The Magnificent M.D. (9 page)

A
few minutes later the bell over the door rang, and he went to the front office to see a young boy standing there, black eye, bloody nose, dirty shirt and torn pants.

“Where's the doctor?” the boy asked.

“I'm the doctor,” Sam said.

“Where's the old guy?”

“He died. What happened to you?” Sam asked, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder and leading him into the examining room.

“Got in a fight,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” Sam took his dirty shirt off, then his ripped pants, cleaned him up and did a quick checkup before he bandaged his cuts. He didn't wince or complain. Sam admired that.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve and a half.”

“Who started it?”

“They did. They said I was a… They called me names,” the kid said, his lip swollen and his mouth twisted into a frown. Sam nodded. It all came back to him. The insults.

Your mother's a whore.

Your pa's a drunk.

Trailer trash.

The schoolyard fights. Only he'd never had the nerve to walk into the doctor's office like that. It was Hayley who'd brought him in, more than once. Dragged him in. Under duress. It was her grandfather who'd patched him up. Who'd asked him the same questions he was asking now.

“Where're your parents?”

“My mom's at work.”

The way he shifted his gaze told Sam the kid was lying. Just as he himself might have lied to Doc Bancroft. Maybe the boy's mother was passed out on the couch after a night in the bar, or maybe she'd taken off, leaving him alone in a travel trailer on the edge of town. Both scenarios were familiar to Sam.

“Have her call me,” he said, handing the dirty shirt back to the boy.

“Why?” he asked, struggling into his jeans. “She ain't got no money to pay you.”

“That's okay. I just want to tell her to change your bandages,” Sam said, handing him a tube of disinfectant and a package of bandages.

“I can do it myself.”

“Sure you can,” Sam said. Sam patted him on the back even though he knew it embarrassed him. It was just an impulse. One he instantly regretted when he saw the boy's eyes widen in alarm. “What's your name?” Sam asked.

“Roy.”

“Don't fight anymore, Roy,” he said. Oh, that was help
ful. That ought to do it. “Come back and see me next week. I need to check you out.”

“I can't pay you.”

“Doesn't matter.”

The boy gave him a long, level look out of sad, dark eyes. And he knew if he ever had a son, he'd teach him to defend himself. He'd give him no reason to be picked on, to be called names. Though this kid hadn't done too badly, it seemed.

“Hey,” Sam said as the kid turned to leave. “You like meat loaf sandwiches?”

Roy shrugged, and Sam opened the basket and pulled one neatly wrapped sandwich out and gave it to him. He unwrapped it and looked at it suspiciously. Then he smelled it. Sam stifled a smile.

“Go ahead, it won't poison you,” Sam said.

“You make it?”

“Me? No, I can't cook,” Sam said. “A friend of mine made it.”

The boy took a bite and chewed hungrily. Sam knew what it was like to feel the gnawing pangs of hunger. He wondered when the boy had eaten last. He looked too thin under his faded cotton shirt.

“Thanks,” Roy said, and he was gone as suddenly as he'd arrived. Before Sam could even ask where he lived.

When Hayley came back Sam said, “You missed all the excitement. I had a patient.” When he told her who it was, she shook her head.

“I used to know everyone in town,” she said. “Not anymore. I'm worried about him. No mother?”

“Don't worry. He can take care of himself.”

“The way you did?” she asked. She unpacked the supplies and put them on the shelves of the cabinet.

“You do what you have to do,” he said, and sat down to face his computer, hoping to end the conversation.

“Did you have to run away that last night?” she asked.

He felt the heat of anger rush through his body. He stared at the screen without seeing it. “You know the answer to that. I had to ‘run away' as you put it, because the sheriff came looking for me.” The memories came charging back, the flashing lights on the sheriff's car, running down the back streets to the highway, his head pounding from his injuries, catching a ride from a trucker to Portland with only the clothes on his back.

“You blame Grandpa for that, don't you?”

“Who else would have reported me?” he asked.

“Don't you understand?” she asked. “He had to. As a doctor you know the rules.”

“There are times when you have to bend the rules,” he said coldly. He'd never forgive them for what they did. She and her grandfather had robbed him of a chance to defend himself, the opportunity to graduate with his class and his reputation. Not that his reputation was much to speak of to begin with, but running was never his style. And they'd forced him to run.

“He bent the rules for you more than once,” she said, “but that time—”

“That time he thought I was to blame. He thought I'd started the fight. So did you, didn't you? When it counted I couldn't trust you.”

“Sam…”

He turned to face her. She was leaning against the wall and gnawing on her lower lip. Her eyes were glistening. “Don't cry for me, Hayley. It's a little late for that.”

“I—I'm not.”

“Just forget it,” he ordered. “It was seventeen years ago. Everything turned out fine in the long run. I'd for
gotten all about it. Until you walked into my office and reminded me.”

“I'm sorry, but I think we need to talk about it, otherwise…”

“Otherwise what? We don't need to talk about it. We just did talk about it. We don't need to talk any further. Your grandfather regretted what he'd done. He must have or he wouldn't have paid my way through school. I'm here to repay my debt. Then we'll be even and we can go on with our lives. Is that a deal?” he asked.

She nodded, but he knew he hadn't heard the last of it. She wanted to talk it out. To rehash the whole episode. Over and over. But he was not going to be a party to that kind of pointless recrimination. He turned to his computer, stared at the screen until she got the hint and went out to the waiting room to wait for patients.

That evening at five she closed and locked the office after he'd seen a handful of patients with minor complaints. As he'd told Hayley, they didn't need a high-priced surgeon. Anyone with a shred of common sense could have dealt with their problems. Mattie, for example. But that wasn't the way it worked. Patients wanted to know they were in the hands of an M.D. They wanted to see his diploma on the wall. So he hung it there. And stared at it. And waited.

He felt useless and bored. He was used to a frantic pace. Of having his beeper going off constantly. Of performing surgery and making rounds and lecturing med students.

Hayley offered him a ride home, but he declined. He was already regretting that he'd asked her to dinner. So, no doubt, was she. Spending time together was not wise. He'd told her it wasn't going to work, his returning to New Hope, living and working with her. He was right. He'd
only asked her to dinner as a courtesy. He owed her dinner and he was going to take her to dinner.

She met him at the big oak door with Bancroft House carved into a thick cedar shingle that hung over the door from loops of wrought-iron. His gaze traveled over her faded jeans and pullover. Dressed like that, her hair pulled back from her face with a barrette, she looked so much the way she'd looked in high school. A heart-stopping combination of innocence and sensuality he hadn't been able to resist then or now. And yet she was not the same at all. She had a smooth grace about her now, a quiet confidence that said she was not a woman to trifle with. She was a woman who would not settle for anything but the best. Who in the hell had she married? Why wasn't she still married?

He clenched his hands into fists to keep from grabbing her and kissing her. To shake her up. To make her admit she'd missed him. That every time she'd made love over the past seventeen years, she'd thought of him as he'd thought of her. Hah. Not likely. Why else would she have married someone else? It didn't last, but she must have loved the guy. Damn her for loving someone else. She'd once told him she would never love anyone but him. She wouldn't remember that.

And damn her calm, cool demeanor. He glanced up at the wide staircase, half expecting to hear her mother's voice calling down the stairs as she'd once done when he had the nerve to come to the front door. Hayley, who is it? Who's at the door? It's not that boy, is it? Close the door. Get rid of him. It
is
him, isn't it? The one from the wrong side of town. The one who's always in trouble.

“I thought we'd go to that seafood restaurant in Newport if it's still there,” he said, jerking himself back to the
present after the silence had lasted entirely too long for comfort.

“Oh, I can't. I just got a call. I've got a couple coming in from Portland. I want to be here when they arrive. I'm sorry. Some other time?” she suggested. But she didn't look sorry. She looked relieved. And what if she was making it up to avoid having dinner with him?

“Of course,” he said tersely. It was a bad idea, anyway, spending any more time with her than necessary. Already it was going to be every afternoon. But he didn't feel relieved, not the way she did. He felt let down. He hadn't realized how much he'd looked forward to spending time with her, spending money on her, too, showing her just how far he'd come, how much he'd changed. But that was ridiculous. And immaterial. She knew he'd changed. It didn't matter.

So he turned around, got into his car and drove to Newport, anyway, ate at the expensive restaurant overlooking the harbor, overtipped the waitress, then walked around endlessly, looking at the tourists, killing time. Of all the ironies—he, who'd never had enough time for himself since he'd worked his way through college and gone to medical school, now found himself having way too much time on his hands.

Finally, after an appropriate amount of time elapsed, an agonizingly slow amount of time, during which he strode up and down the streets looking into store windows that contained totally useless items that would appeal only to tourists, he drove back to Bancroft House. There was a new BMW parked in front of the house. So she really had guests. He'd had more than one moment of doubt that she was really expecting anyone. During the evening he became convinced she'd made the reservation up to avoid his company. He stared up at her darkened bedroom win
dow, thought about throwing a stone at it, imagined her opening the window, watching her nightgown swirl around her…but not tonight. Tonight he had no excuse. She'd provided him with his own key. But he continued to stand there, willing her to turn on her light, to come to the window and see him there. But she didn't, so he finally took out his key and let himself in.

The lights were dim in the living room. A crystal decanter of sherry was on the mantel, warm embers still in the fireplace. Maybe she'd spent the evening with the guests, advising them of the local attractions, amusing them with anecdotes and local history. He was filled with an unaccountable envy for these unknown guests.

What in the hell was wrong with him, envying some damned faceless tourists? And how on earth would he ever make it through the next six months?

The next day there was more of the same. A brief breakfast with Hayley. Morning in the office with Mattie. Afternoon in the office with Hayley at the desk in the front office. A few patients with minor complaints. In between patients he tried working on his paper, but he kept tilting back in his chair, looking out the window, listening for Hayley's voice, wanting to walk down the hall to her desk and talk to her, tease her, flirt with her. Hear her laugh, watch her blush and listen to her talk. But he couldn't do that. He was here to be the doctor. He was a grown man now. A doctor. He could have any woman he wanted. Except for her.

She represented everything he'd ever wanted and couldn't have: beauty, class, money and prestige. Now he could have those things, but he couldn't have her. She was still out of his league. No matter how much money he had, how esteemed he was as a doctor, she was still Hayley
Bancroft and he was still Sam Prentice. Coming back to New Hope had been a big mistake.

He didn't mention dinner to her again that week. And she didn't mention it to him. He ate at the diner every night, risking been recognized as the town bad boy, but it was better than driving into Newport. There was a warm, friendly atmosphere in the diner. Neighbors greeted each other, stopped by each other's table and chatted. No one noticed him. He was on the outside where he'd always been. No one stopped by his table, which was fine with him. He didn't need friends.

Hayley hadn't had any guests all week, as far as he could tell, so he was doubly proud of himself for not suggesting dinner. Until Saturday.

Saturday morning Sam sat down at the small breakfast table in Hayley's spacious kitchen and watched her make Belgian waffles. She was wearing jeans and a sweater with a huge white chef's apron tied around her waist. She had a smudge of sugar on her cheek that was driving him crazy. Along with the apron. He held his coffee cup in a tight grip to remind himself not to give in to temptation and move up behind her, untie her apron and pull her to him so close he could wrap his arms around her, her little bottom nestled in the apex of his thighs, his hands on the swell of her breasts. No matter what she wore, a robe or an apron, he found himself wanting to take it off. Imagining how she'd look without it. Without anything.

He wanted to lick the sugar off her cheek and kiss her until their lips stuck together, until the sugar melted—or forever, for that matter. But that wasn't going to happen. Nothing was going to happen as long as he had an ounce of self-preservation in his body. No way was he going to set himself up for another painful departure from New
Hope. This time he was walking out with no regrets, no ties, and no backward glance.