“You’re in luck, Mr. Manwell,” the secretary said. “Mr. Van Dolan had a cancellation. If you could be here at, say, four-forty, he could talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Why, thank you, ma’am, ah sure am obliged to you.”
He hung up, called the NICU and asked for Tim Graham, another neonatologist.
“Is it all clear up there, Tim? No more bloody reporters?”
Graham laughed. “For now, but I’d take the back stairs if I were you. You’ve suddenly become a celebrity. Everybody’s talking about what you did.”
“Listen, Tim.” He hesitated. “If that woman from public relations, Catherine her name is—”
“Long braid? Stacked?”
“I, uh…right. Anyway, if she stops by, tell her…never mind. I’ll tell her myself.” On the way back to the unit, a woman called his name.
“Dr. Connaughton. Mrs. Edwards, Parking Enforcement. I understand you failed to affix a sticker to your car. All cars parked in the physicians’ lot must have a parking sticker affixed to the left side of the rear bumper. It’s hospital policy, Dr. Connaughton. After tomorrow, security is instructed to tow away cars without stickers.”
Martin gave her a blank look.
“Your parking sticker, Dr. Connaughton. Where is it?”
“I think I’ve lost it.” Aware of the double meaning, he couldn’t suppress a grin. With a what-the-hell abandon, he added, “The dog ate it.”
“Dr. Connaughton, you might find this amusing—” the woman’s tone made it clear she didn’t “—but we have these rules for a reason. It makes it very difficult when people don’t take them seriously.”
“I’ll go and have a look for the sticker.” Martin wanted only to terminate the exchange. “If I can’t find it, I’ll come and get another one. Don’t tow my car though, okay?”
Her pert little smile suggested the triumph that comes with having the last word. “As long as it has a sticker, Dr. Connaughton.” She started to walk away, then called his name. “You know, I just thought of something.” Her eyes narrowed. “Weren’t you the doctor who delivered those babies on the freeway today?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Different doctor.”
“I’M WONDERING if you were aggressive enough with Connaughton.” Derek gave Catherine an appraising look. “You’ve got to be tough with these doctors. Insistent. They’ll sniff out any weakness, just like a dog, and then they’ll walk all over you.”
“He didn’t walk all over me.” Catherine pictured Connaughton’s eyes as he’d refused her entreaties—eyes exactly the color of the cobalt blue in Julie’s box of Crayola—and wondered whether he had, but then dismissed the thought as nonproductive. “Short of bodily dragging him down there, I don’t know what else I could have done. He just plain doesn’t want to talk to reporters.”
After he’d eluded her for the second time, she’d achieved a temporary save by having one of the other neonatologists deliver a medical update. That, and an interview with the triplets’ parents, had mollified Selena Bliss and the rest of the press corps. Derek, to her relief, also seemed satisfied—at least he’d dropped no more hints that her job was in peril. The problem was that everyone still wanted to talk to Connaughton about his role in the rescue.
“So.” Derek slumped down in the chair in front of her desk. “What we need to do now is rethink our strategy. Regardless of what he says, Connaughton wants to be on TV. They all do. It’s an ego thing. Sooner or later they all succumb.”
“I honestly don’t think he will,” Catherine said. “He made it pretty clear what he thinks of talking to the press.”
Derek shook his head. “He’s no exception. Trust me. You just didn’t go about it in the right way. Here’s what I want you to do. Call a news conference for tomorrow morning around ten. Alert everyone that Connaughton will be there ready to spill his heart out about his heroic deeds.”
Catherine frowned. “I don’t understand. He’s already said—”
Derek held his hand up. “But you didn’t offer him an incentive, did you?”
“An incentive?”
“Of course. Something he wants very badly and for which he’ll willingly pay the price.”
“Talk to the press, you mean?”
“Exactly.” Derek beamed. “Your learning curve is impressive.”
“But, Derek…” She watched him amble out of the office. By the end of the day, especially when she was tired, Derek’s theatricality got on her nerves. “Come back here. How am I supposed to know what he wants?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Well, that’s what you have to find out, isn’t it?” A few minutes later, he stuck his head around her office door. “By the way, the holiday party at the Harbor House tonight? Are you going?”
“Oh Jeez.” She ran her hand across her face, thought of the pepperoni pizza and the bubble bath. The two hours of quality time she’d actually penciled in on her calendar. “I wasn’t really planning to be there. I thought you were going.”
“I am, but, politically, it would be a good idea for you to attend as well. Jordan takes it rather personally when he holds these bashes and people don’t show up.” He dug into the glass jar of jelly beans she kept on her desk, popped a handful into his mouth. “Anyhoo, I’m splitting. See you later.”
Catherine looked at her watch—five-fifteen. On days that Gary didn’t collect the children from school, her mother picked them up and baby-sat until she got home, usually around six. Twice in the past week though, Derek had wanted her to attend evening meetings and she’d had to call and extend the baby-sitting hours, which inevitably prompted her mother to suggest that what she really needed to do was look for a husband so she could stay home full-time and be a proper mother.
With the tips of her fingers, Catherine massaged her forehead, tried to clear her brain enough to figure out what might get Connaughton to cooperate. And, while she worked that out, how to give her kids enough quality time that she could honestly believe they were better off with her than Gary. A moment later, as she picked up the phone to call, she noticed the pink message slip, half hidden under a stack of papers. Written in her secretary’s neat round handwriting, the note said:
(1) Your ex called to remind you he needs a decision pronto. He said you’d know what he meant. (2) Your daughter wants to remind you that you’re supposed to go shopping for her ballet-recital dress tonight. DON’T BE LATE!!!
IN THE CORRIDOR outside the NICU, Martin pushed some coins into the vending machine. Two Snickers bars, a package of cheese and crackers and an orange. Lunch and dinner. The day before, one of the dietitians had caught him having a similar meal and hinted that a more balanced diet might improve his disposition.
Doubtful. Although he’d made it in to see Van Dolan, he could have saved himself the trouble. Essentially, he’d been told the chances of WISH funding were slim to nonexistent, which pretty much resolved the Ethiopia question. Tomorrow he would tell the group to count him in. Why stick around?
He watched a young couple walk hand in hand past the nursery windows, the girl in a cotton hospital gown stretched tight over her extended belly. As though it were yesterday, he saw his wife’s heavy, late-pregnancy walk, the baggy blue cardigan of his that she’d worn because he’d still been in medical school and they couldn’t scrape up the cash for maternity clothes, the way she’d smiled when…a thought flashed into his consciousness.
Catherine Prentice reminded him of Sharon.
CHAPTER