A Perfect Fit (2 page)

“Whoa! What are you going to do with those?”

“Remove your pants.” She started snipping from the frayed hem.

“Really? Can’t you just yank out the shard? I can darn a hole easier than I can take time to shop for pants.”

“A treasure seeker and a seamstress. You are quite accomplished, Mr. Hastings.”

“Doctor.”

She laid the scissors upon the counter and retrieved a syringe. “I think you’ll be more comfortable if I give you a little something to relax before I
yank,
as you say.”

“A needle?” He squirmed and pushed himself up. “I don’t do needles.”

“Mr. Hastings, please try to relax.”

“It’s
Dr.
Hastings, and I don’t do nee—owwww!” He cast a surprised glare in her direction, then slumped onto the table.

She chucked the needle into the proper bin and resumed cutting toward the shard. “Mind telling me how this happened?”

“I was cataloging bones. All of a sudden the ground beneath the grave gave way. . . . I fell through.” His eyelids were beginning to droop. “Landed on a pile of infant burial urns . . . and . . .”

His words were a bit slurred, but she understood him enough to hear, “must have been twenty thousand of them in that pit.”

Everyone knew of the legend of the human sacrifices made at the Tophet. No one had ever assigned such a horrific number to the atrocity. While Magdalena waited for his respiration to slow, she summoned Kaifah from the television, where the nurses had once again gathered.

Removing the embedded shard required a bit of digging. Kaifah was so distracted by trying to hear the muffled commentary of the television that she wasn’t much help. Once Magdalena finally freed the bloody object, she placed the shard in her palm for a careful examination.

Earthenware. Jagged edges. Partial image of a foot showing.

She squinted at the image and swiped at the blood. Heat instantly seared her thumb. She dropped the pottery onto a stainless steel tray. “Ouch.”

“What is it?” Kaifah snapped back to attention. “Were you cut?”

“No.” Magdalena stared at the strange black figure.

“What is that marking?”

“I don’t know.”

“Want me to clean it up?” the nurse asked.

“Don’t touch it.” Magdalena couldn’t take her eyes off the silhouette image of a wasp-waisted body with tapered arms and legs and a round blob for a head. Danger flashed hot into her mind. She closed her eyes against the pain.

“Dr. Kader?” Kaifah’s irritation penetrated the fog. “Are we about done?”

Magdalena opened her eyes quickly—maybe a little too quickly, because the room was swimming.

The nurse reached across Mr. Hastings’s bloody gash and steadied her. “Should I get your father to close?”

“No.” Hands trembling, she threaded the suture needle. “I can do this.”

2

L
AWRENCE AWOKE THICK TONGUED,
thirsty, and flat on his back. The last thing he remembered was a gorgeous, white-coated Mediterranean woman with eyes the color of a mermaid’s tail stabbing him in the arm with a needle. He hated needles.

“There you are.” His lady in white, the sadistic one from his foggy memory, eyed him smugly. “Need a drink?” She held a paper cup and offered him a straw.

The water eased his parched throat, proof he was not dreaming.

The woman assessing him reminded him of his first crush, Miss Clubine, the Arkansas librarian who smelled of vanilla and guarded the books in the musty red brick building with a steely gaze. The summer he turned ten, Miss Clubine had marched him toward the adventure section and introduced him to the likes of
Robinson Crusoe
and
The Three Musketeers,
the perfect escape from the doldrums of his family’s poultry farm. Miss Clubine’s knowledge had been so beautiful, so attractive, that he had to punch Billy Smith in the nose when he called her Four Eyes.

Now, as he studied the lady in the white coat, he couldn’t help but wonder what treasure existed beneath her guarded layers. “What’s your name, Doc?”

“Dr. Kader.”

“No, your first name.”

She set the cup on the window ledge. “I don’t divulge personal information, Mr. Hastings.”

“Lady, you’ve seen parts of me no one has laid eyes on since I was a diapered babe in my mother’s arms. I think that puts us on a first-name basis, don’t you?”

She hesitated, her eyes darting to the open door as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “Magdalena.”

“Magdalena.” He liked how her name swirled in his mouth, cool and refreshing as an Ozark mountain spring. Every letter from his mother hounded him to find a good girl and settle down. He’d pushed her pleas aside. Not forever, but for now. Before he tied himself down like his four older brothers, who’d stayed on the chicken farm, he wanted to see the world.

“We have you on a special bed, one with an opening to accommodate your . . . injury.”

“Big of you.” He tried wiggling his toes but felt nothing. He tucked his chin against his chest to survey the damage. Someone had dressed him in a clean, crisp hospital gown. “What’s beneath my dress?”

“Just you.”

“See what I mean?” He winked, then touched his thigh. “Shouldn’t I feel a breeze or something?” He slapped at his leg. “I’m numb from the waist down.”

“Don’t panic. The drugs will wear off by the time your friend returns with new pants.” She turned to leave. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She fished a clear plastic bag out of her pocket. “I saved this for you.” She handed him the baggie, which contained a dagger-shaped shard of clay with the strange painting of a black swimmer-looking creature about ten centimeters long. “You must put this relic back exactly as you found it.” A warning flashed in her eyes.

“Kinda hard to do since I probably did more damage to the pot than it did to me.”

“Promise me you’ll try.”

He’d never encountered a woman with such a keen interest in a dig site. “If it will make you happy.” He snagged her hand. “Besides, I can think of other souvenirs I’d rather keep.”

• • •

MAGDALENA FLIPPED
her hair over her shoulders. “I don’t see how the arrangement of my hair would interest the proctologist.”

The knocker rapped the wooden front door. “Mutfi is here.” Father shoved her toward the atrium. “Answer with a smile.”

Magdalena sighed. She’d caused enough irritation for one day by refusing to leave the hospital until after she discharged the American. Nothing would be gained by delaying the inevitable evening her father had planned.

“Dr. Zaman.” She wasn’t sure which of his eyes to focus on, the one pointed at her or the one taking in the potted plants. “Won’t you please come in?”

“Good evening, Magdalena.” Her name squeaked from his lips, sticky and forced. So different from the layered sweetness of the American’s pronunciation. “Here.” Mutfi held out a burlap bag sealed with a string.

“Oh, you didn’t need to bring anything.”

“I am a very generous man.”

She’d only actually spoken to Mutfi Zaman once before tonight. He’d been the surgeon of record on a fistula repair she observed during her first surgical rotation. She’d thought him proficient in the OR, but he was nowhere close to the level of expertise that warranted his air of arrogance. “Thank you, Dr. Zaman. I’m sure Father will appreciate your kindness.” She turned and called, “Father!”

“Oh, no, Magdalena.” Mutfi touched her arm, and she jumped. “This fine couscous is for you.”

“Grain? For me?”

“Couscous works to keep your system regular.” One eye drifted to her midsection. “Everyone could use more fiber in their diet.”

She stumbled for a proper response. “A . . . sensible and prudent gift. How thoughtful.”

The atrium clock ticked in the awkward silence.

None too soon, Father appeared and led the proctologist to the veranda. Dinner was the frustratingly long, painful affair she’d feared. Mutfi droned on about the various treatments for colon disorders, hemorrhoids, and constipation. Whenever Magdalena tried to enter into the conversation, Mutfi would not even turn his good eye in her direction, but rather continued on as if she’d never spoken. She couldn’t help but smile when Mutfi noticed she’d left the extra helping of couscous on her plate.

Father flicked his wrist, and cups of frothy Turkish coffee and plates of
lokum
—bite-sized confections of chopped dates, pistachios, and hazelnuts dusted with powdered sugar—appeared on the table. He offered Mutfi one of the demitasse cups. “Magdalena is quite interested in your work, aren’t you, daughter?”

If she never smelled the colorectal OR again it would be too soon. “Well . . .”

“She delayed our meal due to the treatment of hind parts, isn’t that right, daughter? A potsherd in an American bum, wasn’t it?”

“Yes—”

Mutfi frowned. “I, for one, look forward to the day when Magdalena no longer has to burden herself with the unseemly business of a woman working in a man’s world.”

“Burden myself?”

“A woman’s place is in the home.”

“Perhaps in the old days, but not—”

Father squeezed her knee and cut off her protest.

Dr. Zaman continued, oblivious to her clenched jaw. “Omar, you’re getting to an age when a colonoscopy is in order. I’d be only too happy to give you the
family
discount.”

“Excuse me?” Magdalena looked to her father, whose face had turned tomato-red. Distant cousins abounded in Carthage, but the Kaders and the Zamans were
not,
nor would they ever be, related. “
Family
discount?”

Mutfi dabbed at the bread crumbs caught in his beard. “Have you not told her, Omar?”

Now Father was the one to squirm. He cleared his throat and took her hand. “I have a wonderful surprise for you, Magdalena.” He proceeded cautiously. “Dr. Zaman has agreed to marry you.”

“What?”

“The arrangements have been in place for quite some time.”

Magdalena pulled away. “How long?”

“Mutfi’s mother approached me while you were still in primary school.”

“You planned my destiny when I was a child?” Magdalena struggled to breathe. “When were you going to tell me?”

“We waited to see that your beauty would come around,” Mutfi conceded. “All that is left to consider before we announce our engagement is your ability to be a good housewife.”

Magdalena searched her father’s face for some explanation. “So all of those years of work and sacrifice were for nothing?”

He started to speak, then lowered his eyes.

Painfully aware that she would never be her father’s son, she left the table without waiting to be excused.

The flame of her temper refused to lower enough for her to attempt sleep. She paced the balcony outside her bedroom. For the first time since she was twelve, she wished she’d skipped her lessons and watched a soccer game.

3

N
ONE BUT A MULE
denies his family.

The ancient proverb pounded in Magdalena’s head as she pulled into the hospital parking lot a few minutes before the start of her afternoon shift. She could refuse Mutfi’s offer and win this battle, but she would destroy her father and lose the war.

She gathered her white coat and stuffed her med school graduation stethoscope into the pocket. When Father had pressed the expensive piece of equipment into her hands six months ago, why had he not shared the fact that she would never need it?

A knock on her car window startled Magdalena.

“Dr. Kader?” Lawrence Hastings sported a large grin. Showered, shaved, and wearing a clean shirt tucked neatly into clean pants, he was a startlingly handsome contrast to the injured dust mop she’d treated only twenty-four hours ago. He motioned for her to lower the window. “Morning.”

“Is something wrong, Dr. Hastings? Are your stitches giving you trouble?”

“I heal quickly.” He opened her door. “I come from pretty hearty stock.” He offered his hand, but she ignored his chivalry and climbed out on her own.

Standing beside him, she noticed he was nearly a head taller, yet he held her in a level gaze. “My great-grandmother regularly fought off Indian raiding parties while plucking a chicken for dinner, splitting a cord of wood, and raising thirteen kids . . . and all before breakfast.”

Magdalena laughed out loud.

“I knew it.” His offbeat grin stretched ear to ear. “Your smile is as beautiful as your eyes. You should use it more.”

“If that’s the best you’ve got in the way of sweet talk, Americans can’t hold a candle to the British.”

“The redcoats don’t have the market cornered. That’s just my warm-up.” He hobbled over to a bush and retrieved a picnic basket hidden in the foliage. “In appreciation of your care and devotion, I’ve prepared a feast.”

“You sew
and
cook? You will never need a wife.”

He laughed. “I don’t want to marry a seamstress or a cook.”

“All men want someone to take care of them.”

“If I ever marry, it will be to someone who thinks for herself and loves an occasional adventure.”

Mutfi Zaman would have choked on such words. Magdalena’s pulse quickened. “So what do you cook, Dr. Hastings?”

“I didn’t say I was a
good
cook.” He held up a callused palm. “But I do admit to being a shopping wizard in the souks.” He opened the basket and let her peek at the variety of olives, cheeses, and breads, and a bottle of fine wine.

“No couscous?”

He looked puzzled. “Nothing so bland for you.” He closed the basket. “So what do you say? Lunch on the harbor wall?”

“I’ve not even had breakfast.”

“Then an early lunch is just what you need.” He must have read her reluctance, because he said, “Come on. Even a doctor has to eat.”

She could never admit the magnetic appeal of his invitation. Technically, she was engaged to another man and shouldn’t even have been talking to him. “I’m on call.” As she brushed past him, he snagged her arm. His touch, firm but not confining, sent adrenaline coursing through her veins.

“It’s just lunch. I’ll have you back in plenty of time to save the next moron who falls on a potsherd.”