Finding Family...and Forever?. Teresa Southwick

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      “Hey, sweetie, want to say hi to your dad?” She wouldn’t hand the boy over to his father until he was ready, or the doctor insisted.

      “That’s not like him,” Sylvia commented. “Usually he crawls up and into your arms. I think he likes Emma. Seems very comfortable with her. Just my opinion as his primary caregiver, but you should hire her.”

      “And that judgment has nothing to do with the fact that you’re about to leave me in the lurch.”

      “You’re an evil man, Dr. Flint,” Sylvia teased. “I don’t have enough mother’s guilt, so you feel the need to pile on more?”

      “Would I do that?”

      “In a heartbeat,” the older woman said good-naturedly.

      “Let’s go inside.” Dr. Flint gave no hint about whether or not he was annoyed.

      Emma followed the older woman into a big entryway with a circular table holding a bouquet of fresh flowers. Twin stairways on either side led to the second story. To the left was a large formal dining room with a dark, cherrywood table and eight matching chairs. Directly to the right was the living room with a striped sofa in rust, brown and beige. Two wing chairs in a floral print with coordinating colors were arranged in front of a raised-hearth fireplace.

      As they walked toward the back of the house, the little boy wiggled to get down. Emma set him on his tush, making sure he was stable before straightening. He crawled over to his father and pulled himself up before strong arms grabbed him and held him close.

      “Hey, I missed you today, buddy.”

      He nuzzled the boy’s neck and the child began to giggle. After a few moments, he pushed to get down and his father complied.

      “Why don’t you talk to Emma in your office,” Sylvia suggested. “I’ll take this little man to the kitchen and feed him.”

      “That would be great, Syl. Miss Robbins?”

      “Lead the way,” she said.

      She followed him down a hall off the family room into his office where there was a large, flat-topped desk and computer. Two chairs sat in front of it and he indicated she should take one. She did, and looked around as he sat in the black leather chair behind the desk.

      “This is surprisingly homey,” Emma said.

      “Why surprising?”

      In a perfect world, Emma thought, she would have kept that observation in her head. Since it was out, she had to explain.

      “I did an online search on you.”

      “So you checked me out.” One corner of his mouth lifted.

      “It’s not like you weren’t warned.”

      He didn’t look at all bothered. “And?”

      “You were the plastic surgeon to the stars. The go-to guy for new noses, lips and—” She glanced down at her chest, which suddenly felt woefully inadequate. Then she looked up and saw the amusement in his gaze. “Other things.”

      “I do more than that.”

      “So I found out. Doctors Without Borders. Trips to Central America to work on children with cleft palates. Donating your time to Heal the Children.”

      “The specialty is more than just changing parts of the body a person doesn’t like.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Most plastic surgery isn’t cosmetic. It involves reconstruction. The adjective plastic in front of surgery means sculpting.”

      “Very interesting.”

      “I correct functional impairment caused by traumatic injuries, infection or disease—cancer or tumors. Sometimes a procedure is done to approximate a normal appearance. Trauma initiates sudden change, which can cause depression, make a person question who they are.”

      Emma had questioned who she was every day since her mother’s deathbed confession about stealing her from another family when she was a baby. Plastic surgery couldn’t fix her. There was no procedure that would restore what she or her biological family had lost.

      “Is it my imagination, or did you quote all that from Wikipedia because you’re the tiniest bit defensive about public perception regarding your field of expertise?”

      “No. Maybe.” His grin was a little sheepish, a little boyish and a whole lot of sexy. “Sorry. Since moving to Blackwater Lake, I’ve been reeducating the locals who want Angelina Jolie’s lips or George Clooney’s chin.”

      “Really? Men?”

      “You’d be surprised.”

      “For the record, I think what you do is very impressive.” She held up her hand. “Again, not flirting or flattering. Just stating the truth as I see it.”

      He leaned back in the chair, more relaxed now. “Suddenly I feel like the one being interviewed.”

      “It was more like adding context to the information on the internet.”

      “I think that was a diplomatic way of saying that I like to talk about myself.” There was laughter in his eyes, making them sparkle. Very different from the gray intensity that reminded her of a storm.

      “You said it.” She liked that he could make fun of himself.

      “Speaking of interviews... Why are you surprised my house is homey?”

      Too much to hope he’d been distracted enough not to remember that comment. She took a deep breath. “You made a lot of money doing what you did in Beverly Hills. I just figured your home would be chrome, glass, electronic gizmos, sculptures and art that cost the equivalent of a small country’s gross national product.”

      His mouth pulled tight for a moment. “That was then, this is Montana. I wanted a change.”

      “Because of losing your wife?” Emma winced as the words came out of her mouth. She could kiss this job goodbye. If she ever faced her biological mother, one of the things she wanted to know was which side of the family to blame for this chronic foot-in-mouth problem. “Sorry. That’s none of my business. You’re supposed to be asking the questions.”

      “I am, but you touched on something important. Kyle will never know his mother, and whoever looks after him will be dealing with that issue as he gets older.”

      “Of course. You’ll want to keep her memory alive.”

      “For my son.”

      For you, too, she wanted to say, but the sadness in his eyes stopped her. Obviously it hurt to talk about the woman. He’d probably moved here because it was too painful to live in the house and city he’d shared with the wife he loved. He’d run from his own memories but wanted to make sure his son knew about his mother.

      She could relate to that. The only mother Emma had ever known wasn’t really her mother and she knew next to nothing about her real family. From her perspective, information about СКАЧАТЬ