A Candle For Nick. Lorna Michaels

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Deal,” the boy said, and Mallory saw with relief that Kent had won his trust.

      Kent turned to her now. “The usual course of treatment for AML, Nick’s type of leukemia, is several rounds of chemotherapy, then a transplant…”

      “Transplant?” She didn’t know much about transplants except that there was always a chance of rejection.

      Kent seemed to sense her fear. “Transplants are getting to be commonplace in many types of cancer,” he said reassuringly. “You’ll meet lots of kids who’ve had them and are doing quite well.”

      Calmer now, Mallory nodded.

      “Tomorrow afternoon,” Kent continued, “I’ll go over the results of the tests and talk more about the treatment with you and Nick…and Nick’s father.” He glanced toward the door. “Is he here with you?”

      Mallory didn’t allow herself to wince at the phrase Nick’s father. “My husband died three years ago,” she said flatly.

      Something flashed in Kent’s eyes, disappeared. “I’m sorry. I met him, I believe.” Without glancing at the chart, he said, “Dean,” and Mallory nodded.

      He picked up Nick’s chart. “See you tomorrow, pal,” he said and ruffled the boy’s hair.

      When he left, Mallory let out a long breath. She was over the worst. She’d survived the first meeting. From now on she’d be fine, as long as they didn’t dredge up old memories that might lead to dangerous questions. And why should they? They were doctor, patient and patient’s mother. She suspected Kent would want to keep it that way as much as she did. Besides, he surely had a life beyond the hospital. Eleven years had passed. He must have a wife and…and children.

      “Mom.” Nick’s voice brought her out of her reverie.

      “Yes, hon.”

      “How do you know Doctor Berger?”

      Trust her inquisitive son to ask. “He, uh, spent a summer in Valerosa a long time ago. I met him then.”

      Nick eyed her with interest. “Was that before I was born?”

      About nine months, she thought with a pang. “Uh-huh.”

      “Did you like him?”

      Mallory felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Yes, he was very nice.”

      “I like him, too,” Nick said. “I’m glad he’s going to be my doctor.”

      On that, she could agree. “Me, too.”

      “He’s going to make me well,” her son said, with total confidence.

      Mallory bit her lip. Oh, God, she hoped so. “Yes, he is. Now, why don’t you get some sleep? You have a big day tomorrow.” She bent to fluff his pillow and drop a kiss on his forehead.

      He caught her hand. “Mommy.”

      Rarely did Nick call her Mommy anymore. He’d pronounced himself too big for that several years ago. She squeezed his hand. “Yes?”

      “Will you sit here by me till I get to sleep?”

      “I’d like that,” Mallory said, “and maybe we could hold hands, okay?”

      “Yeah.”

      Mallory kept watch as he shut his eyes and fell asleep.

      Only when the room was still did she allow her thoughts to drift back to Kent. He’d turned out to be the doctor she always imagined he’d be, with a bedside manner worthy of Albert Schweitzer. But why did he have to look like every woman’s fantasy lover?

      Why couldn’t he have lost his hair or developed a paunch? That would make things so much easier.

      Whack.

      Kent served the ball against the wall of the racquetball court and when Stan Ferguson returned the shot, whipped it back with another satisfying smack. He slammed the ball again and again, the whoosh of air loud in his ears.

      Mallory. Why did she have to be as pretty as ever, her mouth still so enticing, so kissable? Why couldn’t she have turned into a hag?

      “Point,” Stan called. “Hey, man, you’re killing me. You’re up thirteen-two.”

      “Yeah,” Kent muttered. Ordinarily if he beat Stan by this much, he’d be elated. Now he only focused on the force of his arm, the slap of the ball against wood.

      Why hadn’t he taken time to look at the boy’s chart more carefully yesterday? He’d rushed in from the airport with barely enough time to read the test results, so he hadn’t glanced at the parents’ names. He’d gotten a monumental shock when he’d recognized the mother.

      Stan missed a ball, then another.

      “Game over.” Kent caught the ball and bounced it, then tossed it and the racquet into his gym bag.

      “Hey, good buddy, you’re on a tear today,” Stan said as they walked off the court. “Letting out some anger, are we?”

      Kent managed a laugh as he stared straight ahead. “Remind me never to play racquetball with a psychiatrist.”

      “We can’t help noticing displays of emotion. One of the drawbacks of the profession. Last time I saw you murder the ball that way was when you and Lisa divorced.”

      “Spare me the psychoanalysis.” Kent swiped a towel over his sweaty face. “What you saw isn’t anger, it’s athletic skill.”

      They halted in front of the showers, and Stan gave him a penetrating look. “Well, if you ever want to talk about your newfound ‘skill,’ you can have a discount.”

      “Not necessary, but thanks.” He pulled the damp T-shirt over his head. He’d feel foolish spilling his guts about an affair that ended years ago.

      “Have time for lunch later?” Stan asked.

      “Not today. Too busy.” Kent tossed his shorts aside and stepped into the shower. He turned the water on full force and let it pour over him. Damn, he hated being so transparent, but running into Mallory after all this time brought back memories and emotions he thought he’d put to rest years ago.

      Getting over her hadn’t been easy. No, it had been tough facing the fact that she’d played him for a fool, used him as bait to snag Dean Brenner. Remembering his last phone call to her, he shut his eyes as icy water droplets stung him as if they were needles.

      He’d called from the hospital in Rome, three weeks after he’d planned on returning to Valerosa. She’d have been back at school in Lubbock by then. But when he called her dorm, he learned she wasn’t enrolled that semester. Surprised and worried, he tried her at home.

      “Mallory?” A deep, rich laugh sounded over the wire and Ophelia, the Rosemans’ housekeeper, said, “She’s not here. That girl’s done gone and got herself married.”

      Staggered, СКАЧАТЬ