Doctor's Secret (Carver Family) Read online

  The nurse behind the counter snickered. McKenzie could understand why. News of their engagement had already circulated through the hospital. The congratulations were coming in, as was the speculation of her expected pregnancy. Why else would she have gotten engaged to such a man? Nothing she could say could convince them otherwise and time would prove them wrong so she hadn’t bothered correcting the assumption.

  However, she did wonder about Dr. Branston’s personal intentions. She’d have to set boundaries. Strong boundaries. Because a man like him could sneak through her defenses.

  “My calendar is clear,” she responded with a friendly up-tick in her voice.

  “Great.” He motioned to Beth. “Nurse Bernard, would you please help by rescheduling these appointments? Ms. Carver and I need to check on a patient. Please send my sincerest apologies to the other doctors. And if there is any change in the Robson case, the emergency department can reach me on my cell.” He took several steps down the hall before turning back. “Honey, are you coming?”

  Honey? A burning resentment sizzled up her arms. She’d honey him, the jerkwad. “I’ll accompany you on one condition.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll promise to set aside a day next week so we can select a wedding planner.” His smile broadened.

  Another checkmark in his column. Damn him. Paybacks were coming.

  Noting her hesitation he leaned close to her ear. “I don’t bite, Ms. Carver. And besides, I’ve had all my shots. There’s no reason to be afraid.”

  Heat flared up her cheeks. Afraid? Her? The irritating thing, she was afraid. She darted a glance at each person within hearing distance, checking for a reaction, wondering if the unwarranted fear pooling in her stomach had somehow revealed itself. She hated that he noticed things others didn’t.

  He held out his hand. “Do something different. Take a chance. Be spontaneous. No schedules. No agendas. It’s one day.”

  She explored his eyes for a sign—some signal to explain his motivation. Without understanding why, she took a step toward him. She didn’t look back at Beth or the nurses. She could never pass up a challenge. Just like when her brothers challenged her to bungee jump off the Macau Tower in China or ski a double-black-diamond run in Jackson Hole or scuba dive with sharks in South Africa.

  He moved toward the exit, and she followed. Once outside, he continued down the sidewalk at a pace faster than she usually walked. She lengthened her stride to keep up.

  When they passed the clinic offices, she studied his profile. “Where are we going?”

  “Crosstown,” he said, and kept walking.

  Crosstown? Not the hospital clinic complex? Panic set in. “Let’s take my car. It’s in the upper parking lot.”

  “With this traffic? The subway is faster.” He kept walking. Her steps faltered.

  He paused and half-turned toward her. “I noticed you added sea horses to your mural. Nice touch.”

  What? Why had he bothered to look? The mural wasn’t even in the same building as the NICU. Even her family hadn’t taken the time to visit her beloved art piece. Her “little project,” they called it. Well, it stood to reason because they had never taken her painting seriously. She wanted to ask if he’d seen the little clownfish or the eel she’d added, but didn’t want to expose her insecurities and self-doubt.

  “Do you actually have a patient to see?” she asked.

  He stopped so abruptly she had to backtrack two steps. His brows locked together.

  “I get we didn’t get off to a friendly start. That’s probably my fault, but I’m not a liar, Ms. Carver. If, or when, you get to know me, you’ll discover I care about my patients more than I care about other people’s agendas.”

  “Good to know. I also would like to move past our initial encounter and focus on helping you succeed in your new roll. But this new position requires you to care about perceptions and politics and people if you want to succeed in making the pediatric surgical unit the best in the country.”

  He resettled the backpack higher on his shoulder. “Do you ever stop pushing, Ms. Carver? Just let go. No plans to make. No boxes to tick. No goals to reach.”

  “I a—” A man in a business suit bumped into her and she grabbed onto her purse.

  “Give me today, and I promise next Tuesday will be yours. You can plan meetings until your organizer is full. I promise to be attentive. In return, all I ask is that you give me this day. Just live in the moment. Let go.”

  She crossed her arms. Give this man control over her day? Could she? Why was she even considering loosening the grip on her life to a man? She’d promised no man would ever control her again. Her arms tightened their intertwined knot to shield against this insecure absurdity, and to ward off the notion of letting any man inside her protective gates.

  Architectural masterpieces stretched to the sky and blocked the sun. Taxis, buses, and cars rolled by honking and stopping every few feet. Too busy running from meeting to meeting, she missed taking the time to listen to the sounds of the city—the rhythm, the frantic pace. She closed her eyes and let the pulse of Manhattan merge with hers, slowing her breath, easing her tense muscles. Seconds slid by. Then she opened her eyes to his inquisitive stare. “Today’s yours. And next Tuesday is all mine. No excuses.”

  He grinned faster than she could take her words back, revealing even, white teeth. And there was a burst of smug laughter in his expression she didn’t appreciate.

  “Now we’ve got that out of the way, how about I put that organizer you’ve got a death grip on in my backpack? It will mark a fresh beginning to the day.” He reached toward her chest, and her forearm blocked his hand. He froze in motion.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, managing to keep the embarrassment locked away. “Automatic reaction. Take it.” The organizer had suddenly become an unnecessary burden, and she thrust it toward him.

  His eyes held a deep understanding as if he saw her chaotic soul. “If you would rather hold onto it…”

  The three-pound binder that held her life-to-the-minute schedule weighed heavy in her hand. Planning her whole life to exhaustion had become an unhealthy habit.

  “No. I left my portfolio bag at the hospital, and it won’t fit in my purse. Thanks for the offer to carry it for me.” She ceased fighting against the uninhibited motion Dr. Branston created. She couldn’t control him any more than she could move the sun across the sky. The fresh scent from his cream-colored shirt eased her tumbling thoughts.

  “You’re welcome.” A genuine smile, a smile she bet he didn’t share often, spread across his face, gentling the lines carved around his eyes and mouth.

  “We better go or we’ll miss our train,” he said, guiding her gently to safety to avoid a bicyclist racing up the sidewalk. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  When the light turned green, he stayed a half-step ahead, protecting and shielding her with his body. Holding doors, paying for subway tickets, and clearing their way through overcrowded tunnels, his chivalry kept her mind distracted.

  “Seems like you’ve figured out the subway system,” she said, trying to ease into a conversation and deflect her uneasiness of being surrounded by so many strangers at one time. His calm presence was a welcome comfort. He didn’t continue to challenge her as she’d expected. He seemed more interested in observing and exploring their surroundings, his facial expressions changing moment by moment.

  “It’s very convenient.” He studied the schedule board. “Next subway is in twenty minutes. Let’s stop for a coffee. You’re pale. Can I get you a nice carb as a peace offering?”

  “I’ll buy.” She slid the purse strap off her shoulder to reach for her wallet out of habit.

  “Don’t think about getting a cent out of that bag. Not in my presence,” he warned. He lifted and placed her purse strap back over her shoulder.

  But she enjoyed paying for lunches, theater tickets, or flowers for friends. The small gifts were her language of love. But, then again, she didn’t love this man. In fac
t, she wasn’t sure she even liked him. Their relationship was a scam to save the kids. In the scheme of life, what was a couple of months? She’d make her family happy in the short-term and he’d be able to keep his job. “An Earl Grey tea and some pumpkin bread sounds lovely. Thanks.”

  He turned in a gentlemanly way to allow her to precede him to the barista line. The throngs of people pressing in made her edgy.

  “Are you all right, Boss?” he asked, looking at their surroundings with a protective eye.

  Her brothers had a protective gene that smothered her like cheese sauce on nachos. Garrett’s wrapped around her shoulders like a warm blanket, all soft and nice. Comforting.

  “McKenzie. Please call me by my first name.”

  “Okay, Boss, whatever you say.”

  The way he said boss, with the elongating consonant, sounded like a snake hissing. His way of telling her she was intruding, meddling in his life. Yet, it wasn’t like he’d objected to the engagement idea at the meeting. At anytime he could have said no, but he hadn’t. Why?

  “Ready to go?” he asked a few minutes later while placing her hot tea in a cardboard holder so the drink wouldn’t burn her hand. “I’ll hold your bread until you’re ready to eat it. How’s that?”

  Was he always this nice? Or was he just being nice because he wanted this job?

  She accepted the folded napkin he handed her, followed him toward the subway platform, while taking a sip of the fragrant bergamot orange mixture.

  “Your mural is extraordinary.” He fell into step beside her, his honesty threading through each consonant.

  “Extraordinary?” The shock of his praise made her jaw drop open. “That’s a mighty big compliment.”

  “When I visited, several parents and kids were counting the creatures. Children are the best critics. They always tell the truth. Where did you learn to paint?”

  Joyful memories filled her soul. “My grandmother was an artist. We filled each Saturday with visits to art galleries or painting lessons or something fun. My grandfather took my brothers to sporting events or fishing. My parents considered our little outings a chance to visit with our grandparents and a day off for them. When I was in sixth grade, Grannie died of a stroke.”

  The sense she’d revealed too much made her queasy. She traced the subway’s yellow loading line with the tip of her shoe.

  He reached to tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, but she jerked back, the reaction automatic. He dropped his arm and took a sip of his latte. The disappointment on his face and her regret made the moment uncomfortable. She searched for a way to bring the good-natured banter back, and settled on, “what about you? What do you like to do?”

  “Read.” His contemplative gaze shifted and appeared to take him to a faraway place.

  “What types of books?”

  “Science fiction, mostly. Books allowed me to explore new worlds and meet sophisticated, kick-ass women who defeat bad guys.” Bright streaks of red splashed across his cheeks and provided insight. The light in his eyes brightened, like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud until the full extent of his blissful rays were felt.

  “Did you read Harry Potter?” she prompted.

  “Is that a trick question? What pediatric doctor doesn’t read Harry?” His well-duh tone was loaded with playful sarcasm.

  “No trick. Just curious.” Why the image of him curled up in a chair reading a children’s book thrilled her, she didn’t want to examine too closely.

  The overhead speaker announced their train. A line of rocking subway cars rolled into the station and stopped. Compartments loaded with professionals in suits, fathers with strollers, and teenagers plugged into electronics all rushed through the sliding doors in a hurry to get somewhere.

  Garrett held the door while she stepped on and slid into a blue plastic seat next to the window, with him sliding in beside her. Claustrophobia set in, and she grabbed the back of the seat in front of her.

  “Don’t travel on the subway much, do you?”

  Admitting she hadn’t been on a subway in years wouldn’t do. She dropped her hand to her lap. He slipped his hands over hers and squeezed. The heat and comfort from his touch eased the panicky ache forming at the base of her skull.

  “Tell me what you like about New York,” she deflected.

  He studied her for several seconds, like a radiologist trying to decipher a scan. Finally, he faced forward and described how he enjoyed walking in the park and seeing horses, the unique neighborhoods with their little markets, and the eclectic shops. He viewed New York through overgrown-kid-sized glasses. And the more he said, the more she found him funny, easy, pleasant. The conversation meandered through many twists and turns, and never once did either one of them mention the hospital or rocking schedules or agendas.

  Fascinated by his opinion of her city, she asked question after question and found his answers intriguing and satisfying. He used his hands while talking, creating art pieces in the air. Absorbed in their interaction, she had paid little attention to their destination until the mechanical system announced the arrival to Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach station.

  Beads of sweat instantly prickled her forehead. Her mouth became desert dry.

  “This is where we get off.” Branston stood.

  No. God. Please. No. “You didn’t tell me this is where your patient lived.” An ice cold shiver ran through her.

  “Come on. We need to hurry.” He moved toward the exit without looking back.

  No. Not here. Don’t leave me here.

  Brighton. Of all the wrong places to end up.

  Why hadn’t she paid closer attention? Why had she gone with him in the first place?

  Little Odessa, the Russian community on the southernmost edge of Brooklyn, took her back three years. The torture. The helplessness. The abyss of mortality.

  She forced herself to her feet. Scurrying people pressed against her, pushing her toward the exit, making their way off the subway train. She’d almost reached the sliding door when her feet became too heavy to move. Boarding passengers scrambled for empty seats and pushed her backward. Jostled and wrenched this way and that, she understood what a bottle in the ocean felt like being tossed from wave to wave. Helpless. Out of control. Instinct and willpower made her search for a path to safety.

  She shoved a hand against the subway door as it was closing and squeezed through the narrow space.

  “Boss, are you okay?” a voice asked.

  She gasped for air.

  Run. To the street. Run! Now.

  Shoving bodies aside, she raced down the stairs to the street below, apologizing as she went. Heavy footsteps followed, pushing her faster and faster.

  Her lungs strained for air. Keep moving. Go. Don’t stop.

  At the curb, she searched left, and then right for a taxi.

  The muscles in her legs burned. She forced herself to keep moving.

  Drug stores, pedestrians, a nail salon, zooming cars, a small market, all cluttered her line of sight. Someone blocked her way. She tried pushing them aside, but the firm hands on her arms wouldn’t budge.

  “Ms. Carver.” She pushed at the hands holding her. “McKenzie!” Garrett’s concerned voice penetrated through her maniacal thoughts. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  She recognized his face and she stopped struggling, though her hammering heart took a few more seconds to calm. She lifted a shaky hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Self-loathing replaced the panic. “I’m all right,” she fibbed. I needed to get away from all those people. I can get claustrophobic sometimes.”

  Skepticism deepened the color of his eyes. “The patient I need to see is a few blocks up the street, but I can see you’re uncomfortable. We’ll find you a taxi. I should have guessed this wasn’t your type of thing.” Still holding her arm, he guided her to the crosswalk. “You’re still shaking. Let’s get you to the shady side of the street.”

  What wasn’t her type of thing? Getting on the subway? Bein
g seen in public without over-dramatized scenarios playing in her mind? That every man who looked her way felt like a lethal threat?

  She wasn’t a pampered socialite, if that’s what he was thinking. By the way he placed his hand beneath her elbow, guiding her to the street corner, that’s exactly what he was thinking. Leaving him with that impression wouldn’t do. She repeated her psychologist’s pre-scripted statements: Your attacker is in jail. Nothing will hurt you. There’s nothing to fear. She forced strength into her limbs and the dark fears she wrestled into a corner of her mind and refused to give them power.

  “Dr. Branston, I’m fine. A momentary panic, that’s all.” Her mouth slid into a familiar forced smile. “Just promise me we’ll take a cab home.”

  “Garrett’s my name, and you look nauseated. Want a lollipop?”

  Huh? “A lollipop?” Her thoughts came to a screeching halt.

  “I’ve got bubblegum too. You can blow a bubble as big as your face. Just try to avoid smiling when all that pink sugar gets stuck to your eyebrows.”

  Ah. Now she understood. Distraction. Like the kids in his care, he was offering her a distraction. “I’ll skip the candy, but I will have some pumpkin bread now.”

  “There’s the beautiful smile I was waiting to see.” He opened his backpack and handed her the scrunched paper bag.

  His smile began like a painting emerging on canvas: the outline of his lips curved, and then his eyes lit, and then his cheeks dimpled. His natural protectiveness, his attempt at humor in awkward moments, his playfulness at that moment made Garrett Branston downright irresistible. Irresistible for some other women, she forced the thought into place.

  “We should get going. Your patient is waiting. You said only a few blocks, right?”

  “That’s the spirit. It’ll only take a few minutes. You’ll see.”

  A bite of sweet bread and his continued concerned expression helped ease the last of her tension. She loathed this feeling of powerlessness because she wasn’t helpless, but sometimes when the flashbacks came, she shriveled into her inner child, afraid of the scary monsters that jump out of the dark.