Husband: Some Assembly Required
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Marie Ferrarella
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16,5K
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17
Chapter One
It caught her attention as soon as she walked into the bedroom. Shawna stopped toweling her hair. The red light on her answering machine was blinking spasmodically, winking at her like the bloodshot eye of a sailor on shore leave.
Dr. Shawna Saunders frowned as she impatiently rotated her shoulders beneath the light yellow terry-cloth robe. The telephone must have rung while she was in the shower. She fervently hoped it wasn’t an emergency. Her mind wasn’t functioning yet. Alertness was still a filled coffee cup away at this hour of the morning. Her entire body felt achy, protesting the only way it could against the long hours she kept and the little sleep she accumulated.
Striding across the room, Shawna blew out a breath as she resumed toweling her long blond hair. She’d stayed at the clinic longer than she had anticipated last night. But there’d been no real choice in the matter. The other physician who usually volunteered his services on Tuesdays hadn’t come to relieve her. Something to do with a birthday party.
Shawna had understood, and opted to remain. The other physicians on the rotating dais that provided services for the inner-city clinic had families they shared things with, occasions they cherished. She had her work.
Besides, Shawna hadn’t wanted to leave the clinic with only Carolyn to handle the walk-ins. Caro was certainly competent, but it seemed an unfair burden to leave the young nurse alone to cope with everything until closing time.
On the other hand, it wouldn’t have been fair to close early, either. So Shawna had remained. Remained despite the fact that she’d already put in an eight-hour day at her practice in Newport Beach before driving over to the run-down downtown L.A. free clinic that so badly needed the services of any physician, specialist or G.P.
Lucky thing she’d hung around, Shawna mused as she circumvented her bed to get to the answering machine. That had been a nasty head wound she’d sutured for the last patient. It had taken Caro and the girl’s mother to hold her down while she worked. Shawna hated to think what might have happened if she had gone home instead, the way her body had begged her to. It wasn’t as if that section of the city had readily available medical care on every street corner.
Shawna smiled to herself, though the smile was hollow around the edges. It was her way of making a small difference. Her way of attempting to outrun the memories that shadowed her.
There were times, such as last night, when she almost succeeded. Exhaustion anesthetized her. But she was never too tired to remember. Never too tired to grieve.
Still, she could try.
Shawna pressed her lips together and jabbed an unpolished fingernail at the Play button. The machine laboriously wound and then rewound its tape. Shawna began vigorously toweling her hair again. She had a cataract surgery scheduled at seven-thirty at the hospital. That didn’t give her much time to get ready.
A bright, cheerful voice filled the room.
The towel slipped from her fingers to the floor as she listened, foreboding winding a steel coil around her heart.
“By my watch it’s six o’clock in the morning in California. Where are you, Shawna? I hope you’re not answering because you’re wrapped up in the arms of some adorable hunk, too full of passion to speak to your mother.” A deep sigh followed. “But knowing you, you’re probably immersed in some medical journal. Or you’ve already left the house to cure twelve people before breakfast.”
Shawna groaned. Her mother’s casual tone made her career sound as important as delivering newspapers.
“Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I’m coming into town soon. And have I got a surprise for you!” The secretive announcement was followed by a throaty chuckle. “Don’t try to call me, because I’ve moved. Bye.”
The connection broke abruptly.
Shawna sagged against the wall and sighed, suddenly feeling incredibly tired.
“Oh, God, Mother, now what?” She stared at the answering machine accusingly as it fell into silence. “It’s a man, isn’t it? Again.”
Her mother usually called when she was involved with a new man. Sally Rowen was never happier than when she was in love. Or thought herself to be. The last one had been a rock climber twelve years her junior. Ten broken fingernails later her mother had decided that their love wasn’t meant to be.
With a deep sigh that unconsciously emulated her mother’s, Shawna pushed the Rewind button and stalked into her kitchen. Her immediate need for revitalizing coffee had passed. What she needed now, after being given Hurricane Sally warnings, was a soothing cup of tea instead. And perhaps a couple of aspirins to chase away the headache that was forming behind her eyes.
* * *
Maybe he should get a dog. One that could be trained to yank him out of bed by the leg like a cartoon character when the alarm clock went off in the morning. Murphy Pendleton mulled over the idea as he glanced at the hands on his wristwatch, willing them to retreat. They remained steadfastly glued to their present position, at least for the moment, before moving on.
Eight-thirty.
Damn, he should have been up and out of here at least half an hour ago. If he did eighty all the way and the traffic lights stayed frozen on green, he’d make it to the office with about a minute to spare. Otherwise, he was going to arrive late. For the third time in as many months. Not exactly an admirable record.
He had too much to do this morning to be late, Murphy thought as he pushed his arms into his light jacket. He knew that Kelly would cover for him, but it wasn’t fair to put his sister on the spot that way. And there was that meeting he was supposed to attend at nine.
Murphy picked up his briefcase. It was full of work he’d meant to get to but hadn’t. He supposed that he could always say he was late because he’d stayed up till two working on a case.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he smiled as he brushed a long red hair from his jacket. There was no way he could classify what had happened last night as work. Not by any stretch of the imagination. It had been a very unexpected, enjoyable evening. The kind he liked. Fast, fleeting, with no strings on either side.
No, he was just going to have to face the music.
Or the firing squad.
As pleasurable as last night had been, that was no excuse for being late this morning. He had obligations, and he prided himself on living up to them. It was just that he wasn’t a morning person. He never had been.
He needed to place his alarm clock out of reach, he decided. Right now it was entirely too easy to lean over and shut it off without even realizing what he was doing. Just as he had done this morning.
Murphy detoured to the kitchen. His coffeemaker, far more dependable than he obviously was this morning he thought ruefully, had been programmed for seven-thirty. The coffee was brewed and tantalized him with its aroma.
He poured a full ration into the traveler’s mug Kelly had presented him with, thought longingly of an English muffin heaped with raspberry jam and knew he’d have to pass. Maybe someone had brought in doughnuts this morning.
Switching off the coffeemaker, Murphy hurried into his garage. He tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat of his red convertible and got in. He depressed the button on his garage-door opener and used the momentary respite as he waited for the door to open to take a long sip of his coffee. It tasted like hot, black ashes, just the way he liked it.
Revitalizing coffee coursing through his veins, Murphy could feel his system coming to attention as the garage door yawned open. He set his mug down and backed out, then pressed to close the garage. The coffee sloshed as he took a sharp turn out of the cul-de-sac. There was nothing coming in either direction. He patted his pocket to make sure that his tie was there, then took an immediate right.
Maybe he could get Jack to postpone the morning meeting till after lunch. It was worth a try, he mused, forcing himself to slow down. He couldn’t very well fly out of the development. There was always that stray cat or dog to watch out for. With his luck, there was probably a parade of ducks crossing the street somewhere up ahead, on their way to the man-made lake.
To his relief, the tidy streets of the suburban development where Murphy lived were all but deserted as he drove by. Apparently everyone had either already left for work or school, or was safely nestled inside, watching “Sesame Street” or doing housework. Everyone was where he was supposed to be, he thought, turning down another block, except for him.
The dark cloud hanging overhead like a scowling black brow captured his attention immediately. It bobbed and wove just beyond the heads of the Italian cypresses.
Was something burning?
As Murphy drove past where he normally turned out of the development, the question answered itself. Bright red and yellow flames were just beginning to emerge out of the two-story house at the end of the next block.
Murphy grabbed his car phone and punched 911 on the pad.
The response was immediate. “Hello. This is 911. What seems to be the problem?” a woman’s voice asked.
He felt as if he was in the middle of one of those re-created television dramas his sister Kimberly found so entertaining. Murphy told the dispatch operator about the fire and rattled off directions to the development.
The woman on the other end thanked him for his help, but her words were addressed to no one. Murphy had already brought his car to a screeching halt and had bolted from it.
It was the sound of a small, terrified scream coming from the house that had prompted him to leap out of the car.
More than once, Murphy had seen a little girl of about five or six playing on the front lawn as he passed on his way home. He was convinced that the scream had come from her. He wasn’t about to stand about speculating if he was right.
The front of the house was already being eaten away by flames as Murphy dashed up the front walk. Everything was eerily quiet around him, save for the sound of the flames crackling and snapping as they devoured the two-story house. All Murphy could think of was thank God it wasn’t windy the way it had been yesterday. A Santa Ana condition would have had half the development in flames in no time.
Murphy tried the door. The knob, hot, wouldn’t give. The house was locked up tight.
Another scream came, then turned into a frightened whimper. There was no time to go for help, no time to wait for the firemen to respond. By the time they arrived it might be too late. Murphy yanked off his jacket and wrapped it around his arm and hand. Swinging hard, he rammed his fist through the front window and broke the glass.
A curtain of heat met him as he climbed through the opening he’d created. His foot came in contact with something soft. There was a sofa against the window. One end was already burning. He jumped off. The fire was spreading rapidly.
He could feel his heart racing as he scanned the large living room. “Where are you?”
Smoke and flames joined invisible hands to engulf him. He’d heard the cry, he was certain of it. It hadn’t been just his imagination. The child had to be in here somewhere.
Murphy tried to keep his voice calm. He didn’t want to frighten her any more than she already was. “I’m here to help you, honey, but you have to tell me where you are.”
His lungs were beginning to pulse and ache and his eyes were smarting. Murphy strained to hear a telltale sound. The curtains against the dining-room window were an entire sheet of flame.
This was insane. What was he doing here? He wasn’t a fireman, he was a lawyer, for heaven’s sake. What did he know about dashing into a burning building and saving someone? Especially when there was no one to save. Maybe he had imagined the scream. Murphy stumbled toward the window again. The scream was probably from someone’s television or—
“Here. I’m in here.”
Murphy swung around. The muffled sob was coming from the closet.
Oh, God, the closet. Even Daffy Duck told children not to hide in closets during a fire. Where were this girl’s parents?
Praying it wasn’t too late for both of them, Murphy hurried past burning sections of rug and yanked open the closet door.
A blond child in coveralls was huddled on the floor, her eyes huge with terror. She held a ragged rabbit pressed to her small chest.
Relieved and apprehensive at the same time, Murphy scooped her up into his arms. “We’re going to be fine.” It was a promise he fervently hoped he could keep.
Pressing the child against him, as if that could somehow protect her from the grasping yellow fingers that were all around them, Murphy began making his way to the door. A room that had once been warm and friendly was now a flaming obstacle course. Was he leaving someone behind? The question throbbed through his brain.
“Is there anyone else here?” he asked, raising his voice.
The child never moved her head, never looked up. He felt her words vibrating against him. “My mama went out. She told me not to, but I played with them. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I’m sorry.” She began to cry. The bunny’s hard nose was burrowing a hole into his chest.
Matches, he thought. The little girl had played with matches. But this was no time for confessions or lectures. Everything but survival was put on hold. He had to get her out of here. His head was already spinning from the smoke he’d inhaled.
“It’s okay,” he soothed. “It’s okay.” Keeping his eyes focused on the door, Murphy fought his way to it, so close in distance, so far when measured in flames.
He thought about climbing back through the window, but the sofa in front of it was completely engulfed in flames. It was the door or nothing.
Just as he reached it, there was an ominous crack to his left. Murphy looked up to see the drapery rod above the sofa come swinging down, one side severed by the slice of the fire’s sharp tongue. As if it was a baton being hurled by an overly zealous majorette, one end of the rod caught him on the side of the head.
He saw more colors than he could identify, then a sheet of pulsating white passed over his eyes. For one awful moment he thought he was going to pass out just short of the threshold with the child still clutched in his arms.
Everything shimmered and then blurred. He heard screams and vaguely realized they were coming from his arms. The child. She was still there. Oh, God, he had to save her.
Instincts and something far more basic than he was conscious of took over, forcing him to set one foot after the other. He felt the hot doorknob radiating under his hand, though he wasn’t certain how it came to be there. The next moment he was turning it, pulling the door wide open.
Air, cool and sweet, hit his face. Behind him another beam groaned and fell, a curtain of fire trailing after it.
More screams. Someone was calling out a name. He thought it was “Suzanne,” but couldn’t be certain. He was too busy sucking in air, too busy attempting to fight off the darkness that was reaching out to him.
Something against his chest was whimpering piteously, “Mama, Mama.” Murphy felt someone prying at his hands and realized that they were clenched around something.
The child. Of course. They were taking her from him. There were more voices, noises all around him, yet Murphy felt alone. The borders of the world were shrinking, drawing closer and closer together around him until they had completely, effectively, squeezed out the light.
He felt himself tumbling forward, unable to stop, praying that he wouldn’t fall, face first, into the fire.
Murphy heard a siren screaming somewhere in the distant background and thought that he’d left the television set on again. After that he didn’t think at all.
* * *
“Dr. Saunders, thank goodness I found you.”
Shawna looked over her shoulder at the nurse who stood in the doorway of her patient’s room. A semblance of a smile tugged on Shawna’s lips.
“I wasn’t aware that I was misplaced.” She heard the woman in the bed laugh quietly. The nurse, Telma, merely grimaced at the humor. “What can I do for you?” Shawna finished writing the notation in her patient’s chart.
With an eye on the patient, the nurse assumed a professional stance. “Dr. Scalli would like to see you in E.R. as soon as possible.”
Shawna closed the chart and looked up at Telma but made no move to leave. “What’s up?”
The nurse remained in the doorway. “We’ve got an accident victim. The paramedics brought him in about half an hour ago. He’s had a trauma to the head. Dr. Scalli thinks there might be optic nerve damage.”
Shawna nodded, tucking the chart into the holder on the outside of the door. On her way out she glanced over her shoulder at the woman in the bed. “See you tomorrow, Kathy. With your discharge instructions.”
Shawna led the way to the emergency room. Telma had to almost trot to keep up.
“Where do you get all this energy from?” she grumbled as they hurried down a long, newly recarpeted corridor.
Dr. Shawna Saunders’s schedule was a matter of record. A record that had yet to be beaten since she had come on staff a year ago.
“Clean living, good food and overactive genes,” Shawna quipped, stepping into the elevator. She pressed for the first floor. “Auto accident?” She tried to keep her voice moderate. It was the first thing she thought of whenever the word accident was mentioned. Like the devastating one that had irreparably destroyed her life.
“What?”
The door opened again and they quickly walked down the corridor past a group of workmen. “The patient in E.R. Was it an auto accident?”
Telma shook her head, lengthening her stride again. “No, he saved a little girl from a burning building.”
“Oh, a hero. Don’t get many of those these days.”
Shawna opened the door that separated the corridor from the E.R. waiting room. A small cluster of people sat or stood around the leather-and-glass-furnished room, some watching the television that was constantly on, others merely studying their clenched hands.
So far, it looked like a light day, Shawna thought absently as she pushed open the swinging door that led into the examining area.
“Rather a nice-looking hero, too,” Telma added.
“Well, then we’ll really have to save him now. There’s a shortage of good-looking heroes around.” On either side of the large room was a long row of beds. Shawna raised an eyebrow as she turned toward Telma.
Telma pointed. “Last bed on the right.” She shadowed Shawna’s steps as she approached the small cubicle.
Shawna recognized the patient as soon as she pulled back the white curtain, though it had been more than twelve years since she had last seen him.
Murphy Pendleton.
Small world, she thought, once her surprise had passed. She reached for his chart.
Dr. Nathan Scalli, a tall, fastidious neurologist in his late forties, approached from behind. He was glad to see Shawna under any circumstances. Nathan nodded at the patient. “His name’s—”
“Murphy Pendleton,” Shawna said in a small voice as distant memories rustled the pages of her mind.
Nathan was surprised. She hadn’t opened the chart. “You know him?”
She gave a perfunctory nod. “We went to school together, though I don’t suspect he remembers me.” As a matter of fact, she would bet on it.
Nathan looked at her for a long moment, then laughed. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“Flirt with me later, Nathan.” She opened the chart, perusing it. “For now, fill me in on the patient’s status.”
* * *
Light, harsh and invasive, was slicing through his subconscious like a saber wielded by a dueling enthusiast. It probed first one corner, then another. Murphy heard a groan and thought of the child. It was another moment before he realized that the sound was coming from him.
The stinging sensation along his hands and the left side of his face registered at the exact same moment that he began his ascent to the surface. Layer by hazy layer fell away, like an onion being peeled, until he opened his eyes.
He blinked twice. Moisture formed at the corner of each eye and slid down his cheeks.
The light didn’t go away.
Someone was holding it, a pencil-thin beam that was being shone into his eyes, a prospector searching for an elusive vein of gold.
“So you’ve decided to join us again. Good. Hold your head still, please. This’ll only take a moment longer.”
The voice, soft and feminine, felt as if it was cocooning him. It would have been easy to slip away again, into a cottony nothingness. But Murphy struggled against it as he cleared the final hurdle and made it to the surface. He didn’t like not being in control. Things happened to you when you weren’t on top of a situation.
Everything around him was draped in white, including the woman standing over him. “Where—”
He hadn’t changed any, Shawna thought. If anything, the years had been kind to him, improving on what nature had so whimsically bestowed.
“You’re in the Harris Memorial emergency room.”
The rest of it returned to him in a singeing flash, a kaleidoscopelike coming attraction from a movie. The fire, the girl, everything.
He attempted to prop himself up on his elbows. “The little girl?”
Shawna frowned slightly, resisting the temptation to plant her hand in the middle of his chest and push him back down. “She’s fine, I’m told, thanks to you. Just very scared. She promises never to play with matches again. Her mother is thinking of building a shrine to you.” Telma had filled her in after Dr. Scalli had left.
He sighed. Relief blanketed him. “That’s good, about the girl, I mean.”
Murphy’s head felt as if it was spinning off. Groaning, he held it, aware of the small bandage at his temple. He sank down on the bed again. There was no pillow beneath his head and the mattress was completely horizontal. He felt awkward and tense, lying there. And decidedly miserable.
Concentrating, he looked at the woman beside his bed. Her image was slightly shimmery.
A minute smile lifted a corner of her mouth. “I thought you’d like to get that out of your system by yourself,” Shawna said, answering the question in his eyes. “Now maybe you’ll lie flat the way you’re supposed to.”
He wasn’t happy about it, but at the moment there wasn’t anything he felt up to doing.
Murphy suddenly remembered his meeting. Damn, but he was late. He blinked furiously, trying to clear the blurriness from his eyes. “Where’s the doctor?”
Shawna watched his eyes. He was having trouble seeing her. Scalli might have had something, she thought, though her initial probing had shown nothing.
“You’re looking at her. Or attempting to,” she amended. Shawna leaned over him. “How many of me do you see?”
His vision might have been fuzzy but not so fuzzy that he couldn’t see she was an exceptionally attractive woman. When she leaned over him like that, he caught a whiff of very faint, very sensual perfume.
He attempted to smile. The effort hurt his head. “Enough to fill my dreams.”
Shawna shook her head. “You haven’t changed any.”
Did he know her? No, he would have remembered someone like her. He glanced for a name tag, but there wasn’t one. He probably couldn’t have made it out right now, anyway.
He tried to think. That hurt, too. “Excuse me?”
Shawna realized her slip. She retreated. “Nothing. I was just reminded of something.”
But there was something about her voice that nagged at the corners of his mind. He did know her, but from where? A former client? Someone at a party? Where? It all remained obscured. “You look vaguely familiar.”
Shawna picked up his chart again and scanned it once more to quickly reinforce her decision. She flipped to the X-ray report. “I bet you say that to all the E.R. physicians.”
Murphy narrowed his eyes. The milky borders diminished when he did that. He struggled to remember, to place her. His mind was a frustrating blank, wrapped in pain. “No, this is my first time in an emergency room.”
She stopped writing and glanced up. He was going to need an M.R.I. “First time at playing hero, too?”
His mouth curved with just a shade of cynicism. He’d been one hell of a scared hero. “Yeah.”
She watched the way he massaged his forehead. That had been some blow he’d received, though fortunately, no stitches had been required. Just a butterfly bandage. “Head hurt?”
He lowered his hand and looked at her again, responding to the sympathy in her voice. “Like a thousand devils marching in double time.”
She made a notation about his medication. “That’ll pass.” She flipped the chart closed and laid it at the foot of the bed. “You have a mild concussion.”
He groaned. “Doesn’t feel very mild.”
Shawna nodded. That was to be expected. He’d been lucky, at least at first glance. There was a huge lump on the side of his head where he’d been struck, plus a mild burn on his fingers. The preliminary X rays, taken while he was unconscious, showed nothing. But she liked being thorough.
“I’m having you admitted for observation. We’ll check you out.”
Murphy frowned. “No.”
He just had a headache, albeit a really bad one. And maybe things were a little blurred around the edges. But under the circumstances, that was to be expected. Murphy didn’t like hospitals and wasn’t about to remain in one if he could help it.
Based on the Murphy she knew from years ago, Shawna had expected some snappy retort, not a refusal. “Excuse me?”
Someone had draped him in a blue-and-white flowered hospital gown. He wondered where his clothes were and who he’d have to bribe to get them. “I have a meeting to go to.”
A stern look entered her eyes as she bent over him, pushing him back down on the mattress. There was little physical resistance, which reinforced her point.
“You have a room to go to.” She lifted his hand by the wrist and held it up as if it was exhibit A. “Your hands, luckily, are not badly burned.” She released it again. “But you do have a mild concussion, and I am concerned that the blow to your head might be affecting your vision.” She drew herself up, looking for all the world like a staff sergeant issuing orders to a green recruit. “We’ll both feel a lot better if you’re admitted for a day.”
She assumed that was the end of it. Shawna wasn’t accustomed to having her judgment questioned.
“There’s only one way I’d feel a lot better about remaining in a strange room,” he told her in a voice that wasn’t as loud as he would have liked. If he raised it above the present low level, it throbbed in his head as if every syllable was a physical entity equipped with pointy edges. “And that’s if the room was in the Hyatt Hotel. With you to hold my hand.”
She wondered how hurt he’d have to feel not to flirt. “Mr. Pendleton, I don’t think you really appreciate the gravity of the situation.” She didn’t have time to stand here, debating with him. Her appointments began at nine-thirty, and it was already ten past that now.
He wasn’t up to arguing, but there seemed to be no other way out of here. “And you probably don’t appreciate just how hard my head really is.”
Shawna eyed him as she shoved her hands impotently into the pockets of her smock. There wasn’t anything she could actually do if he demanded to be released. “I’m beginning to get the idea. Well, Mr. Pendleton, I can’t keep you here against your will. I can only make suggestions.”
He smiled, though he didn’t get up immediately. A couple of seconds more on the bed wouldn’t hurt, he told himself. “I’m not unreasonable. I’m always open to sugges- tions.”
And the smile on his face told her exactly what kind of suggestions he was thinking of. Or perhaps she was just reading something into it, remembering his reputation in high school.
She crossed her arms before her. “I’ve been known to get rough with patients.”
“Stop, you’re exciting me,” Murphy muttered, his teeth clenching as a sudden sharp pain creased his forehead like a lightning bolt. His eyes momentarily fluttered shut as he attempted to absorb the brunt of it.
He was in no condition to waltz out of here, she thought angrily. What was he trying to prove? “Hurt?” she asked dryly, as if her point had been validated.
Murphy slowly opened his eyes again. He needed an economy-size bottle of aspirin. And perhaps warm, willing fingers to massage his brow. “If I say yes, will you nag me about staying?”
She pulled no punches, especially since she already considered the bout won. “Yes.”
He set his mouth stubbornly. The pain was already mercifully receding. “Then the answer’s no.”
Shawna sighed. “Have it your way.”
“I generally do.”
Yes, I remember.
