The Truth About Elyssa

“I called him,” Jenny said, “but you know how Derek can be.”

“A first-class jackass,” Elyssa mumbled.

“Right,” Jenny agreed. “Took you long enough to realize it. Anyway, he practically laughed in my face when I asked if Randy was working on something dangerous. He said Randy had covered the school board meeting that week. They were debating whether or not to buy more buses. Sounds tame, doesn’t it?” She bit her lip. “Then why was Randy so nervous?”

“I wish I knew,” Elyssa said. “If I could only remember…”

They both started as Amy appeared beside them. “Mama, can we have more quarters?”

“No, sugar. It’s time we were gettin’ back to the hotel.”

“Aww.”

“There’ll be another day. Now go get your sister.”

Pouting, Amy plodded across the room. Jenny turned back to Elyssa. “I shouldn’t have brought this up, but—”

“Don’t be silly,” Elyssa said. “I’m just sorry I can’t help.” The frustration of not remembering, not knowing, gnawed at her. Surely if she could recall that last evening, she could put Jenny’s mind at rest.

“If you do remember anything, you’ll call me, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” Jenny said. “By the way, I brought you something.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a book. “I wanted you to have something of Randy’s. He was reading this just before he died.”

“Everyone is Entitled to My Opinion by David Brinkley. I’ve always admired him. Thank you for thinking of me.”

While Jenny went to round up her dawdling children, Elyssa glanced at the cover of the famous broadcaster’s book. But she was barely aware of what she held. Her mind was caught up in a question she’d never imagined she would have to ask. Was it possible that Randy’s death—and her own misfortune—hadn’t been accidental after all?

Chapter 2

Brett checked his watch. Five-twenty. Elyssa should be here in ten minutes, twenty at most.

He remembered when he’d seen her on TV for the first time. He’d been in Indianapolis a week, maybe two, and for once he’d gotten home early enough to watch the ten o’clock news. He’d grabbed a beer from the fridge, settled back on the couch and pressed the remote.

A face filled the screen, a voice reached out to him, and he sat up straight to watch and listen. He didn’t recall the news story she’d reported, only his impression of her. Sharp, confident, the consummate TV reporter.

But there was more. Beneath the persona of dynamic newswoman, he sensed another kind of magnetism—purely sexual. He imagined those softly tinted lips forming a kissable pout; those eyes misty, dreamy; the skin beneath that trim business suit flushed with desire. He was surprised at himself. He was a man grounded in reality, not given to flights of fancy. Not accustomed to mooning over a face on the TV screen.

Yet he’d watched her often after that and indulged in a few more private fantasies. He remembered he’d been especially partial to the one that took place on his examining table.

Then she disappeared, and eventually he’d all but forgotten her. Now their paths had crossed, and the fantasies had emerged again, in full bloom. Now he wanted to find out if the emotions she stirred were real.

And if they were, what difference would it make?

A serious relationship was out of the question for him. He’d had that once with Denise—begun a love affair, then a marriage, with his heart full of hopes and dreams. How quickly they’d vanished.

Oh, he’d been warned. An older colleague had told him, “Marriage and medicine don’t mix. Being a doctor is like joining a monastic order. You don’t have to be celibate, but you sure as hell don’t have time to make a relationship work.” At the time, with a diamond sparkling on Denise’s finger and a wedding soon to follow, Brett had laughed off the bitter words, attributing them to his friend’s two divorces. Later he’d learned how prophetic that statement was.

The marriage was rocky from the start. They’d been too young, and Denise, he guessed, had been too needy. But when their life together had ended in tragedy, he’d blamed only himself. Would always blame himself. He and his commitment to medicine were solely responsible. He’d never risk a serious relationship again.

Instead, he poured his heart and soul into his work. And in place of intimacy, he opted for superficial affairs—a few laughs, a lot of sex, no commitment.

So why was he sitting here, filled with anticipation, waiting for Elyssa Jarmon? He didn’t have time now to get involved with her, even on a casual basis. When the receptionist called to announce her, he opened the door, fully intending to heed his own advice.

But there she stood in her costume—blue checked dress with a white pinafore, yellow pigtails tied with bright blue bows, a turned-up smile, and freckles painted across her nose. She looked like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Adorable. And no, he hadn’t imagined a thing. The attraction was still there. Stronger, in fact.

“Hello,” he said, ushering her in. “How was the afternoon?”

“Great. I have a lot to tell you.”

“Why don’t we talk over dinner at The Orchard?” he suggested, forgetting what he’d told himself only minutes earlier. “I’ll wait while you get out of your costume.”

She stiffened. “No!” Then as if realizing how rude she’d sounded, she added, “I don’t have my street clothes with me.”

“Bring them next week. For now, how about the cafeteria here? In costume.”

“All right,” she said, but she seemed none too thrilled. In fact, she appeared downright uncomfortable.

Her reaction puzzled him. Even if she was involved with someone, dinner in the cafeteria to discuss working with his patients shouldn’t make her uneasy. And if she wasn’t involved…

Last week he thought he’d sensed attraction on her part, too, but maybe he’d been wrong. He would work on changing her mind. He always enjoyed a challenge.

She shoved her cart into a corner, and he followed her out the door. She might look as if she belonged on the Yellow Brick Road, but she smelled like… Oh, God, he thought as his blood heated, she smelled like sex. Slow, sweet sex on a star-laced summer night. Her scent teased him all the way downstairs.

This early, the cafeteria was nearly empty. A couple of interns who looked as if they were about to fall out of their chairs from exhaustion were guzzling coffee. A dazed-looking man, probably the father of a newborn, sat nibbling a sandwich and grinning at no one in particular. A trio of nurses rested their feet and snacked on doughnuts.

Brett and Elyssa moved through the cafeteria line, chose a table and unloaded their trays. Brett took a bite of spaghetti sauce that tasted as if it had come straight out of a can. “Could be better,” he remarked. “But then, hospital food is—”

“Lousy,” Elyssa finished, the corners of her painted mouth turning up. “I know.”

Of course, everyone knew that hospitals served inedible food, but the way she spoke made Brett wonder if someone in her family had recently been ill. Instead of asking a too-personal question, he said, “Tell me about your session with the kids.”

Her eyes—he’d thought they were blue, but they were violet—lit up. “I painted their faces, and they loved it. I gave them each a Polaroid snapshot. You’ll have to look when you visit their rooms. But the pictures don’t begin to show the kids’ enthusiasm. Even Trace participated. He started talking about a circus book he’d read, then about rodeo clowns. I could hardly get him to stop.”

“With his face painted, he could be someone else. Someone other than a sick little boy.”

Elyssa stared at him, then dropped her gaze. “A little greasepaint makes a big difference.” She toyed with a teaspoon for a moment, then began discussing the other children.

When she finished, Brett got them fresh cups of coffee. As they drank, he asked. “What made you give up broadcasting and become a clown?”

“My cousin and I worked several summers for a woman who did birthday parties. We were clowns—Lulu and Coco. It was fun, and last year I decided to start my own business.”

He studied her thoughtfully. She’d only answered the second half of his question.

“Did you go in with your cousin?” he asked.

“No, but she helps me out sometimes.”