Pickin Clover (10 page)

He listed the other treatments that might prove helpful: Essiac, mixed respiratory virus vaccine, grape seed extract, green tea. He gave information on visualization and positive imagery and answered any questions they had.

As they were leaving the office, Sophie waited until Jerome and Duncan were out of earshot, then she blurted the question that Michael most dreaded.

“Is there a chance that all this stuffs going to make Duncan better, Doctor?”

Her gaze silently begged Michael for reassurance that he couldn’t give.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It took enormous effort for Michael to keep his voice steady, his words professional. “No one can answer that, Sophie. There aren’t any guarantees. The best thing we can do for Duncan is believe he will get better and help him believe it, as well.” Even though it’s a lie, an anguished part of his soul reminded him.

“But he does.” Her face crumpled. “He absolutely believes he’s going to get through this, and that’s what breaks my heart. I know what his chances are. And sometimes...” She gulped and with her fingers rubbed at the tears coursing down her cheeks. “Sometimes I can hardly bear it, it hurts me so much.”

“I understand.” Michael knew he should put an arm around her, comfort her somehow, but he just couldn’t do it. He felt as if something fragile in his chest would break if he touched her, that he’d do something humiliating, like start to cry. In self-defense he retreated behind his desk, where he fiddled with papers, waiting silently until she regained control.

“Thank you so much for seeing us,” she said after a moment.

And Michael hated himself for being distant. He did his best to give her a facsimile of a smile, feeling like the worst of hypocrites.

“You can be certain we’ll do absolutely everything you suggest, Dr. Forsythe.”

“That’s good. That’s very important. Tell Valerie to make regular weekly appointments for Duncan. We’ll all do the best we can for him, Sophie.”

She nodded, and when the door closed behind her, Michael sank into his leather chair. His heart was hammering; he felt icy cold and nauseous. His hands knotted into fists and he longed to smash something. He forced himself to study Duncan’s chart, concentrate on the results of the numerous tests. It was all sickeningly familiar—the CAT scans, the blood tests. He had no idea how long it was before Valerie tapped on the door to remind him his next patient was waiting. With a supreme effort, he forced himself out of his chair, shoved the emotions into a dark place in his mind and somehow got on with being a doctor.

It was after seven that evening when Michael closed his own front door behind him. The long day had taken its toll, and it felt good to be home. Something smelled delicious and there was music playing, rock and roll. Polly hadn’t played rock and roll for a very long time.

“Hi, Michael. I'm in the kitchen.”

He hung his tweed jacket in the closet and made his way down the hall. Polly was stirring something on the stove, and she turned her head to smile at him.

“Long day, huh, Doc?” She sounded cheerful. Although she looked disheveled, she was still terribly pretty in a narrow gray ankle-length skirt and a deep-green silky tunic that skimmed her slender hips. Her short, spiky hair was still a surprise to him.

“Very long day.” There was a smear of tomato paste on her cheek. Michael rubbed it off with his thumb and then kissed her quickly on the lips. "What’re you making?”

She tasted sweet. Polly always tasted good, smelled good. That she managed to be fresh no matter what the occasion surprised him still. Coming home to such pleasant smells, such vibrant good health, after a day spent around illness was always such a pleasure.

“Vegetable stew and hot biscuits, and there’s salad in the fridge.” Her amber eyes shone with excitement. “Michael, you’ll never guess what happened today.”

“Tell me.” Judging by her tone and her sparkling eyes, it was something good. A little of the weight lifted from his heart.

“Mom decided she wants Jerome to paint the outside of the house as well as clean up the rubbish. Can you believe that? She and I actually went out and bought the paint this afternoon—white, with green for the trim. She wanted turquoise, but I talked her out of it.”

“Hey, that’s wonderful, Pol.” Michael leaned against the counter and smiled down at her. “I’m really glad she likes Jerome. Getting more work is good for him, too.”

Polly nodded. “And guess what else? I'm going to help him. I’m going to paint with him. We’re starting day after tomorrow, as long as it doesn’t rain. Isn’t that great? I called Norah and she can’t believe this is happening, Mom changing her mind like this.”

“You’re going to paint the house with Jerome?” Michael frowned, not liking the idea at all. “Are you sure you want to do that, Polly? Painting a house is hard physical labor, you know. You’ll have to be working up on ladders. I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

Polly shot him a disbelieving look and rolled her eyes heavenward. “For gosh sake, Michael.” Her good humor evaporated. She threw down the spoon she’d been stirring the pot with and turned on him, eyes blazing. “This is something I want to do. Can’t you understand that? I need to do this. I need something to do that’s creative.”

“What about your art? Why not get involved in that again?” He gestured toward the closed door of the studio, and even as he did he knew it was the wrong thing to suggest. Damn. Almost everything he said to her these days was the wrong thing. Anger flared in him, mixed with frustration, at her, at himself.

Her voice was tense. “I can’t draw anymore. I thought you knew that. Whatever talent I might have had is gone.” She glared at him. “You don’t get it, Michael. You just go off to work every single day. Your life has purpose and...and direction, and focus. Well, mine doesn’t. Not anymore.” He knew what was coming and he didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to hear it because of the pain it caused, because he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Susannah was my job,” Polly said slowly, her voice loud, as if by raising the volume she could make him hear, make him understand. “When we lost her, I no longer had anything to get out of bed for in the morning.” Her huge, dramatic eyes glittered with anger and unshed tears, and although her voice trembled, she didn’t stop.

He wished she would. God, how he wished she would.

"I lost my job as well as my daughter, Michael. I’m not the same person anymore. I’m not an artist. I’m not a mother. I’m not really anything at all.”

“But you are, Pol.” How could she not acknowledge it? It hurt him that he even had to point it out. “You’re my wife.”

She nodded. “But that’s not enough, Michael.”

The words were like nails hammered into his heart.

“I want another child. I’ve never pretended otherwise. But you won’t agree to that.”

The look she gave him was filled with reproach, and he braced himself for still another confrontation.

But she didn’t pursue the issue. “I have to find out what I can do to fill those empty places,” she said. “However mundane it might seem to you, painting my mother’s house might help.' Who knows? It’s something physical, and it doesn’t take much brainpower. Which is a good thing, because I still feel a lot of times as if my mind turned to mush somewhere along the way.”

Michael did his best to curb the torrent of emotions her words created—the guilt, the resentment, the denial and the awful recognition; so often, he still felt as if part of his mind had died, too, when Susannah had. At first he’d had trouble with procedures that should have been automatic, and if not for Valerie, he’d never have remembered the names of his patients in those first awful days and weeks. That was getting better, but it was a slow process. He mustered his energy, trying to make her understand, knowing even as he did that the attempt was futile. Sometimes he thought they’d lost their understanding of each other along with everything else.

“It’s your safety I’m concerned about, Polly. Working up on ladders is tricky. I don’t want anything happening to you.” The thought of her being injured or worse was unbearable, yet it was one that haunted him. There were so very many ways to lose her.

Unexpectedly, his concern softened her. She put a hand on his arm, and her voice was quiet. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me, Michael. I promise. I’ll be careful. Just be glad for me, please. This is the first thing I’ve really wanted to try in a long time.”

The pleading in her tone tore at his heart, and the old, familiar guilt gnawed at his gut. “Then do it, Pol. All I want is for you to be happy again.”

He reached out blindly and pulled her into his arms, holding her close against him, his nose buried in her spiky hair, every sensory nerve aware of her scent, the terrifying fragility of her bones, the softness of her beloved flesh, and before he could harness it, terror rode rampant through him, combined with shame and helplessness.

There was no sure way to keep her safe. There was nothing he could really do to protect her. He was a strong man; he was a doctor; he was a person others relied on when they needed help, but he was a failure when it came to the first and most important task of all for a man—protecting those he most cherished, keeping his family safe from harm.

Her arms came up and looped around his neck. He kissed her hair, inhaling the fresh scent of her perfume, willing himself to think only of her.

She tilted her head back and smiled at him, a lazy, inviting smile, and he bent and kissed her mouth.

The kiss deepened. It was evident immediately that she wanted him. Her lips opened beneath his, her tongue flicking. He pulled her closer, molding the thrilling, familiar body against his own. Firm breasts pressed against his chest; narrow hips strained against his groin. He slid his hand down her back to cup the rounded swell of her bottom. He could feel the heat of her skin and the tiny bikini panties beneath the thin material of the skirt she wore. The thought of her lovely naked body shot a bolt of pure desire through him. She leaned into him, hips moving provocatively, and his lips devoured her, tongues dancing with need.

“Will dinner wait, love?” He murmured the words against her lips and groaned when she silently nodded, her mouth hungry.

Slipping an arm around her waist and another beneath her knees, he carried her into the living room to the overstuffed couch with its masses of goose down pillows. The blinds were drawn, the shadowy spaces of the large room lit only by the gentle spill of dusk from the skylight. With practiced ease, he pulled the skirt up past her hips, letting it bunch erotically around her narrow waist, then smoothly tugged her tunic up and over her shoulders and head. Her underwear was satin and lace, two tiny black scraps that he left so he could look at her, seductive and so nearly naked. His woman, his wife.

He removed his tie, tossed it aside. Then he slipped off his shirt. “You’re wondrously beautiful, my Polly.” He dropped his trousers and underwear to the rug, slid his socks off, too, and lowered himself over her, covering her body with his, feeling the enticing softness and delicacy of her skin, concentrating on visual images, allowing them to enfold him in a cocoon of lust.

She skimmed her hands down his chest, tugging at the hair there, her arms encircling his back, and her legs parted and wound around him. Damp heat enveloped him.

“Now, Michael.” Her voice was throaty and she raised her hips, inviting him, nibbling kisses down his chin and under his jaw. “I want you now. Don’t wait, please, Michael.”

His swollen penis pressed against her through the flimsy barrier of panty, and he pulled the garment aside, just enough so he could slide into her.

The heat... The tightness of her...

She lifted herself against him, and he slid farther inside. A contraceptive. He needed a contraceptive. They were upstairs, in his bedside table. Silently, he cursed his lack of foresight as his body throbbed with desire too long denied.

“I have to get a condom, sweetheart.” He moved to stand up, but her arms locked him to her.

“No, Michael. Don’t. My period’s coming. Stay, please. Don’t go. Love me now.”

For one blind, ravenous instant, he almost gave in. But then the fear intercepted, cold and harsh. If she became pregnant...

“I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” By the time he came hurrying downstairs, though, the magic was gone. She was waiting, just as he’d asked, but it was a passionless waiting. Although he kissed her, fondled her, caressed every inch of her body, he could sense the distance that had crept between them like a cold dark shadow that, try as he might, he couldn’t dispel.

He fought against it. His libido reacted to his wife’s beauty as it always did, and when he became hard and pulsing again, he reached a hand around her backside and slid it up between them, touching every secret inch of her, willing her to soar with .him. He slid the condom on and buried himself inside her, moving with the long, slow strokes he knew she liked, claiming mouth and nipples with lips and tongue in an echo of that other urgent movement.

“I can’t, Michael. You come.” The whisper was defeat, another acknowledgment of his failure.

Passion drained from him, as if a plug had been opened.

“I love you, Polly.” It was the truth, but it couldn’t heal what was broken between them. He held her for several more long moments, then released her and headed for the bathroom.