Holiday Kisses

That doctor had a tender, caring touch. “I wonder what her first name is,” he said aloud, as he got his suit jacket and found the card that the receptionist gave him. “Kisha.” He pronounced it several times. She was a looker. And sweet, too. “I can’t believe I left that woman and didn’t even ask her for a date,” he said to himself. “I must be getting old.” He realized that the effects of the Novocain had finally worn off entirely when he felt a dull ache. A glance at his watch told him that he had an hour and forty minutes before news time. He closed his computer, locked his desk and headed for the restaurant at the end of the block.

Kisha couldn’t get Craig out of her mind and, for the remainder of the day, she thought of various reasons to call him. That night, she slept fitfully with intermittent dreams of Craig Jackson and the way his long-lashed, dreamy eyes teased her. She tossed in bed until her shoulder ached and awakened the next morning, sleepy, groggy and with an aching head. For the first time since she opened her practice, she arrived late to work. Her first patient needed front caps for cosmetic purposes, and after taking X rays and measurements, she got down to the business of making a forty-five-year-old man who should never smile look like Prince Charming. She attached the temporary caps and went to lunch, but not even a good crab salad improved her mood.

When she returned to work, she pulled Craig’s file, wrote his phone number in her address book, went into her office and closed the door. Using her private line, she dialed Craig Jackson’s phone number.

“Mr. Jackson, This is Kisha Moran. How are you feeling?”

She wondered at his silence. “Uh…thanks for calling. I guess I feel like a guy who just lost the inside of a tooth.”

She didn’t know what to make of that comment. “I’m not sure I know what that means. Does it hurt? I mean are you having any discomfort? You had very extensive surgery yesterday. I’d like to know how you’re getting along.”

Craig’s antenna shot up. She didn’t call him to ask how his tooth was. A dentist would expect him to call if he had a problem. He suspected that she was exceptional, but her modus operandi couldn’t be that different from the ways of other dentists.

“Did you have any discomfort after the Novocain wore off?”

He didn’t want to believe that Kisha Moran was just like all the other women who chased him, but he was taking no chances. “My tooth is fine, Doctor Moran. If it bothers me, you’ll be the first person to know, and you can trust me on that. Thanks,” he added, wanting to terminate the conversation with a measure of civility.

A minute of guilt plagued Craig for having treated Kisha to a brush-off. He resented women who assumed that he was available for their enjoyment, a dressed-up television turkey for their gourmet meal. He didn’t want to believe that Kisha was that type. He was as human as the man who worked in overalls, wore a hard hat, dug ditches or drove a bus. He had wants, needs, hopes and dreams just as they did. He worked in front of the TV camera, but when the cameraman put it aside, he turned off the smiles and the charm. His private life was his own, and he didn’t mix his personal affairs with his public persona.

Taken aback by what she regarded as a put-down, Kisha busied herself developing fliers to post in the neighborhood and at the university to attract patients. She hoped to have as much of her clientele as possible from the neighborhood in which her office was located. Days passed, and she made no progress in her efforts to forget about Craig. So it stunned her to receive a call from a member of the WWRM Channel 6 TV news staff telling her that she had been chosen citizen of the week and asking if she would come in for an interview.

“Thank you for the honor,” she said, “but I can’t imagine what I’ve done to earn it.”

“Citizen Of The Week is our regular Friday news feature,” the man said. “We chose you, because you’re offering free care to indigent children one afternoon each week. That’s a noble thing to do.”

“I never realized that it would be newsworthy. I only want to help the children. Thank you. I’m delighted to accept.”

“Great! We’ll send a car for you. Please be ready Friday at two-thirty.”

Onstage and on camera, Craig looked at the name of his guest and nearly swallowed his tongue. Kisha Moran was his citizen of the week. He read the notes that his staff had prepared for his interview and put them aside. That gibberish would never reveal Kisha Moran’s warm and feminine personality. He made a few notes for the interview and, surprisingly, looked forward to seeing her again.

Decked out in a feminine yet tailored red suit with black accessories and her hair around her shoulders, Kisha Moran was stunning. He did a double take as she walked toward him, but he had the presence of mind to stand and take a few steps to meet her as she crossed the small stage. None of the entertainment community’s habit of kissing any and everybody for her, he noted. She extended her hand for a cool and very businesslike handshake.

“How do you do, Mr. Jackson. Thank you for this wonderful honor.”

Both of his eyebrows shot up. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Moran. Do you treat any child whose parents demonstrate an inability to pay?”

She leaned slightly forward. “Absolutely. I’ll only do it once a week, but I’ll treat all children under age fourteen that I can fit in on Thursdays between twelve and five-thirty.”

“That’s remarkable. I don’t know of another private citizen who’s made such a gesture. Was this among your plans while you studied dentistry?” He held his breath, hoping that he’d given her a question that would enable her to open up and reveal herself to the viewers.

“Not specifically. But I spent a lot of thought on the most effective way that I could give something to the community in which I earn my livelihood. I had wanted to spend one afternoon a week at a senior citizen center, but I couldn’t make the necessary connections. I suppose I wanted results too quickly.”

“I imagine you’ll have more than you can handle on Thursday afternoons.”

“Treatment is by appointment. I require that the children get follow-up exams. All patients should have follow-up care. Dental surgery is surgery. Just because a doctor doesn’t use a scalpel doesn’t mean that aftercare isn’t essential,” she said, looking him in the eye with a cool and impersonal expression on her face.

After they talked for fourteen of the allotted fifteen minutes, he stood and presented her with the plaque. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I’m honored to have been chosen for this award.” She extended her hand for a shake. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Doctor Moran. Thank you for coming.” She had flawless manners, he thought, and he felt as if he’d just had a blast of sleet in the face while trudging against the wind in a winter storm.

He reminded himself that when he sat down again he would still be facing the camera and that he should keep his reactions to himself. But that was easier said than done. Neither by word nor action did she let on that they’d met before. He had expected her to indicate that she was his dentist or at least to say it’s nice to see you again. But, oh no. The lady had cloaked herself in a thick layer of professional ice and stuck to the point. She looked as feminine and sexy as he remembered, but that was as far as it went.

He completed the program and went to his office. Sitting at his desk, he reached for a candy bar and unwrapped it. Damn! She’d just showed him that she was as expert as he at giving the brush-off. He wasn’t frivolous enough to go after her for the sport of paying her back. Besides, as he’d just discovered, he wasn’t immune to her. He saw a lot in her that he liked, but he didn’t have time for a relationship. He put his heart and soul into whatever he did, so he’d placed that part of his life on hold while he drove toward his goal. But Kisha Moran was definitely getting his attention.

He picked up his copy of the station’s daily journal and glanced through it while he munched on the candy. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright. The six o’clock local news anchor would be moving to a managerial post, and the job was up for grabs. He put aside the candy and typed a note to the station manager, giving his credentials and stating that he believed he was the best person for the post. It was not a network position, but six o’clock anchor beat five o’clock in status and seven was even better than six. Telling himself to put his best effort on the table, he got busy editing material that he had planned to air the following week and when he went on the air that evening, he presented his program on Baltimore’s homeless and the rate at which their numbers were swelling.

At the end of the program, viewers’ calls jammed the station’s telephone lines, and he knew he’d done the right thing. Still, three days passed before he received a call from his superiors.

“Come in, Craig, and have a seat,” Milt Sardon, the station’s manager said. “I have your application here, and I’ve given this a lot of thought.” Those words sent chills down Craig’s back, but he didn’t flinch.

“I have to tell you that I never thought you capable of the kind of warm repartee in front of a camera that would make you a good ad-lib mixer with your on-camera colleagues or when conducting interviews. But seeing you sit on the ground beside those homeless people and talk with them as if you were one of them moved me. And your interview with that dental surgeon was an eye-opener. You displayed a lot of warmth and caring, and your viewers could see that. Although you asked her some tough questions, you wanted her to make a good impression.

“We think you deserve to anchor the six o’clock news. Congratulations. I’m expecting great things from you in the years to come.”

He resisted letting out a long breath. “Thank you, Milt. I’ll do my best.”

“That will be good enough,” Sardon said. “The office on the sixth floor is much larger and has a better view. I’ll have your things moved up there.” They shook hands, and Craig walked out into the hallway where, at last, he could let out a long breath of pent-up anxiety.

Kisha loved the six o’clock news. And seeing Craig in the chair that first night, surprised her, though she didn’t think much of it. The regular anchor probably had the night off. However, she took notice when he announced that he intended to change the program’s format and devoted a short segment to the questions that viewers wrote or called in about Kisha and the location of her office.

Hearing his voice when she answered her phone at around seven-thirty that evening stunned her. “Hello, Mr. Jackson. This is a surprise, albeit a nice one. Congratulations on your promotion to six o’clock news anchor.”

“Thank you, Dr. Moran. You were so formal when we last met that I wasn’t sure you’d welcome a call from me.”

“Come now. I just watched your program, and I want to thank you for airing the letters, questions and comments about my appearance on your program. You were very generous.”

“I…I was filling up my hour with the best material I had. You were a wonderful guest, quite a bit different from the Kisha Moran that I remembered, but that’s…I think we’ll just leave that until you and I are up to airing it out. Right?”

She laughed. So he got the drift of what she’d said. Good. “If you say so.”

“Say…look. What do you say we let bygones be bygones, and you have dinner with me. I want to celebrate my promotion, and I’d like to celebrate it with you.”

“I don’t know. Socializing could impair the doctor-patient relationship.”

“Don’t even think it. Good dentists are much easier to find than women who are intelligent, accomplished and beautiful, not to speak of some attributes that I’d as soon not mention. Will you have dinner with me? I’ll take you home the minute you say the word.” He didn’t know why he’d called her. To see her again was an easy answer, but did he want to prove to her that she couldn’t ignore him as she’d done at the station, even when she was looking at him? Or was there something else, something that he hadn’t defined?

Her answer surprised him. “No chitterlings, brains or rhubarb, please.” What a way to say yes. Nothing coy about this woman, he thought, feeling as if he’d had the benefit of a warm fresh breeze.

“How about seven tomorrow evening, Friday, while my promotion is still fresh?” He was pressing his luck, but he didn’t want to give her time to think about it. “I’ll be at your home at six-fifteen.” This time her answer was to give him her home address. If she didn’t like the word yes, she certainly was adept at avoiding its use.

When she opened her door to him, he wondered how many different Kisha Morans there might be. He’d heard that women wore green when they didn’t want to stir a man’s libido. But on her, green was as sexy as if she’d worn fire-engine red. He opened the front passenger seat of his silver Mercedes CLS 550 coupe for her and waited until she had fastened her seat belt, walked around and got in the car. “What do you think of Roy’s. I don’t have reservations, but I know the maître d’ will seat us.”

“I like Roy’s. If this one is anything like Roy’s in Naples, Florida and Philadelphia, I’m in for a treat. The crab cakes are to die for.”

If he made her happy, she’d have good thoughts about their time together, and he would at least have made amends for brushing her off. “Then that’s where we’ll go,” he said, opened his cell phone and dialed the restaurant. “This is Craig Jackson, I’d like a table for two at seven o’clock, please.”

“This is Maynard, Craig. Is your guest a woman?”