Dr. Dad (3 page)

She nodded, digging her fingers into the beast's dense, soft fur to scratch his ribs. “His name is MacKenzie,” she said. The cat eyed the man suspiciously, then emitted a rumbling sound, half purr, half growl. “It may take him a little while to get used to the boundaries of my yard. I hope you won't mind if he accidentally strays onto your property. If he does, just send him back. He thinks he's tough, but he's harmless.”

“Cats don't bother me,” Toby Cole assured her. His smile was so genuine, so utterly natural, she couldn't stop staring at it. It seemed almost foreign to her, a mysterious local idiosyncrasy. She was used to people who smiled in such a way that the skin around their eyes didn't crinkle. Laugh lines turned into wrinkles, and wrinkles meant plastic surgery. Actors smiled very carefully in Los Angeles.

“So,” he said, then angled his head toward the garbage can. “Trash pickup is Friday morning. They'll
take recyclables, but you've got to bag them separately.”

“Okay.”

“You have to call the company and set it up. They provide the trash can.”

“Okay.”

“Or you can buy a pass to the town dump and take care of your garbage yourself.”

She grinned, partly because he was trying so hard to be helpful and partly because his smile was contagious. “I think I'll go with the service you use.”

“I've had no trouble with them.” He gazed at her for a long moment. “If you want their number—or if you have any other questions—just give me a call.”

Me,
she noted. He hadn't said, give
us
a call. Was there no lucky wife in the picture? He'd mentioned a daughter—there had to be a wife somewhere. Maybe he was an obnoxious philanderer, flirting with the new neighbor while his wife was washing the dishes inside.

Susannah hoped that wasn't the case. She really liked his smile.

He dug his wallet from his hip pocket, then plucked a pen from his shirt pocket. He pulled a business card from the wallet, flipped it over and scribbled a phone number on the back. “Seriously, anything you need to know,” he offered. “The best dry cleaner, the best take-out Chinese, the best auto shop. The best doctor in town,” he added with a smile. “Just give me a buzz.”

“Thank you.” She took the card from him and flipped it over. Dr. Tobias Cole, it said. Arlington Pediatric Associates. “You're not the best doctor in town?” she asked.

“I'm the best pediatrician. If you have any kids—”

“No kids,” she said laconically.

He nodded and gave the trash can a tug. “Well. I guess I should get this taken care of.”

She tucked the business card into her pocket and stepped back, as if to give him permission to leave her. MacKenzie issued another guttural purr.

Toby Cole glanced at him. Then, flashing Susannah a farewell smile, he took the trash can by the handle and started dragging it down his driveway to the street.

She started back across the lawn, hearing the squeaking wheels of the can and a chorus of honks as a V-shaped formation of geese flew across the sky. Back on the porch, she pulled his business card from her pocket and turned in time to see him walking back up his driveway to his garage. He didn't look at her.

Fool,
she thought. He was a friendly suburban father, a doctor, a family man. Sinfully good-looking, but so what? He wasn't available, and he hadn't been coming on to her. And even if he had been, she wouldn't have been interested.

She wanted peace and quiet. No excitement, no passion, no demands, no pressure. No photographers, no directors and producers, no managers and handlers. No greedy, needy people telling her what they expected her to do for them.

She'd come to Arlington to get away from everything that had been wrong with her life. That included men, work, family and pretty much everything else.

Dr. Tobias Cole could direct her to the best dry cleaners and the best take-out Chinese. More than that she didn't need.

“Y
OU DID WHAT
?”
Toby gaped at Lindsey, who stood in the kitchen doorway, clad in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that he was certain had been big on her a few weeks ago but now fit her alarmingly well. Her eyes were the color of milk chocolate, just as sweet and just as hazardous to one's health.

“I asked her over for dinner.”

“Tonight?”

Lindsey almost smiled, almost smirked. He couldn't tell whether she was glad or sorry she'd invited the new neighbor to share their evening meal, whether she was upset by his reaction or secretly pleased by it. Sometimes she seemed to do things for no other reason than to rile him.

He was exhausted. He hadn't slept well last night, and that morning he'd had the painful task of informing the parents of a seven-year-old boy that their son had leukemia. He'd spent all morning at the hospital with patients, and he'd devoted the few free minutes he'd had before his afternoon clinic appointments to a telephone conversation with Lindsey's teacher. He'd told Ms. Hathaway he wanted to schedule a meeting with her to discuss Lindsey's schoolwork, and Ms. Hathaway had argued that she didn't see why she should put any effort into teaching Lindsey if Lindsey wasn't willing to put any effort into learning.
“Frankly, I don't know what to do about her,” Ms. Hathaway had lamented. “She used to be one of my top students, but she seems to have lost her motivation. I don't see what good a meeting would do.”

Toby hadn't persuaded her that a meeting would do any good, but he'd gotten her to agree to a conference the following Wednesday at 7:30 a.m. That gave him five days to figure out what he could possibly tell her about Lindsey's inexplicably vanished motivation.

He wished the only reason he'd been racked with insomnia last night had been his worry about Lindsey's midterm report. Or his concern about Andy Lowenthal, the little boy whose blood work had come back positive for leukemia. But more than just a seriously ill patient and a frustrating daughter had kept him awake into the gray hours of early morning.

Sue Dawson had been on his mind.

Her alleged fame hadn't been what held his thoughts hostage all night. Lindsey believed she was a well-known actress, but he wasn't convinced. How well-known could she be if he'd never heard of her? Besides, Lindsey had used a different name for the actress—he couldn't remember what, but it hadn't been Sue Dawson.

He hadn't noticed anything particularly celebrity-like about the new neighbor. She didn't exude wealth or glamour or elegance. She'd looked like nothing more or less than a suburban homeowner.

She was just a woman, he told himself. A remarkably attractive woman. But Toby came in contact with attractive women fairly often, and on occasion dated them, so having one move into the house next door shouldn't have kept him tossing and turning. He could admire a beautiful woman in an aesthetic way and in
a shamelessly lustful way, but his reaction to Sue Dawson after chatting with her for a few minutes yesterday evening hadn't fallen into either of those convenient categories.

Yet she'd haunted him all night. Closing his eyes, he would see her; opening them, he would feel her presence, even though she wasn't anywhere close by. During their brief conversation over the hedge, he'd managed to chat easily with her, but something inside his soul had been buzzing, hissing, a quiet, constant static he couldn't tune out. He'd been unsettled by the contradictions of her: delicate yet strong, slight of build yet vividly present, as distant as the sun but just as radiant. Her large blue eyes had seemed both crystalline and opaque, friendly and wary. Even her hair varied from dark blond to cornsilk pale, as if it couldn't quite commit to a single color.

He had neither the time nor the energy for a distraction like her. He was too drained to entertain anyone—let alone someone who was practically a stranger—over dinner. And he hardly had any food in the house, certainly nothing suitable to serve a guest. During his drive home, he'd fantasized about throwing on some old jeans, pouring himself a cold beer and sending out for pizza. After he and Lindsey had eaten, he'd intended to talk to her about how he could help her turn things around in school.

But there she stood, wearing a small, defiant smile as she gauged his reaction to her announcement that she'd invited the new neighbor to dinner.

“Why did you invite her? What happened?” he asked, tossing his jacket onto the nearest chair and rolling up his sleeves.

“I was walking home from the bus stop, and she
was in her yard chasing a cat. And the cat ran straight to me, so I picked it up. It's a beautiful cat, Daddy. Its name is MacKenzie.” Lindsey let out a dreamy little sigh. “Isn't that a cool name? I wish I had a cat. I wish I had any kind of pet. Even fish would be okay, but they aren't as cool as a cat. Especially a cat like MacKenzie, all gray and soft like a dust bunny…”

Toby steered her back to the subject at hand. “So, you caught the cat.”

“And Susannah Dawson walked over and said hi.”

Susannah.
That was the name Lindsey had said yesterday. Sue Dawson, Susannah Dawson. Maybe she used her full name professionally, but when she was hanging out in the 'hood she wanted to be just plain Sue.

“She was so friendly, Dad. It was like she could have been any old person, not this famous TV star.”

“Are you sure she's famous?” he asked.

Lindsey clicked her tongue. “If you ever watched TV, you'd know.
Mercy Hospital
is like the coolest show. But you wouldn't know, because you never watch it.”

He sensed Lindsey was baiting him, but he refused to bite. “She didn't say anything about being a TV star when I talked to her yesterday.”

“You talked to her? When? Why didn't you tell me? What did she say?” Lindsey babbled like a fan possessed.

“We talked about the garbage pickup.” At Lindsey's groan of disgust, he added, “And I welcomed her to the neighborhood, more or less.”

“So you didn't talk about her show?”

“Of course not. Why should I? I was taking out the garbage, and I saw her and said hi.”

“Well, if you already met her, you can't mind me inviting her over for dinner.”

“Lindsey, I've been working hard all day. And the fridge is close to empty. You know we're always low on food by the end of the week.” Toby did the grocery shopping on the weekend.

“I'm sure we can scrounge up something,” she said, circling the table to the refrigerator and swinging it open. It was indeed almost empty. Sighing, she yanked on the freezer door and peered inside. “Here,” she said, digging out a package of frozen shrimp. “You can make something with this.”

“Are you sure she actually said yes?” he asked, taking the shrimp from Lindsey and staring at it dubiously. “Maybe you misunderstood her.” If she was the celebrity Lindsey seemed to think she was, why would she want to spend her Friday night at a yawnfest at the Cole house?

“I think she liked me,” Lindsey confessed with a modest shrug. Her shoulders used to be bony, but not anymore. She'd added a layer of muscular flesh to them in the past few months. Her body was more solid, more substantial. The skinny little kid she used to be no longer existed.

“Of course she liked you. You're very likable,” he said, although at the moment he wasn't sure he liked her. He swung open a cabinet door and searched the shelves, hoping for inspiration. “When did you tell her to come?”

“Six o'clock.”

He swore under his breath. It was five forty-five now. No time to race out to the supermarket. What could he do with frozen shrimp? “Spaghetti,” he said.

“She won't eat that. It's too fattening. You know what they say about TV—it adds ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds of what?”

Lindsey gazed at the ceiling and groaned “Dad,” as if she thought he was just pretending ignorance. But he had no idea what she meant about ten pounds, and he had no time to chisel through her sarcasm. Whether or not the new neighbor wanted to eat spaghetti, that was what he would be serving. It was either spaghetti or pizza delivered from Luigi's.

He pulled out the big pot, filled it with water, set it on the stove and turned on the heat under it. Then he tossed the package of shrimp into the microwave to defrost and grabbed a jar of marinara sauce from a shelf.

Five years ago, no one could have convinced him he could fix a dinner so efficiently. Neither he nor Jane had been particularly talented in the kitchen; they'd cooked edible meals, but they'd never been the kind to experiment with exotic ingredients or collect bizarre appliances—like state-of-the-art garlic presses and vegetable steamers and candy thermometers. Because he'd worked long hours, Jane had done most of the cooking. He'd known the basics of food preparation; during his bachelor days, he'd somehow managed to keep himself from starving to death. But she'd been the boss in the kitchen. He'd been the assistant.

Now he was the boss, receiving minimal culinary assistance from Lindsey. He used to ask her for help, but lately he'd been hesitant. Asking her for anything meant running the risk of tripping some invisible switch inside her, sending her into one of her sulks or igniting an argument.

He didn't have time to argue with her tonight. Sue
Dawson would be over in—he glanced at his watch—ten minutes. But it was Lindsey's fault that he had to throw this last-minute dinner together. She ought to do something to help out. “Why don't you set the dining-room table,” he suggested in as mild a voice as he could manage. “If we're having company, we might as well eat in there.” The kitchen table currently held his briefcase, his jacket, Lindsey's backpack from school, a stack of as yet unopened mail and a dirty plate left over from breakfast. He didn't have time to neaten up the place.

Without a quibble, Lindsey exited into the dining room. She had a new way of walking, he noticed—a kind of slinky, slouchy motion, using her hips more than her feet to propel her. He wondered if her backpack was too heavy, damaging her posture, or if this was simply the way preteen girls walked, thinking they looked sexy.

God, he was tired of worrying about her all the time.

Right now, he couldn't spare a minute for worry. He rummaged in the refrigerator for lettuce, tomatoes and a stalk of celery. He didn't have any Italian bread—he hoped spaghetti with shrimp and a salad would be sufficient.

Would Sue like wine? he wondered. The thought of lingering over a glass of wine with her appealed to him. He felt guilty about that. And he felt stupid for feeling guilty.

The wine rack built into the cabinet near the microwave wasn't well stocked. He'd never considered wine a beverage to drink in solitude, and the last time he'd had guests for dinner was the office holiday party, which he'd cohosted with his partners. The food had
been catered, but he'd bought a case of assorted wines, and he had a few bottles left over.

He found a bottle of Italian table red and pulled it out, then grabbed a couple of goblets from the adjacent cabinet and carried them to the dining room. To his amazement, Lindsey had done a meticulous job of setting the table. She'd spread a dark-green linen cloth over the mahogany oval and rolled matching linen napkins into the silver napkin rings. She stood at the open breakfront, carefully gathering the good china dishes they would need for their meal, and the silver chest was open on the sideboard, the flatware inside glinting in the light. Fresh white tapers were wedged into the silver candlesticks Toby and Jane had gotten as a wedding present from Jane's aunt Laura.

Seeing him in the doorway, Lindsey smiled sheepishly. “Does it look okay?”

“It looks magnificent,” he said, hoping she would accept the heartfelt compliment without rolling her eyes. It
did
look magnificent. He was surprised that she'd done such a fancy job of it. Maybe she wanted to impress the famous TV star.

“I think the water's boiling,” Lindsey said. “I can hear it from here.”

“Right.” He set one wineglass near his chair at the head of the table and the other at Sue's place. Resisting the urge to give Lindsey a hug, he returned to the kitchen to add the spaghetti to the boiling water.

He was lifting the lid from the pot when the doorbell rang. Whatever pleasure he'd felt from Lindsey's efforts vanished in a wave of panic. Spaghetti and salad seemed too mundane to be eaten on fine china. Sue Dawson might think they were trying too hard, or not hard enough.

“Lindsey, can you get the door?” he shouted over his shoulder as he emptied the box of pasta into the water. Their guest would think whatever she thought. He was doing the best he could under the circumstances.

He heard Lindsey's footsteps as she hurried through the living room to the front door. He stirred the pasta, then pulled the defrosted shrimp out of the microwave. Voices floated down the hall to him, Sue's and then Lindsey's. He tossed the shrimp into the tomato sauce, gave it a stir and set it on the stove. He wasn't nervous, he told himself. He wasn't under any obligation to bedazzle the new neighbor.

She preceded Lindsey into the kitchen, and for a moment he was the one bedazzled. Again he was reminded of the sun—its light, its heat, its ability to burn. There was no one thing about Sue Dawson that was so bright—her eyes were lively, her hair shimmering as it fell loose past her shoulders, her smile relaxed and her body graceful in a white tunic-style top and slim-fitting gray slacks—but put it all together and she practically shimmered with warmth. Small diamonds winked in her earlobes, discreet and utterly tasteful, and a silver bangle circled her wrist. She carried a plate heaped with something, wrapped in aluminum foil.