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After lunch, I get one of the clinic drivers to drop her home as I have surgery in the afternoon. I see her off at the parking lot, promising to call her later. I’m smiling as I head to my office to review my notes before going to the OR.
I’ve never felt as conflicted as I do. One moment, I suspect that Ivy has set me up, and in the next, she looks so innocent that all I want to do is take care of her. I have an hour until the surgery, and after reviewing the patient notes, I find myself checking out cars online.
Dylan comes by to discuss a patient, and when he stands behind me, he sees the open page of my browser.
“Buying a car?” he says as he drops the file in front of me.
“Yes, I’m thinking of getting Ivy a car. Hers conked out today, and she needs a safe vehicle to move around.”
“Did you ask her if she wants a car?” Dylan says.
“It doesn’t matter whether she wants one or not. She needs it.” I peer at a sky-blue Fiat. “This one looks comfortable and nice. What do you think?”
“I like it, but if I were you, I’d get her opinion first. I liked her, by the way, and more importantly, I think you like her too. I’ve never seen you look at a woman like you were looking at her,” Dylan says.
“Nonsense.”
“Whatever you say, bro.”
We drop the topic of Ivy and discuss Dylan’s case. We get lost in the pros and cons of surgery for one of his patients. My secretary comes in later to remind me about the surgery.
Dylan and I leave my office together.
“By the way, don’t forget, we’re having dinner with the folks today. I think you should tell them.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. We part ways as he heads back to his office, and I go to scrub up.
As I wash up, my mind wonders to Ivy. I can’t wait to see her reaction when the car is delivered to her. Women love gifts, and I am sure, in that respect, she’s no different.
7
Ivy
Frustration wells up inside me as I stare at the blank space of my word document. I’ve been seated for hours, supposedly working, but the words just won’t come for some reason. This is the kind of life I’ve dreamed of, but the reality is a different story.
I can’t get into my characters’ headspace. I’ve done the background work and mapped the scene, but it simply won’t unfold in my head. Okay, I mutter under my breath and inhale deeply. There’s no cause to panic. The words will come. I’m a professional writer. Professional writers write.
A car slows down in front of my house, and I glance out the window, glad for the distraction. At the same time, I note that maybe having my writing desk by the window is not the greatest idea. The visitor is Molly, and I watch her as she rolls up her window and then gets out of the car.
She’s got her boys with her, and I entertain myself for a few minutes watching her wrestle to get them out of the car. Finally, she grabs each by the hand and propels them up the porch. I leave my position then, my mood greatly cheered. Until I realize that I’ll be Molly in the not-so-distant future.
It doesn’t seem quite as terrifying as it did a few weeks ago.
I open the front door and go on my knees to pull the boys into a hug.
“Hi, boys, what a lovely surprise,” I say, holding their small bodies close. I draw back. “Where’s your mother?”
“She went to get the pie from the car,” James, the older one, says while wriggling out of my hold.
He manages to get loose and tears into the house. Liam follows his brother in.
“Hey, we thought we’d surprise you with lunch,” my sister says walking up to the front door.
I pull her close and kiss her. “I can’t say no to a chicken pot pie. Come on in.”
The boys are tearing around my small living room. James streaks across, his little body missing Peter’s TV by inches.
“Let me get something to keep you busy, boys.” I rush to my bedroom and pick up the pillows from my bed.
