Of course, she couldn’t quite imagine getting up the stairs without his help. Halfway up, she’d almost asked him to carry her. And then he’d gone and fed Agnes and cleaned out her litterbox. Her litterbox!
Every time Wren thought about that, she couldn’t get over it. Dr. Leland Hawthorne was either incredibly weird, or he was the nicest guy on the planet. Whatever the case, it was better for her to avoid thinking of him.
Except she couldn’t.
And apart from being unable to figure him out and feeling embarrassed for needing his help, Wren wanted to thank him. So on Tuesday, she peeled herself off her mattress and found some cardstock.
She sketched a few pictures and wrote a thank-you note that made her smile. Remembering his laugh, she hoped it would amuse him, too. Wren found an address for the hospital and sent it to his attention. She sealed and stamped her card and carried it down to her mailbox. It was the first time she’d traversed the stairs on her own, and even though she was still sore, she made it back up just a little more slowly than normal. But she made it.
When she re-entered her apartment, Wren let go a sigh of relief. Maybe now she’d be able to push him from her mind. It usually didn’t take long to clear a man from her head. She’d been able to say goodbye to Miller and never look back.
And maybe it was because it had been a few months since Miller — since anyone — that the young doctor’s attention had set her spinning. Must be it. That and being so vulnerable after her surgery. In a few days, she’d be back to her old self. Strong. Tough. Self-sufficient.
It was okay, she told herself, to need someone’s help — temporarily — to be grateful for it, and then to move on. Emergencies could happen to anyone, and it was nice that there were good Samaritans in the world to lend a hand when they did. But Wren knew better than to expect a man to stick around for the long term, to be steady and true and reliable. The moment she believed in that, she’d be setting herself up for disappointment.
Such knowledge had spared Wren a fair amount of heartache over the years. She hadn’t been disappointed at all when she realized Miller was — at heart — a lazy freeloader. There wasn’t a whole lot she could thank her mother for, but her sense of skepticism was one of them.
When it came to men, Wren knew how to set realistic expectations, and she knew how to avoid the ones who were dangerous. The guys she’d slept with had been harmless and fun. They hadn’t been into drugs, and they’d never hit her. The ones who were more fun stuck around for a little while — until they got on her nerves or wanted more.
And then she’d find someone else.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EVEN THOUGH HEwas usually exhausted, most days at UMC were good days. Lee had learned years ago that babies were the great equalizer. Rich or poor. Black or white. Single or married. Gay or straight. The arrival of a healthy baby was a universal source of joy. The happiness of a birth did not belong solely to the privileged of the world. Or the empowered. Or the mainstream. Even his patients who were dirt-poor celebrated, thanked God, and cried tears of joy. Every day, it humbled him to be part of such a unifying human experience.
But nothing in life had prepared him for stillborns.
The vortex of grief was the same for everyone, too. And even if he had never met the mother and father (or the mother and her partner, or the mother and her sister/godmother/aunt), Lee always walked away from a stillbirth hollowed out and haunted for days.
Patients died. Everyday. For all sorts of reasons. That was commonplace in a hospital. But when it happened in the maternity ward, everyone felt it. Everyone grieved it, the families with tears and sobs and sometimes screaming. Or with stomach aches and throat clearing, like the hospital staff.
Lee sat in the breakroom, clutching his stomach. He knew the odds. Even if a case of placenta previa had been diagnosed before labor began, the chance of stillbirth was still ninety-five percent. It wasn’t much consolation for him, and it wasn’t any consolation for Lucy and Connor Merrick. The young couple, urban farmers with dreadlocks and crocheted sandals, had come in to UMC with names picked out, ready to meet the most important person in their lives.
And they were leaving with heartbreak instead.
Lee stood up and paced the room. He still had to make rounds, but he couldn’t get his head on straight, and he didn’t want to see patients while wearing a look of doom. Thinking he needed a distraction, he moved to the mail cubbies, hoping an issue ofAJOGhad arrived.
His box was free of medical journals, but he found a card, and his spirits lifted. Lee loved that a surprising number of his patients had sent him birth announcements. He’d taken them home, put them on his refrigerator, and they’d stayed there until Marcelle declared that there were too many and tossed them all in the trash. With a blank canvas, he’d start all over again.
He tore open the envelope without looking at the return address, so when he saw the drawing of a black, white, and orange cat on the card’s cover, his breath caught. In colored pencil, Agnes preened, her nose and whiskers pointing up in a look of self-satisfaction. Lee opened the card, already captivated.
Dear Dr. Hawthorne,
Thank you for returning my housekeeper to me after her unacceptable absence last week. Though she is moving more slowly than usual, she seems to have suffered no permanent damage — at least none that would prevent her from fulfilling her responsibilities to me. Therefore, I will keep her — for now. However, if you are ever looking for a new position, I would be happy to consider your application. The meal you prepared for me tasted better than any I can remember. Moreover, your skills with the litterbox trowel are most impressive!
If there is any way I or my housekeeper can repay you for your services, please do not hesitate to contact either of us.
Most sincerely,
Agnes J. Cat
Lee couldn’t hold in his smile. Around the slanted script of the note, four small drawings of Agnes scampered and played. Along the text in the top right corner, an image of her stretched out on her belly peered below as though the first line of the note were a shelf. Standing on her hind quarters in the left-hand margin, Agnes tapped theDonDearwith her left paw. She sat, cleaning one paw beneath the last sentence, and below her signature, Agnes curled up into a tight, napping ball.
The note was like a storybook in that hebelievedit had been written by a fastidious and demanding cat, even though he knew Wren was the author. It was like magic, as though it were a spell, and he felt better. For a number of reasons.
Lee knew that he shouldn’t, but he’d thought about Wren all week. And when he had, it had been like pressing his face into a rabbit fur coat. Soft. Exquisite. Guilt-inducing. But guilty or not, he couldn’t help himself. Someone as rare and wild and lovely as Wren Blanchard existed in the world, and this was reason enough to lose himself for a moment or two.
He had so many questions about her. Did she blush like that all the time? At work and with her friends? Or hadhejust embarrassed her? He thought back to the moments in the ER when she’d cursed with abandon. Her frankness about judging others as they drove. Her honesty and sass were refreshing. And when he’d stepped into her apartment and seen evidence of her work, he’d been moved. He’d never considered how sensual the job of a tattoo artist had to be. She was an artist just like any painter or sculptor, a perfectionist and a dreamer, but her canvas was the body.
