Prescription: Marry Her Immediately (6 page)

They could dine at leisure, and he promised himself not to crack stupid jokes. If he acted differently, Amy would see him in a new light. Although he wasn’t sure where this was leading, Quent knew he wanted to be more than her buddy.

His strides slowed as he entered the three-story Birthing Center. The main action, as far as Quent was concerned, took place on the first floor, home to the labor and delivery area. The same floor housed antepartum testing, admitting, the gift shop, the cafeteria, the inpatient pharmacy and radiology.

After delivery, patients were transferred to rooms upstairs and babies went to the regular or the intermediate-care nursery on the same floor. Those requiring neonatal intensive care were airlifted to larger hospitals in Long Beach or the city of Orange.

Quent rarely went to the basement level unless there was a meeting in the auditorium. The rest of that floor was devoted to non-obstetrical surgical facilities.

The nurses in labor and delivery were waiting for him. “You need to scrub up right away,” the charge nurse told him. “The patient is prepped for her C-section.”

“I’m on my way,” he
said, and put everything out of his mind except the well-being of a tiny patient who was about to enter the world.

T
HE
M
OMS IN
T
RAINING
met at the Serene Beach Community Center in Outlook Park. The one-story building presented a comfortable spot for the teenage girls, many of whom had taken summer classes or played basketball there.

At the moment, there were nine girls in the group, ranging in age from fourteen to nineteen. With the encouragement of the volunteer staff and the community center’s director, all were continuing their educations.

In a many-windowed classroom, Amy introduced Quent, then moved aside. He gave the girls a smile, and their attention sharpened as they drank him in.

“Hi,” he said. “We’re going to talk about those little people inside you and how they’re growing and changing every day. We’ll also discuss what happens to them during the first year after they poke their noses into the world.”

A couple of girls giggled. Amy could see that he’d won their interest.

They were a diverse bunch from varied backgrounds. Some slouched in their chairs, others sat straight. Although jeans and maternity tops predominated, one young lady wore an old-fashioned flowered dress, while another let her oversized belly peep out beneath a short top.

After distributing pamphlets on prenatal development, Quent erected a chart showing the unborn baby at landmark stages. Step by step, he took them through the miraculous processes of conception and growth.

“Your child’s first environment is the one you create inside yourself,” Quent told the rapt group. “If you wouldn’t feed your baby beer, don’t drink it yourself. Just imagine a mother who gave her small child nothing but hot dogs and French fries to eat! That’s why you need to drink milk and eat lots of fruits and vegetables, because that’s what you’re feeding junior.”

He went on to discuss
the effects of childbirth on the baby and outline the changes that take place during infancy. “We do have yardsticks that warn us if development is lagging, but don’t compare your child to anyone else’s. Some perfectly normal kids walk and talk late. Maybe they’re stubborn, or perhaps they’re deep thinkers.”

When he finished, hands shot up. Patiently, Quent took each question, always showing respect for his audience.

This knowledgeable, steady man was quite a change from the playful friend who boasted when he scored a point at Ping-Pong. There was a tenderness about him that made Amy want to get closer to him. He would make a wonderful father someday, when he was ready for a family. And when he found the right woman.

If only he wanted to settle down now. If only he saw her as a woman to love. If only he weren’t guaranteed to break her heart without half trying.

One of the girls kept waving her hand. When Quent called on her, she said, “What’s a neonatologist, anyway?”

“Good question.” He sat on the edge of a sturdy table. “A neonatologist is a pediatrician who gets an extra three years’ training in treating babies during their earliest months.”

“So, like, how long did you have to go to school?” asked another girl. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-nine,” he
said, “which, if you’ll forgive me for bragging, is young to complete your training in this field. I graduated from high school when I was sixteen.”

“Wow,” said another young mother-to-be. “I wish I could do that. How old were you when you finished college?”

“Barely nineteen,” Quent said. “Then I went to medical school for four years, followed by an internship, a three-year residency in pediatrics and a residency in neonatology. In case anyone’s counting, I’ll be thirty in January.”

Amy was impressed. She’d earned her master’s degree in psychology at twenty-three and her Ph.D. four years later, while working part-time. Quent was way ahead of her.

When he finished, Amy joined him for a discussion of child discipline. They both made the point that consistency and patience were vital, and their audience listened intently.

Afterwards, the girls clustered around Quent, asking questions and, in a couple of cases, flirting. He responded with professional concern and a sense of humor.

“You both did a wonderful job,” Heather told them once the mothers-to-be departed. The obstetrician had observed the talk from the back of the room. The program director was out of town this week due to the holiday, so Heather had volunteered to supervise.

“Thanks for inviting me, both of you,” Quent answered.

“Our pleasure,” she said.

From the intent way Quent was regarding her, Amy got the impression he wanted to talk to her alone. Before she could find a polite way to take him aside, however, Heather’s daughter Olive marched into the room holding her two-month-old baby.

“Hey, Mom,” she
said, “that new Julia Roberts movie starts in half an hour. I think Ginger’s tired enough to sleep through it. You want to come with us?”

“Sure.” Only a blink gave away Heather’s momentary discomfort at having her secret revealed.

If Olive hadn’t called her “Mom,” the relationship might have escaped detection. The daughter was taller and had dark hair, although baby Ginger’s red fuzz echoed her grandmother’s shade.

“Is this your granddaughter?” Clearly, Quent had made the connection. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks.” Heather made introductions as smoothly as if she hadn’t been knocking herself out for months to keep her family out of view. When pleasantries had been exchanged, she said, “I guess we’d better go get our tickets before the theater sells out.”

“My thought exactly,” Olive said. “Anyone else want to come?”

“No, thanks,” Amy said.

“I’ll pass,” Quent added.

They were left alone in the classroom. “I don’t need to ask you not to mention Olive and Ginger at work, right?” Amy went on to explain how Heather had given her daughter up for adoption and then found her again.

“She has no reason to be ashamed of them,” Quent pointed out.

“She isn’t. Far from it,” Amy said. “Heather values her privacy. It must have been very painful for her, first being abandoned by the man she loved, then relinquishing her child. She doesn’t want the gossips chewing over every detail.”

“I won’t say
a word.” From the way Quent’s jaw worked, Amy gathered he was concentrating his thoughts, so she kept quiet and waited.

He seemed more reserved than usual. Had something happened that she didn’t know about?

Their friendship had grown quickly and spontaneously. In a few short months, he’d come to mean a great deal to her, and yet, she realized, there was much she didn’t know about him.

“We could go out for lunch.” He gave an impatient frown, apparently directed at himself. “That’s not how I meant to say it. Amy, would you care to have lunch with me?”

“Why not?” Judging by his expression, her response fell short of his hopes. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem different today,” she said.

“That’s good.” Daylight from the windows played across Quent’s tanned face. “Not that I expect to measure up to your usual standards, but…” In his pocket, the phone rang.

“Are you on call?” Amy asked.

“No.” Frowning, he answered it. “Dr. Ladd here. Hi, Lucy…. How bad is it?…That doesn’t sound too…Yes, I understand. Of course, I’ll come right away. Don’t worry. See you in a while.” He rang off.

Amy itched to ask who had been on the line, but it was none of her business. Maybe a relative, she thought. Quent never talked much about his family, although he’d mentioned his father and a niece and nephew.

“I’m sorry. I’ll have to take a rain check,” he said. “I’ve got to drive to San Diego. Personal business.”

“No problem.”

“You’re a good sport,” he said.

“What are friends
for?” She wanted to be so much more, Amy thought. But this wasn’t the time to bring it up.

Quent moved closer, as if drawn to her. She reached out and ruffled his hair. It was so soft, she wanted to pull him against her and touch him everywhere.

Quickly, she said, “It was a little flat in one place. I figured I’d fluff it up for you.”

“Thanks. I’d hate to go around with flat hair,” Quent teased, then sobered. “I’m sorry we’ll have to postpone our lunch.”

“That’s okay.” It wasn’t as if they hadn’t shared hamburgers plenty of times.

After he left, Amy decided to go to the Julia Roberts movie after all. With luck, the on-screen romance would keep her from tormenting herself, at least for a few hours, with the burning question of the day: Who on earth was Lucy?

Greg held out his hand,
palm up, showing a reddened patch on the heel. “It hurts, Uncle Quent.”

“I’ll bet it does.” Sitting beside his nephew on the sofa in the living room of Lucy’s apartment, Quent turned the little hand to catch the light. “The damage looks superficial, but I’ll bet it smarts like the dickens, doesn’t it, little guy?”

Greg nodded solemnly.

“I guess I overreacted.” Lucy pushed back a wedge of shaggy, dark-blond hair as she paced through her overstuffed apartment. Toys cluttered the floor, fitting right in with the welter of magazines strewn across the coffee table. “I washed it and applied an antibiotic, but he kept complaining that it hurt.”

Earlier, she’d explained that an elderly, hard-of-hearing neighbor had been watching the children while Lucy jogged. Apparently the woman had become so absorbed in keeping up with Tara’s toddler antics that she hadn’t noticed when Greg went into the kitchen and made popcorn in the microwave. He’d burned his hand on the steam when he opened the bag.

Although only four, Greg considered himself the man of the household and liked to do things for himself. It was time he had a real man around, Quent thought, but as far as he knew, Lucy wasn’t seriously involved with anyone.

“It pays to be
careful,” he told her. “I don’t mind your calling me.”

“I contacted the pediatrician. He said that if it was serious, I should take Greg to the emergency room.” Nervousness made her chatter more than usual. “Who wants to take kids to a place full of sick people at this time of year? They’d catch a cold or worse. I’ve already used up all my sick leave this year staying home with them.”

Quent could see how frazzled she was. He suspected she hadn’t been completely ready to become a mother, and maybe she still wasn’t.

“You did fine,” he said. “Frankly, you’ve taken on a lot and I wish I could help more.”

“Thanks.” She stopped pacing. “Are you sure he doesn’t need a bandage?”

“Just keep the wound clean and apply more antibiotic in about four hours,” Quent said. “Do you have the kind that provides pain relief?”

“I don’t think so.” Lucy checked the tube she’d left on the arm of the couch. “Nope. I’ll ask Jenny in apartment B to run to the drugstore for me. She’s only thirteen and she’s eager to earn some money.”

“I’ll pick it up myself. No reason for you to pay anyone. And now that I’m working, I’m going to start sending you a monthly expense check,” Quent said, although he knew the grandparents were already chipping in. “I want to do more for the kids.”

“Great. I’d like to send Greg to preschool, for one thing,” she said.

“He isn’t in preschool yet? Don’t they offer something like that at your day care?” Quent had assumed the boy was learning his numbers and colors in preparation for kindergarten.

“No, it’s playtime
all day,” Lucy said. “Don’t worry. He’s fine.”

Quent knew he had no right to criticize, so he backed off. “I’m glad you intend to put him in preschool.” He turned to Greg. “I’m going to get some medicine that’ll take the hurt away, okay?”

“I knew you’d fix it.” The boy gazed up at him with such trust that Quent wanted to do a whole lot more for him. The only thing he could do at the moment was reach out and hug his nephew, so he did.

Tara, who’d been standing by his knee drinking in every word, stuck out her hand. “Ow.”

There was no sign of injury, Quent found when he examined it. The hurt, he suspected, lay inside, in the space that should have been filled by her parents’ love. Besides, a fifteen-month-old, like a four-year-old, was entitled to lots of affection.

“I guess you need a hug, too.” He swept her against him, and caught a whiff of cherry-scented shampoo. What a sweet little girl, he thought, and wondered how he could have stayed away so long.

A year ago, devastated by the loss of his mother, brother and sister-in-law, Quent had scarcely been able to think about the children. When Lucy had offered to take them, he and the other family members had accepted without question.

Now he wondered whether this was a good idea for the long term, despite their aunt’s earnest efforts. Not only for the children, but for Lucy, who deserved a life of her own.

Quent released his niece. “Is that better?”

“Yes!” She gave
him a heartwarming grin.

After getting directions to the pharmacy, he said, “I’ll take you all out to eat when I get back.”

“Fried chicken?” Greg asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Fwench fwies!” said Tara.

“We’ll get those, too,” Greg assured her. Although nutrition was important, so was having fun together.

A surge of protectiveness made it hard for him to leave, even for a short time. As he drove to the store, Quent remembered Amy’s comment about Heather having been abandoned by the man she loved. How could anyone behave that way? Taking care of the people you loved, the people who trusted you, was essential to being human.

Of course, that didn’t mean that you instinctively knew how to handle every situation. Look at the disagreement between him and Amy about discipline.

She’d bristled at the idea of spanking, and Quent had to admit he couldn’t see himself ever taking a hand to Greg or Tara. However, having treated children for avoidable injuries, he knew that if parents didn’t follow through on their discipline, kids could suffer consequences a lot more serious than a spanking.

He supposed he had a lot to learn about children. So did Amy. No, he meant Lucy, of course. Lucy was the one taking care of his niece and nephew. Amy was simply on his mind because they spent so much time together.

Man, his brain was getting scrambled, Quent reflected as he emerged from his car in the drugstore parking lot. He’d better concentrate on buying the right ointment or he was likely to return
with a treatment for hemorrhoids by mistake. And how on earth would he explain that?

T
HE REST
of the day did not go well for Amy.

By the time she arrived at the movie theater, the next showing was sold out, so she went jogging instead. Without Quent, the zing was missing. Worse, she tripped over a curb and scraped her leg.

For dinner, she stopped by a hamburger drive-through.

When she arrived home, Aunt Mary and Kitty invited her to attend a high-school football game, but Amy couldn’t summon any enthusiasm.

So she was home alone on a Saturday night, with nothing on TV. Around eight-thirty, she drove to the Paris Bar.

Located in a row of shops in a funky seaside area, the bar made a halfhearted attempt to live up to its name. A faded mural of the Eiffel Tower covered one wall, and a framed poster from
Moulin Rouge
hung above a couple of video-game machines where several men vied intently.

On TV, the Lakers were playing, to the rapt attention of customers who sat imbibing drinks and nibbling corn chips. Amy found a stool at the bar and ordered a beer.

“Is it raining yet?” asked Brian, the bartender. A former athlete sinking into middle-aged pudginess, he liked to chat with his regular customers.

“No. Is it supposed to?” Amy asked. She’d been enjoying the pleasant weather since the last storm.

“You musta missed the forecast,” he said.

She groaned. “Great.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about your roof,” Brian said. “Guess you won’t be getting that fixed soon.”

“That depends on how long the rain lasts.”

Brian went to wait on some new arrivals, leaving Amy to contemplate the question of Lucy’s identity. She decided to tackle the subject logically.

Quent had mentioned San Diego,
his hometown. It had sounded as if someone were ill, perhaps a member of the family. But if it were a sister or aunt, wouldn’t he have explained that?

Lucy might be a former girlfriend, Amy thought with a twist of anxiety. Quent had only moved to Serene Beach a few months ago. He might still be in contact with her.

If he was concerned enough to drive down to San Diego without delay, she must be special. Amy had never considered that he might still harbor feelings for someone else.

She dragged her thoughts away. There was no point in tormenting herself with what-ifs and might-bes.

On TV, the basketball game reached its climactic moments. Among the Lakers’ opponents, one player after another lost the ball. Finally a grim-faced athlete, in a desperate last effort, leaped into the air and shot the ball halfway across the court toward the basket. It missed. Dismayed, the man landed off-balance and fell on his butt as the final buzzer sounded.

Most onlookers in the bar shouted their approval, while a couple of their companions muttered unhappily. Folded bills changed hands.

At least Amy wasn’t the only person having a bad day, she thought. Misery really did love company.

A hint of moisture blew in as the door opened. She caught a whiff of familiar aftershave lotion and her spirits leaped.

In the mirror behind the bar, she watched Quent approach. His eyes were bright, his movements energetic beneath the English-style raincoat. Apparently he’d had a good time today.

She wasn’t going
to think about it. Wasn’t going to wonder what he and Lucy had been doing. Wasn’t going to give it a moment’s thought.

“So how’d it go in San Diego?” she blurted in spite of herself as he took the stool beside her.

“Fantastic!” he said. “We were having such a good time, I stayed longer than I meant to.”

Surely he wouldn’t be so blatant if “having a good time” had included sex, so Amy ventured, “Doing what, exactly?”

“Building a castle,” he said. “Hey, Brian, how about a beer?”

“Coming right up.”

“You went to the beach in this weather?” Amy asked. “Your friend Lucy must have the hide of a walrus.” It always got cold by the ocean this time of year, and, in her experience, constructing a sand castle involved slogging through plenty of wet sand.

“What?” Puzzlement lines formed around his eyes. “I don’t follow you.”

“You said you and Lucy built a castle,” she said.

“Not Lucy and I. Tara and I.”

How many girls did he know in San Diego? “Sorry. I thought you said Lucy.” Here she’d been obsessing all day over the wrong name! Amy was glad she wasn’t the sort of person who stuck pins in voodoo dolls, because she might have harmed an innocent bystander.

“And Greg,” Quent said. When his beer arrived, he took a long swallow.

What a relief! “There was a whole group of you?”

“Just Lucy, Tara and Greg. Plus me, of course.” He glanced toward the TV. “Looks like I
missed the game. How’d it go?”

“The Lakers won. The other team had butterfingers.”

“That must have been entertaining.” He set down the mug and leaned back, resting his elbows on the bar.

His report didn’t tally with the one-sided conversation Amy had heard him conduct before he left. “Okay, I give up,” she said. “Who’s Lucy and why did she and Tara and Greg ask you to drive an hour and a half to build a sand castle?”

“Not sand. Lego and, in Tara’s case, blocks.”

A glimmer of light shone at the end of the tunnel. “Some if not all of the aforementioned persons are children?”

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d told you about Tara and Greg. They’re my niece and nephew,” he said. “Their parents died a year ago and they live with Lucy. She’s their aunt on their mother’s side.”

Amy resisted the urge to let out a whoop of joy. “You must be close to them.”

“I try to be, although I haven’t done a very good job,” he said. “Greg burned his hand this morning and Lucy asked me to come check on it.”

“How old is he?”

“Four,” Quent said. “It wasn’t serious, but the kids were so glad to see me, I couldn’t leave. Besides, I enjoy being around them.”

“You’re good with young people,” she said. “You were terrific with the Moms in Training. I was impressed.”

“They’re a great bunch.” His expression sobered. “It’s a shame they have to deal with adult problems when they’re so young. Raising children is a big responsibility.”

“Most new parents don’t think about
the future.” In talking with the clinic’s social worker, Amy had been surprised to learn that many new moms and dads didn’t even put child-resistant locks on cabinets, as if they couldn’t imagine their newborns becoming toddlers. “They figure if they know how to change a diaper, they’ve got it made.”

“Changing diapers is hard. The nurses tell me I don’t fasten them tight enough.” Quent broke off and grimaced at the TV. “For heaven’s sake, why is the sports channel showing ice-skating?”

“Because some people like to watch it.” Amy’s attention fixed on the screen. “Oh, look, it’s part of the Grand Prix series.”

“Doesn’t that involve cars?” Quent asked hopefully.

“It’s an international series of skating competitions.” How could anyone not know that? she wondered.

Across the room, a couple of guys waved at Brian. “Change the channel!” one of them called. “Find some sports!”

“How about a martial arts movie?” added his buddy. “I’ll settle for that.”

“Can it, both of you!” Amy roared. “Ice-skating is also a sport. Get over it!”

They gave her dirty looks. “The lady’s right!” Quent bellowed. “Stick a sock in it!”

“I guess you told ’em,” Brian said, although he sounded dubious.

Amy glanced at Quent. “Thanks for the support.”

“It can’t hurt us to watch.” Turning to Brian, he ordered a ham sandwich, one of the few food items available at the Paris Bar. “I’m trying to broaden my horizons.”

“That’s a good idea. I love ice-skating.”

They sat in companionable
silence. Outside, rain drummed on the roof, nearly drowning out the music and conversations.

Despite her usual enthusiasm for the sport, Amy quickly lost interest in what was on TV. All she could think about was Quent sitting beside her.

The image of him playing with children made him even more masculine, more desirable to her. She wished they could be alone together.

At her age, she ought to know a subtle way to persuade him to leave the bar and take her somewhere. Right now, though, she couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t embarrassingly blatant.

A
LL THE LEAPING
and spinning on TV couldn’t compare to what was going on in Quent’s nervous system. Being near Amy sensitized his entire body to every little movement she made.