The Doctor Delivers

“To hell or Connacht,” he said, inordinately pleased by the exchange. “That was the term.” Her eyes weren’t exactly green, more of an aqua. Unusual color. And there was something different about one— He realized he was staring.

“Anyway…” With one hand, she flipped the long braid of hair back over her shoulder. “You didn’t get any of my pages?”

“I did, but I ignored them.”

“Shame on you.” She fixed him with a reproving look. “People like you make my job very difficult. Consider yourself lucky I’ve got the holiday spirit.” As she brushed a strand of hair from her face, the silver bracelet slid down her arm, lodged at her wrist. “The thing is, I’ve also got a producer breathing down my neck. Do you have a couple of minutes?”

“No, I don’t.” If this had something to do with the press, he wanted no part of it. His one-and-only encounter with reporters still gave him nightmares, and he had no desire to repeat the experience. “I need to check on a new admission and after that I have to be somewhere else. Sorry.”

Before she could respond, he plunged into the crowd and bolted for the elevator.

CHAPTER TWO

MARTIN LET the white noise of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit wash over him, waiting for it to restore some degree of equanimity. All around him, the sounds and sights of technology. The gadgetry brought in to rescue when the natural process went awry. The hiss and screech of ventilators. Machines that pumped and pulsed and calibrated. Electronic monitors with their waves and spikes and flashing signals. Delicate, intricate and complex all of it, but a damn sight easier to deal with then human emotions.

Martin gazed at the jumble of lines that snaked in and out of the baby boy in the incubator, a 28-weeker who weighed slightly more than a carton of eggs, and tried to put the scene in the lobby out of his mind. He couldn’t. What the hell was wrong with him anyway? If he’d deliberately set out to antagonize Catherine Prentice, he couldn’t have succeeded more completely.

A voice broke into his reverie and Martin saw the baby’s teenage father, his face anxious under a baseball cap turned backward.

“So, like, what are all those wires and stuff?” The boy looked from Martin to the baby.

“Well, this blue one in his mouth is the ventilator,” Martin said. Then, seeing that the boy was on the verge of tears, he glanced around for one of the other physicians on the unit. He was all right explaining the technical side of things, not so good with the emotional side.

“So what does it do?” the boy asked.

“It’s attached to a computer that regulates how fast he breathes, and how much oxygen he gets.” As he looked up at the gangly kid, Martin thought of the responsibilities facing the boy, enough to daunt someone twice his age. He tried to think of something reassuring to say. Or do. Put your arm around his shoulder, for God’s sake, he thought. Instead, he launched into an explanation of the various tubes and lines that he could see by the boy’s dazed expression meant nothing.

“So do those IV things hurt?”

“Only for a second,” Martin said. “After that, no.”

“How come he’s got those things over his eyes?”

“To protect them from those lights.” Martin pointed to the bank of bright lights over the baby’s warmer. “See how yellow he is? That’s because his liver isn’t working properly. Those lights will help lower the bilirubin.”

“Kind of looks like he’s sunbathing, huh?” The kid gave a nervous laugh. “So is he, like, gonna make it?”

“Probably. He’s got some problems, but they’re all fixable.” Arms folded across his chest, he watched the boy watching the baby. Minutes passed, the years rolled away and it was a younger version of himself. The day he’d learned Sharon was pregnant. The image faded, and he looked up to see Catherine Prentice.

“Poor kid,” she said after the young father had left. “He looks scared to death.” Her bottom lip caught in her teeth, she shook her head as though clearing the image. Then she shot him an accusatory look. “How come you just took off like that? You didn’t even give me a chance to tell you what I needed.”

“I’m not really here.” He started for his office next door to the unit. She followed him. “What you’re seeing,” he said as he moved over to his desk, “is an illusion.”

“Tell you what then. Why don’t I pretend you’re there and explain what I need?”

“Make it quick then.” Despite himself, Martin suppressed a grin. A quick comeback always appealed to him. But he wouldn’t be distracted. Head bowed, he searched through a stack of folders on his desk, looking for the report he wanted to use in his presentation. “What is it you need?”

“An attractive, unmarried doctor.”

His head snapped up. Then he saw the amusement in her eyes. Her reply had thrown him as she obviously knew it would, and he’d reacted just as she’d intended him to. Challenged, he let his gaze travel to her left hand, now on the doorjamb, linger on her bare fourth finger.

“Not for me.” She looked him straight in the eye, but a faint blush colored her face. “For Professional Match. Every week they match up single men and women representing different professions. This week it’s medicine. You’ve seen the show, I’m sure.”

“Actually, I don’t watch TV.” He scribbled a note. $60 a day for the WISH program v. $2,000 a day for a crack baby in NICU, then looked up at her. It occurred to him that she was attractive. He liked the long, thick braid of hair and she did have a great mouth. No lipstick that he could tell, but an almost crushed look to her lips. The way a mouth that had been kissed for the better part of the night might look. What the hell was he thinking? He began to dig through the papers again. “I don’t even own a TV.”

“That’s very admirable of you, Dr. Connaughton.”

“Thank you very much.” He met her eyes. Mocking him, he could see. Probably saw him as a stiff, humorless workaholic. Probably right too, but what did he care? “If you’re going to ask me to be on the show though, the answer is no.”

She looked surprised. “Why not? They’ve got doctors from three other hospitals, and we need someone to represent Western. All you have to do is answer a few questions, get in a plug for us. You’re going to be really fabulous, I know. The women will love your accent. You might even meet the woman of your dreams.” She smiled as though it were all settled. “Okay, it’s tomorrow morning at ten. I can either drive you down myself or meet you at the studio.”

“No thanks.” Martin rose, walked around the desk to where she stood, signaling—he hoped—that the matter was closed. “I’m really busy and…”

“And?”

“And to be perfectly honest…” he hesitated, then decided to let her have it. Maybe this was one way to get rid of her. “I think this sort of thing…this puffery, is ridiculous. Empty-minded drivel. Rubbish. It has no place in medicine.”

“Other than that, though,” she said with a straight face, “you kind of like it?”

He resisted the urge to soften what he’d said with a joke or a crack; even to his own ears he’d sounded self-righteous. So what? He didn’t care what she thought. He had more important concerns. “I believe I explained. I’m trying to get ready for a presentation. I haven’t time for this.”

“Western is right in the middle of a huge marketing campaign, Dr. Connaughton, and Professional Match has just the demographics we’re trying to reach. It would be a perfect tie-in to have you on the show.” She flashed another bright smile. “And besides, it’s the holiday season. Goodwill to men and all that stuff.”

“Yes, well…look, I’ve already explained my feelings.”

“I know. But I wish you’d reconsider.”

“Sorry.” He looked at her. “And I do have work to do.”

“Hmm.” She frowned and bit her lip. “There’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

“Nothing.” He leafed through a stack of papers.

“Well, sorry I wasted your time.” Her smile gone now, she turned to leave, then, as though struck by another thought, took a step back into the office. “Since you don’t have a TV, you probably read a lot, huh? Ever read Charles Dickens, Dr. Connaughton?”

“Of course,” Martin looked at her, puzzled. “Why?”

“I was just thinking that there’s a character in A Christmas Carol that you’d probably recognize.” A tight little smile, a flutter of her fingers and she was gone.

Moments later the phone on Martin’s desk rang. A secretary informed him that Edward Jordan, Western’s president and chief executive officer, would like to see him. STAT.

GOD, WHAT WAS WRONG WITH HER? Face burning, Catherine left Connaughton’s office and ducked into the nearest rest room. Scrooge. She’d called him Scrooge. Her hands on the washbasin, she stared at her reflection. You are definitely losing it.

You…oh please. Tell me this is a bad dream. Tell me I didn’t…forget to put makeup on one eye.

Yep. Gary had called that morning just as she was brushing on mascara. By the time she’d finished telling him that it would be a cold day in hell before he got the kids, she’d been so rattled she couldn’t see straight. Grhhhhhhhhhhh. Now her mirrored self stared back at her. One eye wide and perky, the other…not. No wonder Martin Connaughton had given her such a weird look. And now she’d called him Scrooge, which meant that even if he might have been a teeny bit inclined to do the show, which he obviously wasn’t, but if he’d had a last-minute burst of Christmas spirit, well, she’d blown it.

Imagine your job riding on it. She left the rest room and started across the hall to the elevator. Derek couldn’t really mean that. He couldn’t fire her just because some surly, stubborn Scrooge of a doctor didn’t want to be on a stupid TV show. And it was a stupid show. In a weird way she kind of admired Connaughton for turning it down. The other two doctors had practically kissed her they were so happy to be chosen. Not Connaughton.