angeles
to a 60-year-old mother who'd been an Olympic gold medalist. Controversy swirled over the mom's age, but her unusually strong physical condition and determination to have children qualified her for special consideration, according to the world-renowned fertility expert who'd helped her conceive.

The expert, Dr. Owen Tartikoff, flew from his home base in Boston to congratulate his patient and appear on several newscasts. A man of strong opinions—some called him abrasive—he was scheduled as the keynote speaker next fall at the fertility conference that had drawn Chandra's interest.

To his gratification, Mark managed to arrange a private meeting, at which he described the plans for the new fertility center and attempted to recruit Dr. Tartikoff as its director. Intrigued by the idea of building his own program from scratch, the man agreed to further discussions.

That would be an incredible coup. Yet, for now, Mark had to sit on the possibility. Aside from informing Chandra and Tony, he couldn't mention the matter to anyone. If word leaked out prematurely, it would be awkward for Dr. Tartikoff's current employers and might even kill the deal.

As for Sam, she continued her jam-packed schedule, putting in extra hours the following weekend to make sure she had the fundraiser well in hand. In the mornings, when Mark walked to work with her and the babies, she seemed as alert as ever, and insisted she'd slept plenty even though the night nurse advised him privately that Sam caught at most five hours.

He could see for himself that she was pushing too hard. The next time he brought food, Sam thanked him and spent the rest of dinner poring over reports on her laptop, keeping up with her position as head of pediatrics. When
he asked why she was so determined not to let up in any area, she brushed aside his concerns.

“That's just who I am,” she insisted. “If I'd wanted an easy life, I wouldn't have gone into medicine.”

That attitude wasn't unusual among doctors, Mark had to admit. He'd observed surgeons ignoring their bodies' demands while performing complicated operations that lasted more than a dozen hours.

We expect too much of ourselves.
Wasn't he almost as bad, seeing patients, performing surgery, running a hospital and getting up early to help Sam bring the babies to work? The busy schedule energized rather than drained him, but then, he was getting sufficient rest.

The next Friday morning, eight days before Christmas, Sam snapped at him for bumping the stroller too hard on their walk. “I hope you're planning to take it easy this weekend,” Mark responded. “You're worn out.”

From the fiery look she shot him, he expected an argument, but she apparently reconsidered. “I
am
kind of tired. I've arranged for a sitter to come in tomorrow afternoon so I can sleep and catch up on my bills.”

“Put the emphasis on the sleep,” Mark warned. “I don't want to pull rank, but if you're worn to a frazzle, I'll have to insist you take leave from your hospital duties.” Her work with private patients lay beyond his control, however.

“You wouldn't!” She swung around on the sidewalk.

“Your behavior is becoming obsessive.” Until he spoke the words, he hadn't fully realized that was the case. “It's almost as if you're addicted to adrenaline.”

“I've always been addicted to adrenaline.” Her voice had a ragged edge. “So are you.”

“You rest tomorrow and Sunday, too. If the sitter lets you down, call me.”

“What? No golf?” It was the closest she'd come to teasing him in days.

“Tony, Ian and I are playing tomorrow,” Mark conceded as they resumed their pace, Sam leading the way. “But I'll have my cell with me.”

She shook back her hair. “Lori's swinging by in the morning. We'll be taking the kids on a stroll and to our coffee klatch. But after the sitter arrives, I promise to hit the hay.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He didn't remind her that the clinic was running out of time to find new quarters, because the last thing Sam needed was more pressure. Jennifer had mentioned a potential sponsor, which sounded terrific, except that so far Sam hadn't pursued the matter. Mark supposed he could stall the corporation until the end of January. But no longer.

He'd really like to offer more help. When it came to obsessive behavior, though, hadn't his experiences with his sister taught him that more was never enough?

Sooner or later, Sam had to face reality.
That
would be the time to step in and help sort things out.

 

P
LAYING GOLF SLUICED AWAY
the pressures and concerns of the week. Although Mark wished Samantha had agreed to let him teach her how to play, he enjoyed being out here with his friends, too.

He loved the pine-scented air of the golf course, the steady, unhurried pace, and the excitement of each hole when the possibility of a perfect shot—a rare hole in one—loomed as a distant but achievable moment of glory. He'd scored a couple of them over the years, mostly through luck, but the joy remained brighter than any trophy.

As Tony collected his ball at the last hole, Mark didn't
mind that his score, while respectable, left him behind his two companions. He'd fallen in love with the sport as a teenager, when it was the only thing he and his father shared. If not for golf, he'd have grown up scarcely knowing Dr. Robert Rayburn. And although Mark always played with a competitive spirit, he'd been glad that he occasionally lost to his dad, because the man seemed mellower when he won.

After moving to southern California, Mark had tried skiing. For a while, he'd driven to the nearby mountains at least once a month during the winter and occasionally in summer for a change of pace. He'd even bought a cabin there as an investment. Now he mostly kept it rented out by the week, because after the initial challenge, he'd returned to his first love.

Golf.

At the nineteenth hole, as the on-site restaurant was termed, the men discussed the latest football results over buffalo wings and beer. “I'm hoping to score some press tickets to the Rose Bowl,” Ian said. “As a special treat for Jennifer.” The game was played on New Year's Day in Pasadena, about an hour's drive from Safe Harbor.