The Holiday Triplets (14 page)

“Within reason.” He wasn't sure how much to believe of Owen's reputation for being difficult. So far, Mark had
seen no signs of temperament, but then, he hadn't crossed the man, either.

“The board is counting on you to land him,” the vice president said. “Don't let us down.”

“I'll do my best. Merry Christmas.” Mark hoped she didn't detect a note of irony.

“Yes, yes, of course. Merry Christmas.”

Chandra had once mentioned having two grandchildren. He hoped that when they jumped onto her lap, they didn't get frostbite on their little rear ends.

On Thursday afternoon, Jennifer stopped into Mark's office to confirm that Mrs. Wycliff and her daughter would be dropping by the party. “She's a real dynamo,” the PR director told him. “Honestly, Sam's met her match. Or rather, she
will
be meeting her match.”

“Let's hope they hit it off.” Mark felt a moment of disquiet. But surely Eleanor's involvement was the best Christmas present the clinic could receive.

“Samantha's been happier this week than I've ever seen her,” Jennifer added. “You're good for her.”

Obviously, Sam's closest friends knew of the weekend excursion, but Mark felt obliged to sound a note of caution. “I'd rather this didn't become a topic of general discussion.”

“It won't.”

“Thanks.”

“Ready for tomorrow night?” Jennifer asked.

He had nothing scheduled Christmas Eve except on-call duty. “What do you mean?”

“You haven't forgotten our annual caroling?” she chided.

“Actually, I did.” Members of the senior staff traditionally sang carols throughout the hospital to cheer up those
who had to work as well as patients stuck here when they wanted to be home. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“I'll drop the lyric sheets on your desk,” Jennifer said. “Seven o'clock. We'll start on the top floor and work our way down.”

“Great.” He
did
enjoy the tradition. Last year, Samantha had displayed a throaty contralto that struck Mark as incredibly sexy.

After Jennifer left, he checked his email and clicked open an angel-bedecked card from his sister. It included the notation, “See you around three o'clock Saturday.”

He emailed back directions to the hospital, details of the party and a reminder of his cell phone number. “I can't wait to see how you're doing.”

Bryn was really coming. She'd be keeping her word, at last. This year, he felt certain—almost—that if he were a fortune-teller, he'd see a yard sale and a glass knickknack in his future.

This was one bet he looked forward to losing.

On Christmas Eve, after eating a quick dinner at home, Sam took the babies to the hospital nursery. With plenty of cribs available on the holiday, the staff had volunteered to babysit for the carolers.

Jennifer's Rosalie was already here, along with Tara, Tony's month-old daughter. Tiny as they were, each baby already had quite a story, Sam mused. Rosalie and the triplets had been relinquished, while Tara had been born to a surrogate mother. At least, Kate had started out as a surrogate. After Tony's wife, Esther, also an attorney, abandoned him and their unborn baby for a high-powered job in Washington, he'd stepped in as Kate's birthing partner. By Thanksgiving Day, when Tara arrived, the couple had fallen in love. They planned to marry in the spring, as soon as his divorce became final, and Kate now volunteered at the clinic as a peer counselor.

Lingering beside Connie's bassinet, Sam tried to imagine what it would be like to be a bride walking down an aisle. As a teenager, with the threat of cancer hanging over her head, she'd never dared fantasize about her wedding. Later, she'd figured she would rather spend her money on a good cause than a fancy ceremony. Now, she had to admit she'd love to indulge just a little. Beautiful flowers filling a chapel, a couple of friends in elegant dresses, and,
most important, a man waiting for her by the altar, his face suffused with love.

Wonder who that could be….

“Dr. Forrest?” A nurse signaled for her attention. “There's a woman in the hall asking for you.”

“About the caroling?”

The nurse frowned. “I don't think so.”

Sam shifted into take-charge mode. “Thanks. I'll handle it.” Who could this be on Christmas Eve?

In the nearly deserted third-floor corridor, a stocky woman with disheveled graying hair stood, arms folded. From her wrinkled housedress to her truculent expression, she inspired immediate wariness. But Sam strove not to judge by appearances.

“I'm Dr. Forrest. What can I do for you?” She dispensed with the usual holiday greetings, since this woman didn't appear to be in the mood.

“I'm Vivien Babcock. I'd like to know why there's nobody at the counseling clinic. You must all be too busy planning your big party tomorrow to waste time on actual clients.” The woman's jaw thrust forward.

Sam fought down her instinctive dislike of an exaggerated sense of entitlement. Experience had taught that sometimes the most disagreeable people were the most in need of help. “Is this an emergency?”
It had better be, on Christmas Eve.

Vivien continued to glare. “I've decided to leave my husband. He's a rotten piece of scum.”

Sam scrutinized the woman for signs of abuse. She detected no obvious bruises and no wincing or favoring an arm or leg that might be injured. “You're leaving him tonight?”

“That's right—you know how they always get ugly on holidays” was the vague reply.

Upstairs, the carolers must be wondering what had delayed Sam. Straining for patience, she asked, “Who are ‘they'?”

“Men,” Vivien snapped. “He's my third husband, so I guess I'm an expert.”

An abusive husband
was
likely to use force to prevent his wife from leaving. “I can arrange to admit you to a women's shelter.”

“Is that all?” Her lip curled.

“If you feel in danger, you should ask the police to accompany you, or simply leave without telling him,” Sam advised. “Walk away from the hospital and don't go home again. Are there children who might be in harm's way?”

“My kids are grown, and a fat lot they care what happens to me. Is that all you have to say?” Vivien's voice rose, with no apparent concern for the open doors to patient rooms along the hall.

“I run a small counseling clinic, not a crisis center,” Sam told her. “However, I'd be happy to put in a call to—”

“Never mind.” With a toss of her unbrushed hair, the woman marched off. Not limping, Sam noted.

Perhaps she should hurry after her, try to learn the whole story and figure out what resources she needed. Sam hated turning away a person who was clearly in pain and possibly in danger, no matter how obnoxious she might be. But tonight, she lacked both the energy and the will to pursue the matter.

After that wondrously relaxing getaway with Mark, she'd had a busy week. On Monday, the triplets' father had gladly signed papers giving up his rights. Although Candy still had roughly three weeks before signing her final relinquishment, she'd admitted to feeling relief at being free again.

“My aunt in Colorado invited me to move in with her,”
the young woman had told Sam. “She's a hairdresser and she's going to help me get into cosmetology school. It'll be fun.”

“You sure you're okay with this?” Sam had pressed, despite her anguish at the possibility that Candy might renege.

“If I gave them to someone else, I'd probably worry,” Candy had said. “But it's you, Sam. In a funny way, I always kind of felt like you were their mother.”

“I guess I did, too.”

While the situation with the babies seemed on track, the clinic's immediate future still hung in the balance. Several volunteers had suggested possible new locations, but despite Sam's inquiries, none had panned out. Then a salsa band canceled its promise to play for free at the fundraiser. Luckily, she was able to replace it with a mariachi band. She already knew some of the musicians, who were related to a twelve-year-old brain cancer survivor, a onetime patient of Sam's whom she'd referred to Children's Hospital, a few miles away in the city of Orange. According to the last report she'd received, his cancer was in remission.

Another battle won, at least temporarily.

On the top floor, she emerged from the elevator and followed the strains of “We Three Kings” around a corner. There stood a hardy and mostly on-key band: Jared and Lori, on whose finger sparkled a ring; Tony and Kate with her five-year-old son, who kept muffing the words; Jennifer and Ian, nursing director Betsy Raditch, PR assistant Willa Lightner and her teenage son and daughter. And, overshadowing them all, Mark. His gaze lit instantly on Sam as if he'd been watching for her.

Happiness tingled through her. As the carolers launched into “Joy to the World,” Sam moved to his side and united her voice with his.

 

O
N
C
HRISTMAS MORNING
, Mark awoke in a bed that wasn't his. Today, however, he felt very much at home in it.

Last night, after caroling, he'd helped Sam strap the babies into the van and then followed them home in his car. They'd lit the tree and let the enchantment ripple through them.

Since they had busy schedules for Christmas Day, they'd exchanged gifts that evening. He'd bought her a quilt handmade by hospital volunteers, with panels that reproduced children's colorful drawings. She'd given him a home golf simulator that allowed him to practice his swing and get it analyzed by computer. Sure to improve his golf game, and possibly his mood.

Then they'd made love and gone to sleep in each other's arms.

During the night, they'd taken turns getting up for feedings, since Sam had refused to ask a nurse to work on a holiday night. Mark didn't mind. Sitting in the quiet hours holding the infants, he'd stumbled into a magical connection with them.

Unbelievable, that such tiny bundles could hold an entire future. As he gazed down at their faces, he saw the future unfolding: toddlers learning to walk, children reading words aloud, teenagers holding hands with a first love or rushing to share the results of a college application. The tears and disappointments, the challenges and triumphs. All this, and they still fit into the crook of his arm.

In the morning, he slept later than usual to compensate for his night duty. Samantha slumbered deeply beside him. Good, she needed it.

As he rose, she shifted to sprawl diagonally across the double bed. Eyes closed, breathing regular, blond hair rioting around her…she might have been the picture of beauty,
save for her light snoring. Actually, Mark decided, she was still the picture of beauty, with sound effects.

He'd received only one call from the hospital last night, about a patient in the early stages of labor. Mark had monitored her progress during feedings, and, after dressing and eating breakfast, arrived at the maternity ward in time for the delivery.

A beautiful little boy. The large Italian family that gathered to welcome him showered Mark with thanks, holiday greetings and homemade cookies.

That morning, he ushered three more babies into the world, including one by C-section. As always, Mark was grateful to be part of such miracles.

But, for a change, he was also a little impatient to get back to the miracles that had come into his own life.

 

S
AM HAD A GREAT FEELING
about this party. Although she'd wondered whether having it on Christmas Day might discourage volunteers, several came early to finish decorating the suite with paper flowers, a piñata and holiday lights, and more showed up just before the two o'clock start time. The caterer arrived with boxes of hot hors d'oeuvres, while the initial trickle of guests swelled to a torrent, many with checks to contribute. Ian had offered to keep track of those, and drop them off at the bank's night deposit box.

A volunteer Santa distributed small gifts to children, joking with them about his red-trimmed white sombrero. As for the band, its music set people's toes tapping and hips wiggling.

While the actual event hadn't drawn a lot of interest from the press, reporter Tom LaGrange had stopped by with a photographer. Jennifer, who was discreetly steering him around, had presented him with a new brochure about the clinic's plans. Optimistic plans, Sam had to admit,
considering what a large amount they'd need now that they could no longer use the hospital's facilities.

They'd taken for granted not only this suite, but free access to utilities and the internet. She'd also grown accustomed to dropping in here between other duties. That would be difficult when she had to drive to another location.

Sam gave herself a mental shake. This was no occasion for negativity. Her friends and volunteers were laughing and enjoying the alcohol-free punch, and Mark…she kept having to force her gaze away from him as he joked with the appreciative crowd around him.

Were her feelings written as plainly on her face as she feared? It was too soon to let the hospital grapevine get hold of their relationship. Sam wasn't certain yet what kind of relationship they had, except that he'd become so entwined in her thoughts and daydreams that she could scarcely believe only weeks ago they'd been nothing more than verbal sparring partners.

Then, with a jolt, she spotted a boy seated on a folding chair near the band, shaking a castanet in synch with the music. The rest of the room faded, leaving only this youngster. He was small for his twelve years, his face was puffy from steroids, and his tasseled Santa hat had slipped back to reveal a bald head.

No one had told her Artie Ortega's cancer was back.

Mischievous and smart, Artie had recovered from his initial brain tumor. Obviously, it had returned and was being treated aggressively.

Tamping down her concern, Sam pasted a smile on her face and hurried over. “I didn't realize you'd joined the band.” She gestured toward his castanet.

“You didn't know I was a rock star?” he shot back.

Sam slid into the chair beside him. “So how's it going?”

“I met a cute girl at a party last night.” Doffing the hat, he ducked his head to show the words “Luv, Mellie” scrawled in black marker. “I think she likes me.”

“How could she help it?” Sam teased.

Artie's mother, a rotund woman who smelled of cinnamon, perched in the chair on his far side. “He's beating this, Dr. Sam.”

“I can see that.” She couldn't really, but Sam hoped it was true. If she'd won her battle with cancer, why not Artie?

The pair filled her in on the latest developments in the boy's life. His older sister had had a baby, elevating him to the rank of uncle. His father, laid off from his job, had recently found work again. Good news, all of it.

As the conversation wound down, Mrs. Ortega stared across the room. “Who's that? I think I've seen her on the news.” She indicated a tall, patrician woman talking intently with Ian.

“No, who's
that?
” Artie indicated a teenage girl standing with the new arrival. Unlike her mother—Sam presumed they were related, given their similar heights and nutmeg-brown hair—the girl had an open, friendly face. A very pretty face, as the boy had obviously noticed.

“Someone I haven't met yet,” Sam informed him. “She looks a tad old for you.”

“I'm a man of the world,” Artie informed her loftily.

She gave him a hug. “You certainly are.”

As soon as she released him, he pulled his hat on, covering the other girl's signature. “Don't want her to think I'm taken.”

“Why, you flirt!” Sam joked. “You're going to leave a trail of broken hearts.”

Sadness flickered across his young face. “Girls just pretend to flirt with me. I don't look so good right now.” His smile returned. “But that'll be over soon.”

“Go for it, champ.” Reluctantly, Sam excused herself to return to her duties. Mark had joined the group around the tall woman and her daughter, and judging by his serious manner, they weren't merely discussing the punch.

She'd better go find out what that was all about.

 

F
OR THE FIRST HOUR OF THE PARTY
, Mark had been swept up by the Hot and Happy Christmas spirit. But while he realized that three o'clock was merely an estimate for his sister's arrival, he'd begun checking his watch instinctively since that hour passed.

When he dialed Bryn's cell phone number, it went through to voice mail. That made sense, since she shouldn't be gabbing on the phone while driving, but he wished he could reach her.