After the Fall (13 page)

They were sitting by the fire in the living room, nestled together on the oversized sofa. A long silence. Tim suspected she'd once again stonewall. He'd accept Laura with her secrets, but he did long for a relationship where there was no such need—on her side, either. Reconciled to sticking with safe topics, he asked, “Any surprises at Keystone?”

“Met a million people. Kept getting lost looking for the bathroom. But, Tim, about Steve, I think I better tell you. I think it's time. You want to hear?”

Tim gulped.
Did he? Yes, he'd always wanted to hear. But now was he sure?
“Laura, you needn't—”

“Yes, but you're going to be my husband, and I want you to know. Once you do, you might change your mind.”

Tim faced her, pulled her closer to him. Her green eyes were wide, the pupils dilated as if in fear, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks.
Shit, now I've made her cry
. But she read his mind.

“Tim, ignore the tears—just listen?” She rushed on. “When you came up to Traverse City to take Patrick to Philadelphia in the medevac plane, you walked into a catastrophe.”

Tim had known that something must have happened between Laura and her husband, but his priority had been getting her son to CHOP and onto the operating table.

“Remember when you and me and those other surgical residents went to Montreal for that international conference?”

“Laura, I have never forgiven myself for my uncouth behavior. I knew you were married. I'd had too much to drink. Every time I think about it, and I have thought about it more times than I care to count, I can't believe I was such
a consummate ass. And you know what? I've never even apologized. Well, I will now. I am very sorry.”

“Yes, you had had a few drinks,” Laura said. “I wasn't insulted. I was more concerned about you cheating on my friend Rosie.”

“That blizzard,” Tim said, feeling a little bit off the hook for his boorish behavior. “And you never making it out the next morning. We couldn't find you. I was so damned worried about you. Are you still upset that we left without you? We were on the surgical schedule, and if we hadn't gotten back, Dr. Monroe would have had our—”

“I was with Dr. Monroe,” Laura said.

“You were with…?” He must not have heard her. Laura Nelson, third-year medical student, mother of four little kids, wife of Steve—
with
the venerated chief of surgery,
the
Dr. David Monroe?

“Tim, I've never told anyone. No one.”

Tim felt himself inch away from Laura. He needed more space. Her tears, now copious, had soaked the neckline of her t-shirt, and he groped in his pocket for a handkerchief and wordlessly handed it to her. He had wanted to know the truth, but had not expected what then would have been a scandal—still was a bombshell. She had rebuffed his advances. Now he finds out she was sleeping with Dr. Monroe? Tim tried to remember if Monroe had been married. Oh yeah, it came back to him, the socialite wife, picture always in the
Detroit Free Press
for supporting one charity or another.

“I know you must hate me, and I should have told you before we spoke to the kids about getting married.”

Was he supposed to ignore Laura's serious sobs? “Laura, I don't care,” Tim said, reaching toward her, pulling him close in his arms. “I guess I'm shocked, yes, I have to admit. For two seconds. Look, that was how many years ago?”

“There's more.” Laura's complexion had lost every trace of
color. “Patrick is David's child.” Laura all but choked on the words she left for last: “David is dead because of me.”

Tim knew his whole future with Laura would hinge on his reaction. But how does one react to a double blast like that? He'd known that back in Traverse City, when he'd picked up Patrick for transport to Philadelphia, that Steve had cruelly rejected an innocent nine-year-old child facing major heart surgery. But he'd had no inkling of why—and now he did.

And then Steve had been killed. And Tim had pushed the Laura-Patrick-Steve drama into remote memory. So Steve had discovered Laura's secret. Tim held Laura's eyes. His voice did not quaver when he said, “Laura, what's past is past. We have the future. You and I. And your kids. Our future. Together.”

He felt her body go slack and, for a minute, he thought she'd fainted. But when he folded his arms around her, he felt her erratic breaths as her tears started to subside.

“Steve never knew about David,” she said in a small voice, straightening up, looking back into Tim's eyes, now moist with his own tears. “But when I gave blood, he did find out that, genetically, he was not Patrick's father. Until then, he and Patrick had the idyllic father-son relationship, just as everyone said.”

“But Patrick obviously remembers the good stuff, thanks to you.”

“All the kids missed Steve, but Patrick the most. Ironic, huh?”

“That must have been tough on you. What did you tell Steve—about the father?”

“I told Steve I'd been raped.” Laura looked as if she might elaborate, but instead she dropped her eyes.

Told him she'd been raped?

“Laura, please believe that I love and respect you for telling me this.” Tim tilted her head upward so their gazes met. “And you can trust me to tell no one.”

“Thank you, Tim. I don't deserve you. I'd understand if—”

“Okay if I ask one more question, just to clarify what you said about Dr. Monroe's death?” Tim could never think of Dr.
Monroe as
David
. “Dr. Monroe was shot by a young punk at your graduation. Remember, I was there to congratulate Rosie. Dr. Monroe was standing over by your family.” Tim hesitated at the memory—he specifically recalled that the chief of surgery had been holding Laura's baby.
His own baby
.

“What could you have had to do with that random murder? That had nothing to do with you.”

“I don't know,” Laura said, her tears only a trickle now. “But, Tim, what am I going to do about Patrick? Should I tell him? He's twenty-two years old. Doesn't he deserve to know? And the other kids? Especially Mike, he has to know something horrible happened to make their dad treat Patrick that way. Mike was fourteen—old enough to—”

“Laura, that's a lot to think about right now. We can face that together. Down the road. In the meantime, let's just move on. I'm grateful for your honesty. I don't think we should dwell on the past. Okay?” Tim tilted her head, their lips met, and the kiss they shared cemented their love.

As Tim cleaned up the kitchen after dinner, Laura sat at the counter, composed now, recounting her first day at work. She'd met her staff. Too soon to form an opinion of them. Losing their beloved Dr. Minn had shattered the soul of Keystone's research department.

“It's going to take time,” she said.

“Anybody you know? That you'd met during the clinical trials or getting ready for the Advisory Committee meeting?”

“I got to know the VP of regulatory affairs pretty well, and the medical director, and a few of the physicians. When I did the trials, the clinical research associates and the medical monitors came down to Tampa to scour through all my records. Never met such sticklers on detail.”

“I've done several drug trials, beta blockers in kids, new antibiotics. One from Keystone Pharma, the analogue of the one that saved Natalie during that epidemic. Picowell is the brand
name. But look at me, telling you this, you use Picowell all the time in thoracic surgery.”

Once he said this, Tim reached over to touch her intact arm. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. She would no longer be doing any surgery.

“Tim, stop it. Stop trying to be sensitive. I'm in a new career now. I want to focus. I don't have time to worry about my old one.”

“They're going to have a hell of a time replacing you in Tampa.”

“I just hope they go with Ed Plant for chief of surgery. I'd trust my research and my patients to him. But it's not my problem,” Laura said with finality. “I have to focus on getting to know my research department. I've never had five hundred people reporting to me. How will I ever learn their names?”

“If that turns out to be your worst problem, you'll be in good shape.”

“You know, Tim, I think I might actually like this job. I sense everybody's commitment to developing new drugs that will help so many people.”

Tim started up the dishwasher and turned to take Laura's elbow. “Let's get to bed early,” he said. “Sounds like you're going to have a busy day at work tomorrow, but don't forget your PT appointment at Hahnemann in the afternoon.”

“I forgot to tell you that Keystone arranged to have my therapist come out to the company. They've set aside a private room off the huge workout area they had designed and built for the employees.”

In the bedroom, as Tim pulled back the comforter, Laura said as an afterthought, “I did have one strange phone call today.”

Tim peeled back the sheet and patted her side of the bed. She sat, cradling her arm and continued, “Well, maybe it wasn't that strange, but a young woman I met at the FDA Advisory Meeting called. She's a research scientist at Replica, the company we bought Immunone from.”

Tim suppressed a grin at her use of “we.” Laura's transition from top surgeon to corporate management seemed to be on track.

“What did she want?”

“That's just it, I'm not sure. She tracked me down through the hospital in Tampa. Didn't even know I was at Keystone until somebody in my old department told her. Said she wanted to know what was happening in the approval process of Immunone. That she needed this information. That the FDA wasn't keeping her updated.”

“No surprise there,” Tim said.

“The FDA never keeps anybody updated, I told her. She seemed surprised, as if she deserved to be in the approval loop.”

Tim helped Laura remove her blouse. “Is she a medical doctor or a researcher?”

“Researcher. PhD. Sounded naïve about how the US regulatory system works. About confidentiality barriers between industry and government. Didn't seem familiar with the concept. Must be different in her country.”

“She's not American?”

“No. She's from a Middle Eastern country. Iraq? Iran? Pakistan? Based on skin color and a very slight accent, but I could be wrong. A beautiful woman though, and if she had something to do with discovering the Immunone series, definitely brilliant.”

“How'd you leave it with her?” Tim asked.

“Oh, another reason why I think Middle East. Her name: Adawia Abdul. I left it that we will hear from the FDA on the FDA's timetable. I did advise her not to contact the FDA, especially the upper brass, that they don't appreciate end runs from anyone in industry.”

Tim had removed Laura's blouse and bra, and slipped a sleeveless nightgown over her head, letting it drape over her shoulder. “One day on the job and you're an expert on FDA strategy. You're right though. I've been in enough drug and device company meetings to know that. Now, lean back, and I'll pull off your pantyhose.”

“Tim, thanks, but I think I can manage with one hand.”

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
25

Karolee's funeral had been on Monday, the earliest Jake could arrange after the authorities released her body. The ceremony fell short of what Karolee would have expected, but Jake didn't have the inclination or the energy to put on an extravagant event. She had no religious affiliation, neither did he, so the services took place at the local funeral chapel and interment at the historic Rockville Cemetery, former site of F. Scott Fitzgerald's grave.

When Mark's wife arrived with the baby, she'd volunteered to select Karolee's burial outfit. How ironic. Claire's taste was nothing like Karolee's; Claire chose the only dumpy dress Karolee owned. When Jake had the sense to reach out to Karolee's business partner for help in selecting music for the brief service, the restaurant offered to host a post-cemetery luncheon in her honor. A nice gesture for the many Karolee admirers who wanted a free meal at the trendy Limelight Bistro. Jake was relieved of any duties beyond the basics, not that he had any such intentions. His sentiments: Good-bye, Karolee, and good riddance. Now, about the will?

Jake and Mark met with Karolee's attorney the following morning at nine o'clock, to talk about transferring her assets and filing death documents. Jake and Karolee filed separate tax returns, neither consulting with the other. His as a government employee was so basic he could handle it with an online tax program. Hers
required a tax attorney. Karolee ran the Limelight Bistro business; her co-owner Max Scarpetti ran the kitchen. From the beginning, his wife had been secretive about her financial affairs, keeping her own counsel, her own bank account, and only rarely did she share her hefty income with him. They split normal household expenses fifty-fifty. He hated that she had thousands left over for stylish hair, expensive clothes. He got by month to month. Any leftovers funded his monthly card game and fishing excursions in the summer with a few pals.

Jake salivated when he thought about Karolee's bank account. It would be all his now. At least he assumed it would. He'd never bothered with a will and neither had she. Now, as he and Mark gathered around her tax attorney's desk, he wondered whether he should offer Mark a token of the inheritance. He was their only child, and now he had a child of his own, the scrawny, irritable baby Amanda. He hoped they'd leave with the baby tomorrow morning. He couldn't take much more all-night, high-pitched crying. Had Mark ever been that aggravating? Jake didn't think so.

“Jake, Mark,” the lawyer said, as soon as a round of coffee had been served, “Karolee had a will that I will now read.”

“You must be mistaken,” Jake interrupted. “Karolee didn't have a will. She would have told me.” Jake looked at Mark, whose face betrayed nothing.