Still, inviting him to speak was for the good of the young moms-to-be, so she’d do it. Amy got into her car and sat there enjoying the warmth after the briskness of the November day. Heck, she told herself, she could deal with Quent and any feelings that might crop up.
Her dad had always told her that, whenever she found herself in a difficult situation, she should take charge. “Don’t wait for other people to come to your rescue,” he’d said. “If you want something, go for it.”
That advice had helped Amy become a star in high-school sports. Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked as well when, tired of being the gawky kid who sat home on Saturday nights, she’d applied it to boys.
After she’d commandeered a couple of dates for school dances during her sophomore year, the guys she liked started to edge away when they saw her coming. At last someone admitted that she’d earned the nickname “The Bulldozer.” Embarrassed, Amy had decided to back off and wait until a boy asked her out first.
She’d spent the rest of high school waiting. After a while, she’d been accepted back as one of the guys, but she never seemed to light any romantic fires.
Well, she wasn’t going to ask Quent to a dance, Amy reminded herself. It was his professional skills she required, nothing more.
HER FIRST CLIENTS on Monday morning were parents whose three-year-old son had become disruptive after the recent birth of a baby sister. They were happy to receive a list of suggestions, including spending time alone with the preschooler and making sure visitors paid him plenty of attention.
“We think of him as grown-up in comparison to the baby,” the mother said. “Now I realize he’s still a baby himself.”
Amy was glad to help. She wished she had more personal experience with young children to contribute, but thank goodness there were experts to rely on. Plus, she’d always had an instinctive sympathy for kids, a sensitivity to the needs and emotions they weren’t able to voice.
When she opened the door at the end of the session, the sharp smell of paint wafted in from the hallway. Her clients said goodbye, then picked their way out through a maze of stepladders and spattered drop cloths.
The whole complex, including the east and west office wings and the three-story Birthing Center, was getting a face-lift. Amy liked the new colors of yellow, aqua and mint green, although she wasn’t crazy about the odor that pervaded the west wing, where she worked.
She especially wasn’t looking forward to the disruption when her own office got painted. Still, the beige walls could use freshening and she’d decided to have the worn couch and chairs recovered. Also, she was tired of the framed photographs of children and young couples, and this would give her a good excuse to replace them.
The idea of redecorating reminded Amy of her condo, so she put in a call to her association’s manager. The news was not good.
The weekend’s storm had done considerable damage around town, and most repairmen had more work than they could handle, he told her. Although the tree had been removed and his handyman had nailed boards into place, no roofers would be available for several weeks.
There was some good news, though, he said. The building inspector had left word that she could move back in during the interim.
Sure she could, Amy thought, as long as she didn’t mind a mildewing carpet and the messed-up ceiling. She planned to replace them, but that would take time, too.
Until the place was finished, Aunt Mary’s house was a better bet for her peace of mind. Although her aunt ran a small day-care center downstairs on weekdays, the large, comfortable home was quiet at other times.
Amy thanked the manager, hung up and fetched a cup of coffee from the break room. Resolutely, she put the condo out of her mind and turned her attention to two job applicants who’d arrived for their screening tests. As the only full-time psychologist at Doctors Circle, Amy handled a range of tasks involving staff members as well as patient families.
While she waited for the pair to finish the written tests, she tried not to wince at the whine of saws echoing from across the medical complex. The east wing’s lower floor was being remodeled into an expanded infertility center, scheduled to open in April. An infertility expert named Jason Carmichael had been hired as the director.
After her two charges departed, Amy met with a new mother and her husband who needed help dealing with the woman’s overbearing parents. Talking earnestly, they overstayed their hour, and Amy was too absorbed to cut them off.
By the time they left, she had less than thirty minutes for lunch. From a drawer, she removed a packaged tuna salad kit.
“Eating at your desk isn’t healthy, you know.” Under cover of the racket from across the way, Quent had arrived in her doorway undetected. He didn’t have far to travel, since his clinic was down the hall.
Above the white coat and stethoscope, his blond hair flopped raffishly onto his forehead. Despite her resolve to keep her distance, Amy’s spirits leaped.
“Don’t tell me you have time to go out for a three-course meal,” she said.
“I planned to invite you to take your repast with me in the courtyard.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Want to come?”
The office wings flanked a center court. Its tiled fountain, coffee kiosk, benches and round concrete tables made it a popular spot for lunch.
“I can’t. I’ve got an appointment at one.” The way Quent was grinning at her, Amy wondered if she’d dabbed mayonnaise on her nose. She stifled the instinct to check a hand mirror, but she couldn’t stop herself from patting her French braid to make sure her hair remained in place.
“Why are you wiggling so much? It makes you look twitchy,” he said.
“Is that like bewitching?”
“It’s more like itchy,” Quent joked. “It must be all the noise and smell around here. You should come with me to the Casbah.”
“That sounds faintly indecent.” Oops. She didn’t want to ruin her “been there, done that” image. “Not that I’m against moral decadence, but not on my lunch break.”
“Okay. Why don’t you come over to my apartment tonight instead?” he said. “I’m working the late shift but I’ll be done by seven.”
Before Saturday, Amy hadn’t worried about giving Quent the wrong idea because he treated her like one of the boys, but that had changed. “What are you proposing?”
“How about Ping-Pong, followed by getting to know each other a little better?” He waggled one eyebrow suggestively, à la Groucho Marx.
“You have a Ping-Pong table in your apartment?” It didn’t fit with her mental image of a seductive bachelor pad.
“It was either that or a pool table, and Ping-Pong is more portable in case I have to move,” he said. “How about it?”
She’d love to play. But that wasn’t all he had in mind, and Amy knew where it would lead. “No, thanks.”
Quent regarded her with a crestfallen expression. “Is it my breath?”
“No!” Amy laughed. “It’s just…I mean, I’d rather keep it light. I already told you…” An idea hit her. “Actually, there is something I want to discuss.”
“Great!” He beamed at her, lighting up the room. “We can talk over pizza at my place.”
“We can discuss it now.” She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes to go. “It’s about the Moms in Training program.”
“Something I can help with?” Quent straightened. “I’d be glad to.”