The Doctor's Mission. Lyn Stone

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      “Great coffee,” she told him. “I want a refill after my shower.”

      Nick took the tray and set it on the nightstand. “You have to let me help you with that, Cate. Can’t have you falling and breaking something.”

      “Help with the coffee, yes. With the shower, no,” she declared. “I can do this by myself, Nick.”

      “Cate…”

      “I will be careful,” she promised, giving him her stubborn grin. “No chance in hell you’re gonna see me naked after all these years.”

      “Well, that’s a relief.” It was. He had seen her naked once, poised on the pier near his family’s cabin on the Waxahatchee River, about to dive. A nymph at dawn, all golden and surreal, too beautiful for words. The image was branded on his mind forever.

      He stood and picked up the breakfast tray, shoving his chair out of the way with one foot. “If you run into trouble, I think I can stand what gravity must have done to you in your old age. Holler if you need me. And take your time. Move very carefully, okay?”

      “Aye, sir!” She saluted.

      It was all he could do to leave the room. In spite of that, he did feel relieved that she was taking charge of the more intimate tasks necessary. He could only imagine what seeing her naked with warm water sluicing over her would do to his own equilibrium.

      

      Cate managed to make it to the bathroom. The aluminum walker surrounded her on three sides, providing the stability she needed. She slid it carefully forward on the tiled floor, afraid to lift it for fear she would tilt sideways and fall.

      The step-in shower was easy to access and operate. She made quick work of it, leaning on the walker to steady herself. Then she grabbed a towel, dried off and pulled Nick’s terry robe off the nearby hook. Snuggled inside it, she raised one lapel to her nose and smiled as she inhaled his scent.

      Feeling refreshed and enjoying her successful stab at independence, Cate headed for the sink. She wiped off the steam and took a good look at herself in the mirror. If she stood real still, there was only one of her looking back.

      “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” she asked her reflection. Man, she looked pathetic. No worry that Nick would want to kindle anything with her looking like this. Not that she was even entertaining the thought.

      The truth was, she would always love Nick, but she knew love was not enough to surmount all their differences. She could never have been a doctor’s wife with all that entailed, the social obligations, the sacrifice of her own goals. And he could hardly be expected to enjoy life as a husband to someone like her. Not Nick the worrier.

      Nope, that would never have worked then and wouldn’t work now. A silly girl’s pipe dreams, that’s all. Time to put them away, file them under misty memories and what-might-have-beens.

      She reached up and raked her wet hair back with one hand. Needed lightening, she thought with a sigh. Needed a cut. They had chopped out a chunk, then shaved it down to the scalp around the site of her surgery, a round gap of half-inch stubble that looked horrible unless she did a sort of comb-over. The word made her grin at herself in the mirror.

      She plundered shamelessly in the drawers of the bathroom cabinet and came up with a pair of scissors. Maybe she could go punk.

      If she couldn’t control anything else in her life right now, at least she could take charge of her appearance.

      Confident she could look no worse than she did now, Cate grabbed up a comb, separated a section of hair and began to snip. She could do this.

      

      What was she doing in there? Nick paced the hallway, waiting for her to come out. The water was off, had been for ten minutes. Maybe she was using the bathroom. He wasn’t about to storm in and embarrass her.

      “You all right, Cate?” he called.

      “No…” He heard her drawn-out moan. Pain? Something clattered to the floor.

      “I’m coming in,” he warned.

      The moment the door opened, Nick gasped.

      She turned to him, tears in her eyes and sobbed. “It…It’s awful!”

      He took it in. Long pale hanks of hair littered the sink and floor. The scissors lay open, next to the faucet. His hairbrush and the small hand dryer had tumbled to the floor. Cate was grasping the bars of the walker in a white knuckled grip. Wet hair stood straight out from her head in uneven lengths.

      “Oh, Catie,” he groaned.

      “Fix it,” she pleaded.

      He had never heard her sound so desperate about anything. She certainly had never worried much about her looks. Hadn’t had to. She was a natural beauty.

      He went to her and took her in his arms, the bars of the walker between them, a reminder of why she was here. Gently, he patted her shoulders and barely stopped himself from kissing her on the head. “It’ll be okay. Let’s go where you can sit down.”

      Patiently, moving at turtle’s speed, he helped her out of the bathroom and into the club chair by the window in the bedroom. Then he retrieved the comb, scissors and dryer.

      Good Lord, what had he gotten himself into? Should he call a stylist? Who the heck would make house calls? He didn’t know anyone else who could do this. At least not nearby and not on a Sunday.

      Though she wasn’t vain, Cate had always spent a fortune on her haircuts. She had told him once that a good haircut saved money and time because it required so little in-between care. Her straight, part in the middle, all one-length style suited her perfectly and hadn’t changed a bit since she was a kid. Until now.

      Well, hell, he was a surgeon. Or had been. Surely he could manage to even up a few strands of hair. Cate was unduly upset by this little tragedy and he couldn’t have that.

      “We’ll have this straightened out in no time,” he assured her. “Just sit there, close your eyes and be patient.”

      She sniffled. “I thought I could…”

      “I know, I know. Actually, it’s not that bad,” he said, hiding a grimace. Actually, it was terrible. She had butchered it. He might not know much about hairstyles, but he could surely make it better than it was now.

      He tried to remember what he’d seen the stylists do to women’s hair in the shop where he had his cut. It bothered him that he wasn’t nearly as observant as he’d always thought. His right hand worked better at this than he had imagined it would, but little strength was required to separate sections of hair and hold it for cutting. The movements of his left were as precise as ever.

      After about ten minutes, he laid the scissors down, fluffed what was left of Cate’s hair out with his fingers and plugged in the hair dryer. He sort of rolled the brush at the crown of her head, giving her hair some puff. Unfortunately, that was about all he could recall a stylist doing. He smoothed down the rest around her face.

      She sat stiffly, eyes tightly СКАЧАТЬ